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It is the dead of night when Ragnvaldr returns home from the village høstjakt. Seven days of the hunt, an annual tradition for the men of the village to bring blessings of abundance through the winter. A rite of passage for young men, his first was the autumn of his thirteenth year, he had been giddy upon his return, the village had treated him as though he had slayed some fantastical beast, lauded him as a real man; now, at thirty-five, scarred and gnarled, single-armed and half blind, the village does not stir, nor sing his praises as he passes through.
The other men tapered off to their homes miles back, Ragnvaldr’s heavy footsteps are the only sound on the long path up to the small cabin. His bones are heavy, sleep did not find him once in the past week, his mind too plagued with visions of the dungeon, of every other past horror that has ever touched him.
There is a swell of relief as soon as he steps through the threshold of his home. There had been a fire burning earlier in the night, he can still smell the remnants of the smoke. Moonless greets him silently, tail wagging, she closes her eyes when he pats her between the ears.
He enters the smallest bedroom, traversing over toys and scattered pages of crude drawings to check on the child underneath the thick cover of furs and blankets.
All that can really be seen is a crown of brown hair, almost the same brown as his, and the steady rise and fall of breath. He leans down as gracefully as he can to kiss her forehead, and luckily it does not wake her.
The only room that is not dark is the main bedroom, where a single candle must be burning. Silhouetted against the faint orange light, a completely darkened figure stands in the doorway.
“You survived.” Says the figure.
“I survived.” He replies, hearing himself speak for the first time all day. His voice is as ragged as the rest of him.
He lets his travelling bag drop from his shoulder, it hits the ground with a heavy thud, and he prays that it was not loud enough to wake the child sleeping down the hall. He pauses, lets his eyes rake down the dark-clad, wraithlike form in front of him.
“I expect to be kept warm, if you expect me to disrobe completely.” Enki says, though he is already lifting the hem of his thick woollen sleep tunic as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.
“Trust me, little Priest, I will do more than keep you warm.”
And then Ragnvaldr is on him like a wolf on a rabbit, all consuming and dominant. The taste of him is slightly metallic, like blood, like the edge of a sharpened blade. Ragnvaldr pulls away to lick a long stripe on his cheek, which would have, early on,earned him disgust, but now it makes his Priest gasp unabashedly.
His black tunic is discarded on the floor. As promised, Ragnvaldr uses his bulk to hopefully guard him from the shock of the cold air. He bears down onto him, bracing the brunt of his weight on his forearm, so as not to crush the much smaller man. The hair on his chest scratches Enki’s skin, there will be red marks scattered across his torso in the morning.
Ragnvaldr takes one of his lover’s slender wrists in his hand, pinning it above his head; the tips of the Priest’s fingers are permanently stained black as ink from years of practising dark magic, his nails are bitten short, his bones are fine, almost regal, almost the type of hands one would see attached to a courtier. Both of his palms bear matching scars directly in the centre, the tissue is gnarled and puckered, but the wounds have long closed. The scars from his failed sacrifice. On a normal man, the nails hammered through bone and tendon would have rendered his hands useless after the ordeal, but Enki is no normal man.
His wrists are small enough that Ragnvaldr’s fingers easily overlap around them. The skin of his delicate forearm is covered in healed slashes from rituals of blood magic, if not for the texture of the scars, the pale tissue would be almost unnoticeable. His veins are the same black as his fingers, as though the magic has replaced his very lifeblood.
Enki gazes up at him, his eyes are set in their usual cold, indifferent gaze, but his pupils are blown. His chest heaves with breath, his lips are slightly parted, his flaxen hair strewn about the pillows wildly, reflecting the lamp glow like a halo. His free hand is pressed flat against Ragnvaldr’s chest, right over his heart. The image of the Priest digging in, ripping through his flesh and reaching into the cavity beneath his ribs to remove the organ sends a shiver of something that is not fear down his spine. He could die happily with the final image of his dark Priest, his lover, drenched in his blood, crimson on steel.
He knows that there is no reality in which Enki would actually hurt him, and the same could be said for Ragnvaldr, who cherishes him and the life that they have cultivated; there is also no reality where one of them could carry on without the other, this he knows as well. They are so entwined, so connected.
Now, they are connected physically, pressed together at the groin, two bodies, moving mindlessly against one another. In the dim light, he can almost make out the ghost of a flush mottling Enki’s pale cheeks and chest. He sits back on his haunches to run his hand down his lover’s chest. The Priest’s nipples are peaked, an unhideable sign of his arousal; pleased, Ragnvaldr takes one of the buds between thumb and forefinger and pinches lightly. Enki sighs, his lower back arching off the mattress. He is sensitive here. He is sensitive everywhere, though he would never admit it. Sensitive, and more than a bit repressed. There are probably many reasons for it. A loveless, cloistered upbringing, a mind focused only on study. It is almost a shame, but Ragnvaldr feels pride knowing that the Priest is his to unravel.
