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heimdallsram · 1 year

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━━━━ masterlist. soundtrack. archive of our own. taglist.

title: perennial

pairing: heimdall x female! goddess! reader

"You were a goddess of oaths and vows. It was only fitting that Odin would bind you to his service in only the most ironic way that he knew how: marriage."

this fanfiction contains the following: domestic violence, blood, gore, choking, violent sexual content, bad BDSM etiquette, non-consensual somnophilia, blood drinking, unhealthy relationships, and much more content that may be sensitive to some readers. reader discretion is advised.

*for inquiries about the taglist, please dm me and i will add you to it.

The collar felt like a brand against your neck as you stared at yourself in the reflection of the window. The spells that had been cast upon it were finally inactive, satisfied that you were no longer harming yourself or beating down the walls with your fists. There were holes the size of your hand littering the floor and the entirety of the room, save the door, that you had managed to punch through without managing to see any of it through your tears. The angrier you grew, the stronger the spells became, and consequently, the more you would cry and ruin the charcoal you had painstakingly smudged over your eyes. The design was as perfect as if the servant had done it herself, but it was no skill of yours; the magic in the collar had replicated it flawlessly. It utilized your magic and powers better than you could on your own, funneling it through the various runes and following the orders that Odin had spoken into the individual grooves of the metal. You weren’t sure how it worked, or how he had figured out that the collar had been in Vanaheim at all—that it even existed.

You had sold it long before you ever met Brok and Sindri. For, and now you hated yourself for it, a measly three hundred hacksilver. It bought you clothing and a warm meal but that had been all; you had sold the instrument of your control to a merchant and never looked back. You had been a child then, making ends meet where you could, smarter than your years and growing more quickly than any normal girl should have. Your eyes were bigger than your stomach during those years, and it was no wonder you had handed the collar over so freely, so easily; you were a growing girl with a growing stomach. It had been twisted, mangled, rusted, and worthless then, so it was a surprise you had even gotten what you had out of it.

“The fur,” you waved your tiny hand toward the stack of furs the merchant had laid in the back of his caravan. They were not good furs, and had been cured improperly and killed violently, so they were more leather than fur, but you would have to make do. “How much?”

At the time, you had only a vague understanding of how hacksilver worked. But the merchant was willing to make a penny where he could, and so he had accepted the ruined relic as long as you spent half of that money on his stock. A foolish deal, but the insects and plants were biting at your skin and your feet were rubbed raw, and you had suffered long enough in your mind. So you had done as he asked and bought the furs, clothing, and some of his food: stewed meat and stale bread.

“Thank you, mister,” you had said as you left, your belly full and a twinkle in your eye. The merchant waved you off, tucking the hacksilver into his pocket. When you would return the next day, hoping to sell some of your spoils to him, he would be long gone, traveling faster than your tiny legs could carry you.

You still owned the remaining hacksilver you had gotten from that ill-gotten bargain to this day. It sat in your waist pouch unused, tarnished with age, and even now, you could not bring yourself to spend it. Your shame was palpable, and now your childhood foolishness had brought the collar back to you, except this time, it was around your neck, binding you to the man who would rather see you dead if you were of no use to him. It was terribly ironic how full circle it had come.

Brok and Sindri would be disappointed in you. If they had ever known the collar existed, they would have bought it and hidden it away. You had never told them, though, too happy to have a home with the two dwarves for however long that would be before Odin would sweep you away. And as you had aged, the thought of it had slipped your mind, too concerned with other things to worry about an old relic that had been rusting and falling apart the last you had laid eyes on it.

It was obvious you should have worried. The proof of it was around your neck, after all.

“It is time,” Sif announced quietly at the door. She had been standing there while you had taken out your anger on the room, Thor’s lumbering form and Odin at his side alerting her that something had happened without her notice. Her apology note had been written before the two had ever arrived, apologizing not for the collar but for your nuptials. “The ceremony is to begin in a few moments.”

