Sensory overload, an Idren POV NSFW short (part 1)

(a/n: This was written with the last dredges of energy I’ve had over the past week, brute forcing it through my blockage, and after two very failed, very unsexy attempts, I woke up near delirious with mischief and decided to write it in Idren’s pov, with a bit of a different prose than usual. It is only part one because my two famished braincells have unionized against me and are demanding that I put the laptop away and attempt to fix this wrench I put in the gears of my sleeping schedule. Part two will be written with fresh eyes and rosy cheeks tomorrow, and hopefully without the last few sentences I wrote tonight. It's grim when the juice runs out, I tell you. I think one of the sentences started with 'startled penis aside,' but I'm too scared to look. Also who invented witty dialogue and can you send me their address. I just want to talk. 

This is pre the befuckening btw. (Idren still has a penis, and yes, it can be startled. Apparently.)

The small, western library was a quiet place, even more so in the early hours of dawn. Idren was alone there, but to his immense pleasure, there was still a pot of rich coffee steaming on the burner. He tucked his field-book under his arm and poured himself a tiny, delicate porcelain cup of the earthy liquid. He sipped it carefully, savoring it's warmth, and went to return the book. He attached a note before plopping it on Veda's desk. Sorry for the mud. And the shredding. Only two pages missing. Don’t kill me.

She would have his teeth for it, but it had been great company when the zest of life abandoned him in the dead of night, when it was just him and the croaking frogs awake. He quickly scribbled an addendum. I will transcribe it personally, even though you have two other copies. Please don’t kill me. The the word please was underlined three times.

The library was nothing more than a gutted townhouse, stuffed to the brim with books that had survived the flood of the Release. He found himself here after every hunt, meandering aimlessly between the shelves, suffusing himself in the sweet scent of dusty books. Besides, it was the driest place he could think of, which was a sort of balm on his tattered soul after wading through swamp water for three days straight. He sighed. Pale fingers dragged over the leathery spines, until he found what he was looking for. The Haunting of Vivienne Manor. He slid the book from the shelf with doting care, noting the thrill that zipped through his stomach as he flipped it open and found his bookmark, untouched. He traced the strip of fabric with a sort of relentless affection, only catching himself when he had wound the rough linen around his finger, looking for all the world like a smitten teenage girl. He took another- very angry- sip of the coffee and set it away on it's accompanying platter with a clack.

If only for a while, it was just him and the stories of ghosts floating through walls, a pleasant interlude after the ordeal of the last hunt, where he had come far too close to a watery grave. He did have the hunter to thank for his life, once again, and that made him a bit itchy, a bit miffed- feeling for a while that the hunter would never let him live it down; a little bit like he was being hunted for sport. The dread conflicted with a disturbingly cheery feeling of anticipation, and Idren had to shake his head clear as he thought of fitting punishment for the hunter to dole out. His body shivered and awakened, traitorous as it was. 

He adjusted himself in his trousers and swerved into his favorite alcove, ready to settle. Muscles screamed in protest as he lowered himself into the well-padded windowsill, groaning as he had to arrange his spindly limbs into something of an approximation of a healthy position, which to him was either curled up like a shrimp, or the moon in half-cycle. His spine grumbled. Idren flipped his book open, and told his spine it was good for the soul.

After four chapters, the front door opened. Idren looked up from the splayed tome- who?
For a second, he felt jumpy, muscles coiled and ears sharpened. His eyes narrowed as no footsteps or awkwardly clearing throats accompanied the low creak of the door. Rational thought dictated that it was the wind, or someone who forgot to close the door; if there even was a someone, it was a someone who blindly yanked one of Anione’s volumes of pearl-clutching smut off the shelves, and left the door fluttering in the wind as they made their shameful escape. It had been his idea-when the exasperated book-keeper had complained that she couldn’t take anymore of the reddened ears and furtive glances- to just put the naughty shelves in the foyer, and he said, 'there will be no more dust kicked up than necessary', to which Veda replied with a fluttering laugh that he was a genius, and he firmly agreed. Idren snorted. It worked great for everyone- he had come down with the thrilling habit of snatching a volume or two off the shelves himself.

The door shut and it was then determined that is was a someone who opened the door, since the someone decided that a half-laugh was enough to warrant further inspection. The sound of the locking bolt sliding into place marked their very firm arrival. 

The hair on Idren’s arm rose. 

Footsteps followed, warping the floorboards, then clacking over tile, until reaching the threshold of the cozy alcove Idren had tucked himself in. Fragrance, delicate and elusive, teased his senses. Idren hid a smile behind the cover of the book. “Have a bone to pick, hunter?”

A gruff chuckle came from behind the final bookshelf before his hideaway. “I am not the one who nearly gets eaten by a mudhag and then refuses to give proper thanks when I save his hide.” The hunter stepped into view, leaning comfortably on the frame of the shelf. “And then scurries off with his tail tucked between his legs when payment is due.”

Idren rolled his eyes. “I was doing fine. Besides, I had it, if you would’ve just given me a minute.” He chewed on his lip and looked up, batting his lashes. “Though, honestly, I have to say-”

The hunter looked at him expectantly, arms crossed, awaiting the elusive phrase to spill from Idren’s mouth. Feeling sufficiently challenged, Idren narrowed his eyes. He tasted the words, formed the first, innocent syllable with his mouth, and went through a state of near intoxication as the hunters brow slowly rose, their eyes flashing dark as they thought they had him pinned. Idren revelled in it. “Th-”

“Yes,” came the very drawn out, impatient encouragement from the hunter. They tutted. “You can do it.”

Leaning over his book, Idren hoarded those bated breaths from the hunter, collecting them like coins. “Th- there’s a pot of coffee. Still warm.” 

The hunter shook with silent laughter.

“If you want some.” Idren glanced up with enough challenge in his eyes to make any man think that he was facing death row on a false accusation, now out for revenge. There was a sort of latent fondness, buried deep behind his expanding pupils, and he prayed dearly that the hunter wouldn’t notice. 

The hunter stepped close with two weighty, deliberate steps, until the riff of their belt hovered inches from Idren’s chin. Idren tried to appear unaffected, but the grip he had on his book said otherwise.

“You’re abusing the book, smartass,” said the hunter, hooking one of their own fingers into Idren’s to pry them off, gently applying pressure until they fell off. “Veda will have your head.”

Idren tried not to think of the way the hunters skin felt. He flicked his eyes into the hunters awaiting gaze, and was startled to see them from this angle, so severe. Not even slow, deliberate blinking lessened the impact. “It is on the long list of body parts she has dibs on. You’re standing too close.”

“Really?” The hunter slid down to their haunches, their thumb brushing over Idren’s finger, up his arm, until it landed under his lower lip. It was a delectable pressure, having his head tilted towards the hunters cold stare. “And what will be left for me?”

The hunters breath fanned across Idren’s half-open mouth, scorching. He suppressed the urge to lick his lips, to catch the tip of the hunters skin as he did. Suddenly parched, Idren had to swallow hard, mechanically, just to wet his pipes enough to speak. “I can-”

“Say thank you.”

“No.”

A disgruntled growl grew in the cavern of the hunters lungs. “Say, thank you.”

Idren wanted to lay his cheek on their abdomen, have their hand rake through his hair. For the fingers to tangle. And tug.

“Make me.”