VBS - Dawn of the Gods: Prequel ~BL~

(Fjolnir)

Aunt Freyja’s hold on my still-damp hair is unforgiving as she drags the fine-toothed comb through the tangles. It’s been three days since I bailed on the dinner with the hopeful family from Álfheim, and still, her sour mood hasn’t lifted. She blames me. My unplanned departure embarrassed her, and she’s reminding me at every opportunity. That’s why she dismissed the staff member who usually helps me dress.

More hairs tear from my scalp as she fights my thick waves into submission. The muscles in my jaw clench, and her dark eyes catch mine in the mirror. She arches a perfectly crafted brow, daring me to comment. It’s times like this when I’m reminded of the stark differences between us, even though she is my father’s twin sister. Her straight, black hair falls flawlessly to her waist, complimenting her pale skin and tall, waif-like frame.

She sets the comb down on the dresser and selects a front section of hair to braid, her slender fingers working deftly to create an intricate pattern. I open the small pewter box before me and peruse the beads I want to wear, but she discards the obsidian ones in favour of the lapis lazuli.

“You will attend for the entirety of tonight’s event, do you understand?” Her abrupt tone matches her cold stare.

When I fail to immediately answer, she tugs the braid harshly before sliding another bead into the weaving. “Your mother made an excuse for you last time - a bad reaction to something you ate - but I will not be so generous if it happens again.”

I busy myself with the beads in my palm to hide the roll of my eyes. Freyja often oversteps in her role as my aunt. She’s a forceful personality with a strong desire to control those around her. As the older sister, she always saw my father as weaker than her and in need of protection. When he died, and Mother went into mourning, that sentiment extended in my direction, and she appointed herself the de facto Head of the House of Vanir.

As nothing more than a figurehead, she holds no real power and yet has just enough sway with my mother to prevent me from ascending. If I don’t perform to her satisfaction, she can make my life unbearable, and I could lose the last few things that truly bring me joy. That reality pulls me up straighter than any tug of the hair can.

Once again, I meet the weight of her matriarchal gaze in the mirror. Her hands have ceased mid-braid, and her whole body is preternaturally still as if she can deny the forward march of time simply by willing it so. Slowly, as if any sudden movements could cause her to shatter, I nod. Seconds tick by as her gaze narrows. Sharply, she nods once in return and ties off my braid.

“Tonight’s family is another from Álfheim. They own the mountains where most precious stones can be found, and lapis lazuli is among them. They have sent a blue surcoat with golden inlay to represent their prospects. You will wear it and be gracious. Hurry and dress.” Hastily, she storms from my quarters, and the door slams shut so hard that the bottles of perfumed oil rattle on the dresser.

With a sigh, I resign myself to my fate and open the carved, linden-wood doors of the closet. Luxury surrounds me at every turn, but an opulent cage is still a cage. The blue surcoat hangs proudly from the styling mannequin, alongside a white tunic and fawn-coloured pants. My eyes are drawn to the tan leather riding boots that sit just to the side, and a wicked smile curls my lips at the memories of what happened to the last pair of boots I was gifted.

⇷☾ᛰ☽⇸

The Tavern in Central Asgard nestles at the crossroads between Market Square and the foot of Temple Hill. It’s a bustling and vibrant place where Asgardians, Valkyries and guests of the realm are free to intermingle. The most appealing rule of this establishment is the live and let-live policy that underscores every interaction. No one gives a damn about status once you cross the threshold.

Aunt Freyja places her hand on the small of my back and guides me forward at a quick pace. A well-dressed Elf, wearing an almost identical surcoat to mine, stands sentry by the door. He nods at Freyja before turning on his heel, leading us past the wooden bar that extends almost halfway along the length of the building.

The bartenders are busy tonight; the patrons are queuing three lines deep, and the sweet smell of mjöd mixes with the musky scent of sweat. There are two stools positioned against one of the intricately-carved wooden posts, and the Elven ambassador signals for Freyja and I to take a seat before handing us each a cup of mjöd.

There’s a distinct lack of a potential bride and as Freyja assumes control of the conversation, my attention wanders outward into the crowd. The trestle tables that carry the leftovers of the trading day from Market Square are barely visible through the throng. The wonky shelves behind the bar have bottles removed and replaced at a dizzying rate, and the general level of ambient noise induces a faint ringing in my ears.

I have to subtly lean back on my stool to be granted a view of the darkened bay at the far end of the bar, but it’s worth the strain. There, successfully camouflaged except for his almost silver eyes, is Modi. I release a slow exhale and shuffle my stool a little so that I can see him better without arousing suspicion.

Briefly, I check back in with the conversation - that mostly concerns my future - but it’s nothing more than a territory discussion about the importance of the mountain range to Álfheim. Modi’s eyes never leave mine, weaving a spell just like he did the very first time our eyes met. I smirk at the memory and finish my mjöd in a single gulp.

Modi kicks off the Tavern wall and winks at me before flipping up the hood of his cloak and making his way out into the night. But that’s not enough time with him - it’s never enough. I want more than five minutes.