When you opened the door, her eyes strayed to your raw hands and the collar around your neck. She did not comment on the redness of your eyes and instead gently pushed a bundle of flowers into your grasp, arranging the silk ribbons around your knuckles just-so to hide the marks. She arranged the wheat and flowers in your hair to look more properly put in place and used her magic to heal the bruises and bloodied welts around your neck completely.

“Now we go,” Sif whispered. You did not reply. She tucked your arm into hers and walked you to through the building, letting you school your features into neutrality.

She did not utter a word when you snatched up a bottle of wine and guzzled it, nor did she stop you when you also picked up tankards of ale along the way, pulling them roughly out of unsuspecting Midgardians’ hands and drinking them in four or five large gulps. Some were full of ale and others had a strangely bitter substance within them that was making your head spin, but that was well within your goals before you had to look at Odin and Heimdall’s faces while your vows were spoken for you. You would be thoroughly drunk while you attended your own wedding or you would strangle Odin where he stood.

As you passed through the halls, several familiar faces floated your way. They did not congratulate you or raise their cups like the Midgardians were doing. Ullr, the god of winter and hunting; Höðr, the black sheep of the family and the blind son of Freya and Odin that had been sequestered away by Odin’s shame and presumed dead by Freya; Lofn, the godess of arranged marriages, you noticed bitterly; Aegir, god of ocean, storm, alcohol and banquets; and young Sigyn, the youngest Aesir to exist among the gods, normally only present outside the walls of Asgard. These were gods you did not know, did not associate with, yet they held sorrow and pity for you—Odin’s crimes had, in many ways, touched all of them, twisted them from their original beliefs. But none more than Höðr, with his dark hair and milky white eyes, a spitting image of Queen Freya.

Though he could not see you, he smiled when you stopped drunkenly in front of him. Sif tried to urge you away, but you refused, too incensed at seeing the long forgotten god that your Queen had thought dead. Odin had been smart to take Höðr away, knowing Freya would never finish her spell if he was alive, and had lived to regret it when that same spell had not been given to him. He even kept feathers in his hair, though they were of an albatross’ wing and not of a falcon as Freya had kept hers.

“It may not seem so, small goddess, but every path has its end,” he said. He gently touched the sprig of wheat nestled into the braids upon your head. Then, it drifted to a flower, one symbolizing power. “May you rise above this as my mother did.”

Now you were being pulled away, the alcohol making you pliant enough for Sif to drag you towards the small gathering of gods where Odin stood, waiting. All of the confusion drained out of you to be replaced with repulsion and anger—your grip tightened on the flower stems in your grasp. His eyes lingered on the flowers in your hair only for a moment, and there was a twist of distaste to his mouth, but it was wiped away quickly when attention began skipping over him to you.

“He should not have said that,” Sif whispered urgently. “Now Váli will be following him like a bloodhound.”

You watched, in a daze, as the aforementioned half giant worked his way through the crowd. Whereas Höðr was the spitting image of Freya, Váli looked as if he could be a younger version of Odin. It was surprising to you that Váli, born before Odin married Freya, had not sought vengeance for Baldur and instead was ordered to keep an eye over the blind god. He had been good friends with the now deceased god for longer than you cared to recall; all of Odin’s half giant spawn were either dead or imprisoned now, killed by Thor or chained in a cell by their own father. It was a thought you had had, not frequently as of late, that Odin found the resistance to his manipulations to be completely fostered by the giants. His numerous children gave no evidence to that theory, especially that of Thor, who was pliant to his father’s whims. Those he could not control he did away with.

“He will be fine?” You mumbled, eyes searching endlessly for another cup of ale to steal. “’S not like he said anything bad.”

Sif frowned at you where Odin could not see. “To you, perhaps. But to Odin, it was the same as treason. He was the one who kept the mistletoe that killed Baldur. And stop drinking; I should not have let you drink the first one.”

