Delulu realms

A drink at the Elfsong.

That was how it started.

One decent job and a heavier purse than usual between them. Enough coin to justify a drink that turned into two, then three. Until the cheap whiskey stopped burning down her throat and the taste of it instead lingered on Rugan’s tongue.

After that came rough hands, bare skin, and a rented room upstairs that smelled like smoke and old wood.

By morning, they’d agree it wasn’t a thing. Just two people looking for a warm body and somewhere to sober up for the night. But afterward, all it took was another casual mention of a drink at the Elfsong and she would eventually find herself climbing the same narrow staircase, turning the knob that was never locked for her.

It was…convenient.

That was the word Ellie wrapped around nights spent lying beside him, both of them staring at the ceiling while their lungs still burned.

There were worse ways to spend a night. Worse people to end up beneath after too much whiskey and not enough sleep. Rugan never asked questions she didn’t want to answer. Never expected parts of her she had no intention of giving.

And in the dark, with enough drink and his hands hot on her skin, she could almost convince herself that having someone in pieces was easier than needing them whole.

What had once been a night every few months — Rugan slipping back into the city with another offhand offer for a drink — had quietly become something more frequent.

Worse still was the restlessness when too much time had passed. The way she’d eye the man running the stall across from her place, waiting to hear another amused complaint about the “bloke who keeps flirting with my customers.”

The realization sat poorly with her.

Still, it became difficult to care about blurred lines once Rugan’s hips were pressed against hers as soon as the door shut behind her, his mouth rough on her and his hands already fumbling impatiently at the knot of her belt like he’d thought about this very moment the entire journey back into the city.

“First time?”

He didn’t look up. Just answered with a crooked smirk and a grunt of concentration as he worked stubbornly at the knot she’d tied too tight on purpose.

“It’s not my fault you keep moving.”

She watched the faint creases gather at the corners of his eyes as he focused. Gods, he looked truly irritated by it now.

“Isn’t being good with your hands part of the job description?” she teased. “Maybe you should—“

The knot finally gave.

Rugan’s hand caught the belt before she could finish, hauling her sharply against him hard enough to pull a startled breath from her chest.

“Maybe,” he muttered low and against her mouth, voice rough with that same irritation despite the grin pulling at it, “you should stop talking.”

Then he kissed her before she could throw another smartass remark back at him.

The belt hit the floor somewhere beside them with a metallic clatter, forgotten almost immediately as his hands slid beneath her shirt instead. Rough palms. Calloused fingers firmly dragging heat across her ribs.

It was dangerous how easily her body remembered him. The weight of him on the mattress. The scrape of stubble against her throat. The imprint of his hands. Things she still remembered on nights when she was alone and…

”Forgot how soft y’felt,” he murmured close enough she felt the words, his voice dragging low enough through her that she hated the way her body reacted to it.

She laughed, but the sound caught thin and she knew he’d probably smugly hear through it. “Forgot how full of shit you are.”

His grin stretched against her throat first. His breath followed slower, and the way her body reacted — a jolt that sent her arching closer against him — was almost embarrassing.

“Missed you too.”