Shaking my empty silver cup to indicate that I’m getting a refill, I stand and step over the cordon before anyone has time to object. I need to move close enough toward the bar that if Freyja is looking, she will assume that’s where I’m heading, but not too close that I lose time fighting past the patrons.

The Tavern door swings shut behind me with a bang, and the cold air is momentarily distracting. Frantically, I look left and right as I scan over the faces in the street, but I can’t see him. I head towards Market Square in the hopes that he will use the trailhead there to return home, and I can catch him before he makes it too far. I get so far as the alleyway that flanks the Tavern before something firm wraps over my nose and mouth and yanks me into a dark and narrow path.

“Shhh, someone might hear you.” Modi’s lips seal over the rapid-fire pulse in my neck, his hand traps a moan of pleasure inside my mouth, and my fingers dig into his firm thighs as I lean into him. His tongue laps and licks at any exposed skin he can find, but still he doesn’t remove his hand from over my mouth. Desperate to see him, to taste him in return, I strain against his hold until he relents.

Turning in his arms, I push him against the daubing of the Tavern wall and sink my hands into his long, dark hair. Our kiss is uncoordinated, fevered, and driven by the repressed longing that haunts our every waking moment. The backs of Modi’s knuckles skim over the silken fabric of my surcoat, and he purrs in appreciation. Our lips never break contact as he takes hold of the lapels and uses them to steer us deeper into the darkened alleyway.

My dick strains against the confines of my pants, and the sounds of my excited breaths fill my ears. “I don’t have long.”

I place my hand over the top of his and guide it over my throbbing erection. Modi breaks our kiss to drop his head back against the wall. His eyes slam shut, and he squeezes me so hard that black dots dance along my peripheral vision.

Blindly, I fumble with my belt buckle, and Modi turns us so we switch positions. With my back against the wall, he opens his pants enough that he can slide his hand inside, and I relish in the tick of his jaw as he tugs on himself.

I wish I could eternalise the way he’s looking at me in this moment, how the fires of lust make it seem as if his eyes are alight from the inside. With one hand keeping up a steady rhythm in his pants, he uses the other to reach inside mine. The feel of his hot, calloused palms over my most sensitive skin causes an unbidden moan to pierce the bubble that surrounds us.

“I know, my love,” his rich timbre eases up my spine, and I sag forward, my chin resting on my chest. “But you need to stay quiet. Can you do that?”

Another moan, quieter this time, is all the response I can give, and a low chuckle resonates from his chest through his hand. Releasing me from his tortuous hold, he bends at the knee as if to drop to the dirty, wet floor of the alleyway, but I halt him with a shake of my head. I slip from my surcoat and fold it for him to kneel on. A wicked smile lights up his face, and he wastes no further time licking a stripe up the vein on the underside of my dick.

Widening his knees, he settles on his haunches and sucks on the tip of my crown. I push back the cowl of his cloak, slipping my fingers through his long strands to hold him steady. He relaxes under my touch, and I ease forward along his tongue.

Vaguely, I’m aware that his hand has disappeared back inside his pants, and I pick up my pace as lust licks at my skin, proofing it against the cool night air. Modi gags as I test the restriction of his throat, and the sensation sends sparks shooting up my spine. I won’t last. I’m far too desperate and entirely too unabashed by the public setting. The risk of being caught simply fuels the flames of my hunger.

Modi pulls back and dips his tongue in my slit at the same time as he squeezes my sac, and it levels me. The muscles in my ass tense, my eyes screw shut, and ropes of cum are immediately lost to the wet heat of his mouth. He swallows around me as aftershocks wrack my body.

Gentle kisses and swipes of his tongue lave over my sensitised skin, and I’m forced to pull away. As I tuck my braid behind my ear and let out a satisfied sigh, a shadow of movement at the end of the alleyway draws my attention.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I realise that I’ve been gone too long. I hate this. With little more than a look shared between us, we redress in silence, and Modi hands me back my soiled surcoat with a smirk. I push it to the side and lay my ear over his heart, “I love you.”

“Forever.” His strong arms wrap around me, and not for the first time, I wonder if we could just leave and start over somewhere new. With a heavy heart, I place a goodbye kiss on his chest, tuck the surcoat under my arm, and head back inside the Tavern without so much as a glance over my shoulder.

The moment I step foot on the coarse grit of the threshold, Freyja crowds into my space, trapping me in the corner by the door. The heavy black cloak and cotton dress she wears should produce a fine layer of sweat over her skin in this stifling environment, but she’s eerily pale under the warm glow of candlelight. The thick layer of kohl around her eyes only makes them appear smaller, and I shrink back under the intensity of her stare.

She leans in close, the tip of her cold nose brushing against my neck as she inhales. “You smell like him.” Her voice is unnervingly calm, “Like filth.”

My heart pounds in my chest, and I furtively wipe the sweat from my palms. Denial is poised on my tongue, but she cuts me off. With her mouth close to my ear, she whispers, “If I find you with him again, I’ll slit his throat like the animal he is.”