As you opened your mouth to give her a drunken reply, Heimdall emerged from the crowd. His face was deceptively blank, but his eyes spoke for him—they shifted and blazed with anger, contempt, disgust. At everyone around him and at you, especially, for to him you were the cause of all of this. You closed your mouth with an audible clack of teeth.

Sif was quick to let go of you, melting seamlessly into the crowd to reemerge at Thor’s side to Odin’s general left. Heimdall took her place, one hand tight around your bicep and squeezing so hard that you thought you heard the bones groan in protest. Or perhaps that the sound of your mind trying to process anything at all was what you were hearing instead.

“How dare you humiliate me like this.” His gaze was focused entirely on Odin as he gestured for the crowd to gather tight around the both of you, his attention diverted for the moment. You tried to rip your arm from his grip, but he was holding on too tightly and he was, unfortunately, the only thing keeping you upright. “The marriage I would be forced to tolerate. But this? I should punish you for this.”

The buzzing in your blood was not so pleasant as anger replaced the thoughtless stupor you were in. You forced him to look at you, yanking stubbornly on his arm, and you leaned close. He scowled at the smell of wine and ale on your breath. “Anything you could think of doing to me, Odin has already done, you fucking sack of shit.”

He was trembling with rage as you turned your head to face Odin, who was looking down at the both of you from his elevated stance with a look of disapproval. You couldn’t bring yourself to care as your husband-to-be dug his fingers into your arm and resisted strangling you again, this time in front of a crowd of onlookers.

Odin, with a sigh, snapped his fingers and it had the delayed reaction of silencing the crowd and ridding you of your alcohol induced high. It drained from you as quickly as the blood did from your face, the spells rising to the forefront of your mind and removing any trace of the alcohol from your system, leaving you painfully, strikingly sober.

This was not how you intended to listen to your vows.

“Welcome, everyone!” The All-Father lifted both his arm in a fascimile of a hug, as if he was embracing all who stood there. “Today we will witness the union of the Lady Var, goddess of oaths and agreements, and Heimdall, watchman of the gods!” He paused to lift a tankard of ale, produced from only the fates knew where. He raised it high. “Let us drink to their future as a newly wed pair!”

You felt strangely sick as you watched countless people, strangers you didn’t even know, drink to dooming you to a future you didn’t want. Heimdall was still so, so angry beside you, but he was doing a better job of hiding it than you were, using your arm as an outlet and the hand on his sword tight around the hilt. Neither of you wanted this, for vastly different reasons, but you could not even have solidarity in that; this was your fault, and he would continue to blame you for it even if he was wrong.

Odin continued to speak, but his voice had long silenced into a dull roar. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. All you could imagine was waking up, one day, not in your own bed, but to Heimdall. To him strangling you as you slept. To him being near you, touching you, sliding between your legs and forcing you to endure him because that was to be your duty as his wife. Your grip on the flowers faltered. The crowd jeered at something he said, something foul and illicit and heavily suggestive, but you were not listening. You were lost to the images of a future you did not want, to the idea of raising a child with the man who despised you more than anything else in the Nine Realms, and unbidden, tears rose to your eyes. You did not want a child who sought its fathers approval like Heimdall, like Baldur and Thor. You did not want to be the mother that tried, and failed, to protect them, like Freya. You would not be able to. It would break you more than the collar, would ruin you.

“I do,” Heimdall’s voice echoed. You snapped out of your reverie, the spell forcing your tears back and out of sight, when Odin’s attention turned to you. Heimdall squeezed your arm threateningly.

You cleared your throat. “I do.”

The vows had already been said, and you did not even know the contents of them because you had been stuck in your own head. Cold snuck down the back of your dress and into your spine. Odin had decided your future and you were unaware of what he had stipulated into your marriage. You could only watch, your heart swooping into your stomach, as nearly a dozen vows and oaths sprung into place between yourself and Heimdall, not a gentle and soothing gold, but a violent, bloody red, as red as the flowers in your hair. Magic poured into those bonds, and for a moment, all was silent in your head. And then… faint, at first, you heard something else.