He moves further, feeling the dips in his ribcage, his stomach, which has grown softer over the years, the faint dusting of hair that leads from his navel to Ragnvaldr’s destination– between his legs.
Unsurprisingly, he is roused here as well, pink and glistening. Ragnvaldr runs one finger down the center of him once, twice, which earns him a sharp inhale. When he glances back at the Priest’s face, his eyes are closed, his head is turned on the pillow, his lower lip held between his teeth.
“This is what you want, yes?” He asks, even though he knows the answer.
“Just–” Another gasp, as Ragnvaldr sinks that finger into him, “Just get on with it.” He responds breathlessly, which is Ankarian for “yes”.
Ragnvaldr’s smile widens, he kisses the Priest again as he slides into him again, with two fingers, then a third. Enki’s breath hitches, but his body remains relaxed, yielding with no resistance. He is so ready for it, so wet and pliant and desperate for it. How had he managed, while Ragnvaldr had been away? The the thought of Enki fucking himself in their bed is almost enough to shatter Ragnvaldr’s restraint. Almost.
“Oil.” He grinds out, his lips moving against Enki’s throat.
Blindly, Enki rummages beneath his pillow for a moment until he procures a small glass vial from the bedclothes.
“Prepare me.” He orders, lightly, and Enki nods.
Ragnvaldr hisses through his teeth when Enki’s frigid hand connects with his flesh. The slide of the oil against skin is as soft as velvet, he cannot stop his hips from bucking toward the touch. Enki is watching him through half-lidded eyes, hungry.
After a moment, Ragnvaldr takes his hand and kisses his knuckles.
Slowly, he enters his lover; languishing in the tightness and the warmth of him, inch by inch, until he has nothing else to give. Enki’s body accommodates his size so generously, the two of them fit together so comfortably that it seems unfair that they would ever be made to part. They lay like that for a long moment, beneath him, Enki’s eyes are downcast, looking at the point where their bodies are connected.
“Are you going to stay like this all night?” He asks, but his voice is reedy.
“Would that please you?”
“You know the answer to that.”
A huff of laughter escapes Ragnvaldr, he lifts his hand to cup the Priest’s cheek.
“You are right.” He says, pulling back until only the head of his cock remains inside, “I know what pleases you.” And then he drives in again.
In response, Enki makes a beautifully sweet sound; his hands grab at any bit of Ragnvaldr he can reach. His thighs spasm as Ragnvaldr continues his unforgiving rhythm.
“ Oh .” Enki says, his mind devoid of any more barbed remarks. “ Again, there.”
It is so good, he drives deeper into his lover with every thrust. He hoists one of Enki’s ankles to rest on his shoulder, drinks in the sweet sound Enki makes at the change of angle.
They are both too tightly wound to last longer than a few blissful moments. They have both been without release for seven long nights.
“Inside.” Enki says, the closest he could ever come to begging. “Finish inside.”
And when asked so kindly, how could he refuse?
He buries himself impossibly deeper, his vision blurs, and then goes black as he closes his eyes. The culmination of his pleasure spilling into his lover’s body. It is so, so good. He wishes that he could be somehow closer, that their flesh could melt together, that their bodies could forever be connected this severely.
He opens his eyes as he pulses through his climax, as he does, the Priest’s body goes taught as a bowstring, his inner walls pulsing, his throat bared to the ceiling. This is the most vulnerable, the most unravelled that anyone will ever see him. Ragnvaldr can only stare, awestruck even after all this time.
For a long moment, they are still.
“You are well?” Ragnvaldr asks, in between heavy breaths.
The corner of Enki’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Lay with me.” Is all he says, patting the empty space beside them.
Slowly, Ragnavldr removes himself from the Priest’s body. Ungraceful, he slumps to the mattress. His arm is sore from supporting his weight, his legs sore from travel; if he asks in the morning, Enki will massage oil into the muscles there.
“I… missed you.” Enki whispers. His fingertips ghosting along the planes of Ragnvaldr’s face.
Ragnvaldr cannot help but kiss him. His lips, his nose, the line between his brows. “My heart.” He says, fond.
When he has regained the ability to stand, Enki rises. He stretches his arms above his head, his hair flows down his bare back. From behind, he could be mistaken for a maiden, there is a beautiful androgyny about him that is only enhanced by the low light.
Wordlessly, he walks to the basin at the corner of their bedroom, he wets a cloth and wrings it out before returning to the bed. He towels himself off quickly, and then moves to Ragnvaldr’s chest, his thighs, his cock (which is still sensitive, he winces). The towel is discarded with their clothing, the bedclothes will need washing in the morning, but after a week of traversing hard, frosted ground, there is nowhere else Ragnvaldr could wish to be.
He curls against Enki’s side, resting his head on the Priest’s bony, avian chest. He listens to the steady, slow drum of his heartbeat.
“Sleep.” Enki orders, one of his clever hands carding through Ragnvaldr’s hair. And so, Ragnvaldr sleeps