‘Fidelity? I would rather rot in the mud than be faithful to her.’

Slowly, your gaze turned to Heimdall. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes narrowed in anger, his foot tapping out a rhythm on the floor. The crowd roared, cheered, raised their cups and toasted you both, but you ignored it all.

What was this you were hearing? The vows shone. Odin allowed the crowd to push you along, Heimdall’s grip on you unceasing as you were pushed and pulled towards the dining table where a formidable feast had been laid out for your perusal. Meats, stews, jerky, honeyed bread, you would have once been eyeing it all, but your focus was reserved for the man tugging you along like you were a doll, pushing past the throng of people towards the table kept for the All-Father’s family.

‘Filthy Midgardians, can’t you see you’re in my way?! Move! Why the All-Father allowed you vermin into the walls, I do not know—“

Like the high tide, the realization crept upon you slowly. You ate, drank, put questionable pieces of organs into your mouth that you were not sure were anything but delicacies, but your attention was unmovable, your mind and gaze seated on the side of Heimdall’s face.

‘Why in the Hel is she staring at me like that?’

The collar did not feel so heavy as you passed the lengths through your fingertips, your other hand tight around the width of your cup. Sif and Thor were well into their paces before you had even considered eating, Odin was absent at the table, and anyone important was either too drunk to notice your lack of attention or had left as the night progressed.

‘I swear to the Norns, she is just asking to be hurt—‘

You were hearing Heimdall’s thoughts. But he, just like before, could not hear yours.

A wicked little smile crept across your lips. Oh, Odin, you have no idea what a mistake you have made, indeed.

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taglist: @versiesleeps

#heimdall x reader #gow heimdall x reader #god of war x reader #god of war heimdall #god of war ragnarok #gow ragnarok #god of war #gow heimdall x female reader #.perennial

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heimdallsram · 1 year

Text

━━━━ masterlist. soundtrack. archive of our own. taglist.

title: perennial

pairing: heimdall x female! goddess! reader

"You were a goddess of oaths and vows. It was only fitting that Odin would bind you to his service in only the most ironic way that he knew how: marriage."

*for inquiries about the taglist, please dm me and i will add you to it.

When Heimdall returned to lift, he was brooding. He did not taunt you the entire ride up the wall, and never once did he even open his mouth to speak to you. You responded in kind, keeping your eyes on your feet. You did not regret what you had said to him; it had been the truth, after all, and had done its intended job. But still, you felt that Siv was… too overpowering. She had told you how to leave your body for a brief moment of time, but she had not explained in detail how that would be successful. And she had said something to him, too, from the way his face drew tight in thought. You had no memory of it, no matter how much you searched in your and Siv’s shared mind space, and that worried you.

And… she was blocking you. In every way imaginable, she had forcefully excised your ability to enter your own mind realm completely. You felt nothing when you tried to reach for the knowledge of your previous lives. You were grasping at thin wisps of smoke and ash that drifted to the wind faster than you could gather them.

A cool breeze began to blow as you trudged along the top of the wall. It snuck down your dress and clung to your skin. Gooseflesh sprouted in places you could not see. You crossed your arms against your chest to quell the shiver you felt in your spine and turned to face the sun, which was, coincidentally, also in the direction of the little Midgardian settlement just outside the wall. They were observing the both of you while doing their chores for the day, churning butter, working metal, tilling small sections of field, the like. The children you had watched make their vow waved and clapped to get your attention, and with your heart soft still with their promise, you lifted your hand and waved back.

“You would wave to the mongrels?” His first words were dripping with derision. The chill had no effect on him, it seemed, for his skin was clear of gooseflesh—only a mild five o’ clock shadow had grown, indicative that he had not shaved before getting up to monitor you for Odin. The sun caught the blond in his braids at just the right angle, the returning light bright to your eyes. “They do not even know who you are.”

Your smile faded slowly and, after a moment, you dropped your hand. “Is it so bad to give them some attention? They are what make us strong. They worship us.”

“No one worships you.”

“Perhaps.” The little girl and boy continued to wave and dance for you. “But I know they worship a false image of you, Heimdall. All of the gods, they worship theses… twisted versions of them. It may be different, inside these walls, but to them, we are their protectors, their overseers. Ignoring them would be foolish.”

“Listening to them would make you no better than Tyr.” Heimdall turned away. “I tire of your pretty words and hypocritical moods.”

You turned to him, eyebrows drawn in confusion. The sun cast you into shadow, cold filling the recesses of where it had once shone upon you. “Pretty words and hypocritical moods? Surely you do not speak of me of those things.”

“You lie to yourself daily. Don’t think I don’t notice.” He rolls his eyes but the gesture is lost to the indignation that is currently suffusing his person with animated energy. “Strolling the grounds? Eating with Sif? Helping the All-Father? All of it is to fill some desperate longing you feel to be a true goddess and it makes me sick.”

“There is nothing I seek from your family that they do not offer,” you reply stiffly. He truly knew how to hit far below the belt. “Being bound here like chattel does not change that.”

“Ah, yes, the Collar of Repentance,” he said in a drawled hiss. He reached for the golden metal cord around your neck, fingers pulling the lengths towards him. You were forced to follow, until he was close enough that he could read the runes on the gold, count the individual frown lines around your mouth. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, some emotion flickering inside them that you had never seen. “Father told me you were stupid enough to sell the object of your confinement to some merchant in Vanaheim.”

You pressed your lips together tightly. He was just close enough that you were tempted to push him off the wall and watch him fall, fall, fall, all the way down to the corner of the training barracks where he would land with a sickening crack. You would watch him from the top, observe the way brain matter and blood and fluid all spread from his body in a crimson pool, and then you would run for as long as the spells would let you. But if you pushed him now, you would go with him, and you had a feeling that Odin would draw you back faster than you wanted.

“I was a child.”

“A foolish one.”

“A starving one.” You stepped back, but he did not release the collar and you felt it pull against your skin. “Release me.”

He never acknowledged you. His eyes were trained on the gold between his fingers, thumbing the lengths between his index and thumb thoughtfully. “I never was one for sharing my things.”

“Excuse me?” You choked out.

“This allows my father to control you, does it not?” He jerked on it harshly and you brought your hands up to his chest to keep from running into him entirely. “Keeps you awake for days on end, which also, somehow, manages to keep me awake, and shortens my temper. I wonder if I break it, if it will stop.”

Your eyes drew up to his face, widening at the contemplation you could see dawning upon him. “It cannot be broken. And it is not the collar, but the marriage vow that bothers you.”

“So you can see it, after all.” Heimdall released the collar and you stumbled back, just to the edge of the wall. You could feel your right heel scrape over nothing but thin air. “I had thought it was you. It was just too convenient, how you were able to see vows and oaths and whatever the fuck else it is you do.”

“You can’t really blame me,” you huffed. Your fingers touched the raw skin where the collar had pulled. “While fighting you is entertaining, I am miserable here. Seeing you suffer is the only joy I can experience. And this damned collar enforces fidelity.”

“Does it now?” He raised an eyebrow. “That explains quite a few things, but none of it quite adds up to how you know the names of my mothers.”

Oh, Siv, you have truly dug me the biggest hole imaginable.

So you told him the truth. “I do not know the names of your mothers, Heimdall.”

“No, no, not you, the other you.” He waited for realization to come upon your face, but it never came. He frowned. “The one that oozes power and looks as if she could kill me. Not ringing any bells? Oh, the All-Father is in for a treat.”

“You won’t be telling Odin anything.” With a firm metaphysical hand and a sneer, you seized the bond and pulled at one of the vows. He made a strange choking sound and reached for his navel. “You see, our vows—as impersonal as they were—included loyalty to each other. Odin was never in that equation; when it comes to me, I will always, always win.”

You released the vow cautiously. It thrummed yellow between your fingertips, buzzing angrily.

You continued,”You can try to fight it. But these are permanently binding. I know that best. And I may not be a goddess of any worth, or renown, or power, but know this, dear husband: I am stronger in other ways. Stronger than you could ever imagine. And you would be wrong to treat me as if I am something insignificant, an ant to be crushed under your boot. You hate me, yes, but I can make your very existence something you will regret until the end of your days. This I swear.”

“You bitch,” he coughed. He straightened unsteadily, eyes unfocused and hazy. “I would gladly go to Hel if it meant I could escape you.”

“You could try.” You watched him with a strange gleam in your eye as he tried to ignore the way the vow was forcing him to keep secrets from Odin. It was likely that he already knew of what had occurred through his ravens, but it gave you some sick sense of pleasure to reveal the power you had over his little lap dog. “You might even succeed. But where you go, I will follow, and one day you will have nowhere to run as Ragnarok breathes down your neck.”

Siv battered at your mind furiously. This was not part of her plan; you were ruining what carefully laid groundwork you had made on the beach. But you were tired of playing puppet to your past selves and men who thought they knew better. You would make these decisions yourself, and you would pay whatever price would come to you; you had suffered enough for this.

You had died enough for this.

Your hands came up to grip his face tightly, as he had your own. Your fingers dug into his cheekbones and ears, a wickedly delicate hold that prevented him from rising to his full height. He still held a hand over the vow where he could not see but feel it, and he stilled under your touch, at the words that poured from your lips like silk.

“You are mine, and now, you will never be free.”

With a smile on your face, you dropped your hands and tucked them into your dress. You left him there on that wall, his face rapidly losing composure, and let yourself down into the village below. You bought a cup of ale and nuts, as you always did, and sat down to watch the birds fly among the clouds.

Heimdall’s roar of fury echoed throughout all of Asgard. But you paid it no mind.

Instead, you took quiet peace in the thought that if you died today, you had done it, finally, on your terms.

***

“You speak of the Var goddess.” Tyr had been silent as Atreus spoke of the woman who had graced their presence, for the better part of their journey to Sindri’s home. “A proud lineage, but not one to be trifled with lightly.”

Kratos furrowed his brow. “You know of their abilities?”

“Some,” the former god of war offered. Atreus clung to every word, as was a child’s tendency to do so. “They are mysterious in nature. Rarely do they ever participate in worldly matters, save for the first, who aided Odin in killing Ymir.”

“Really?” Atreus’ mouth opened in surprise. “But I thought—“

“Stories aren’t always true, lad,” Mimir piped up brightly. “Besides, I think Tyr would know better than anyone what happened that day, eh?”

“I only know what I was told.” Tyr shook his head slightly. “But please be careful when you make vows with her. They can be more than ruinous if you break the wrong one.”

“She seemed nice, though,” Atreus hummed in thought. “I don’t think she would hurt me. Or any of us.”

The giant fixed his golden gaze on the boy briefly. “You have not seen the damage they can cause. The lives they have ruined. The people they have killed when those vows are broken. It would be better that you do not associate yourself with her.”

Atreus, frowning, followed Tyr through the white door. Kratos, however, remained behind for a moment, brief.

“I don’t like this,” Mimir said, finally. “Something is wrong here.”

“But what?” Kratos shook his head tiredly. “A reformed god of war is likely to not be the same as he was before. Being imprisoned has changed him.”

“Maybe so, brother.” A click of the tongue. “Mayhap I am just lookin’ too far into it.”

| next. taglist: @versiesleeps @kkashibai

#heimdall x reader #gow heimdall x reader #gow heimdall x female reader #heimdall x female reader #god of war ragnarok #god of war #gow #.perennial

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