Chapter Text
The witch lives in a secluded stretch of forest in Midgard. Under Freya’s direction and with Mimir adorned on his hip, he finally arrives at his destination. The snow from Fimbulwinter doesn’t reach here, and there is flowers and grass growing. Small animals can be seen peering at the intruders.
The overgrown tree standing before them appears to have been made into a home. Kratos reaches the door and without delay knocks twice with a heavy hand.
The door opens inward of its own accord and a musical voice reaches their ears. “Please, come in.”
Kratos looks from side to side before straightening his back and walking through the entryway. The witch stands before them on a staircase made of vines. Dotting her long, black hair, there are vibrant flowers of blues, pinks, and purples. Her dress is modest and flattering, a pale shade of grey that complements her moonlit skin.
“I seek a resolution to Heimdall,” Kratos says promptly. “The fates of this land have said I will kill him. I do not wish for this to happen.”
Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “I am glad you have chosen another path, my friend.” Her expression then turns thoughtful. “However, Heimdall is a tricky one. He has an awful tongue, but he’s not malicious by nature. He is loyal to Odin with the hopes of one day being recognized by his good graces. We all know how Odin will abuse that.”
“What can be done?”
“You will fight. This, I believe, is inevitable. You will win. But Heimdall will never openly admit defeat. I can give you a spell. One that will make Heimdall incapable of fighting back against you. You could use that to your advantage, take your time with him… It will take patience.”
“Mn. It will be done.”
————
The witch is right about a fight being inevitable. Atreus is together with Hildisvini on a mission to rescue Freyr, and Kratos sees the distress in Freya’s eyes.
“Go to him,” Kratos says to her gruffly, untying Mimir from his hip.
“Brother…” Mimir trails off. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Mn.”
Freya puts a hand on Kratos’ chest and leans in close. “Whatever the outcome, you have my support.”
Without his companions, Kratos feels lighter. He rolls his shoulders and makes his way toward Heimdall. The smaller god throws a rueful smile in his direction.
“I thought I was going to start growing wrinkles by the time that touching encounter was over,” he begins.
Kratos stalks forward dangerously, sizing up his opponent. Looks can be deceiving, but the blond appears to be very slight of figure. Kratos surmises he will be fast and light on his feet. “I do not wish to fight you.”
Heimdall scoffs. “You know, that right there is hilarious, Kratos of Sparta. The destruction your mere existence has caused is profound. Wherever you may go, death will follow. The All-Father has instructed your imminent demise, and I will oblige him. For the protection of the realms!”
The god of foresight makes the first move against Kratos, making sure to lock eyes with the Spartan. A chill is sent down his spine at the raw power he feels emanating off the war god. The last time he felt like this, he was battling against a raging, drunken, and bloodthirsty Thor. Odin had luckily intervened before it got too serious.
The Aesir’s blows are parried just as easily as he blocks the war god’s. He feels a wolfish grin split across his face at the thrill of facing such an intense foe.
Suddenly, a spear materializes out of thin air and is thrown in his direction. He easily catches it and laughs. “You’re going to have to try harder than that!”
He watches as another spear is spontaneously brought into existence by the Spartan, and it slams against the ground. The spear held in the Aesir’s hand explodes and he yells in surprise as his skin is burned and smattered in shrapnel. This moment of distraction is all the war god needs, and he is within Heimdall’s personal space in an instant. His skin is slashed with blades lit with flame. In places, the wounds are cauterized immediately after being torn open. He has to regain his composure, looking into Kratos’ piercing gaze once again, and he finds his footing.
He jumps far away from the war god and takes only a moment to assess his wounds, feeling the blood pour from his skin. He feels every tiny detail of the excruciating heat from divine burns. “You cut me,” Heimdall says incredulously. “Nobody has cut me before.” The Aesir is caught between disbelief and the reality of pain wrecking his over-sensitized nerves.
“Are you done?” Kratos asks menacingly, a glower casting his face in shadow.
Heimdall shakes his head as if to clear it. “This changes nothing, demon! A momentary slip of judgment on my part. Perhaps this is where the Jotunn scum learned his trickery. Although, you would think that the little runt would be stronger like his daddy, but no, he’s as weak as he is completely useless!” Heimdall taunted, extending his arms as he and Kratos circled each other.
“Do not talk about my son,” Kratos warned between his teeth.
“Oh, trust me. I don’t want to talk about him. But there is something about him that just… gets between your teeth like an annoying piece of meat. I will give him one thing, however,” a glint forms in the Aesir’s eyes. “He is awfully soft.”
Kratos tilts his head and sees red. He tries to remember the words of the witch in the forest, that Heimdall loves to twist words and make people irritated. That he isn’t malicious. But when the Aesir god speaks cruel, how can he ignore the words said about his son?
Combined with the Spartan’s spear and overwhelming sense of presence, Kratos almost immediately deluges Heimdall’s senses and has the god of foresight on his back in the dirt, knife drawing blood against his belly.
“Did you touch him?” Kratos asks threateningly, darkness filtering in his voice.
“Not how you’re implying!” Heimdall exclaims, eyes incredulous. He loves to tempt fate, however, as he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. “Oh how easy it would have been, though. He’s so eager to prove himself. I doubt he would even struggle.”
Kratos closes his eyes for a moment, contemplating his next move, trying to still the torrential storm inside. He reaches into a pouch, crushes the ingredients in his palm, and slams the contents of it into Heimdall’s open mouth. The smaller god trembles and struggles against the ferocious might of Kratos, but cannot scramble away while in such a precarious position. The Spartan then mutters the spell’s binding words, and Heimdall screams.
Something is infiltrating his body’s senses against his will. The pain from his earlier wounds magnify tenfold. He can’t command his arms to seek purchase against the steel biceps of the formidable god on top of him. He can’t scrape his heels into the dirt. He cannot even clench his fist. He can breathe. He can blink. He can move his mouth.
“Wh-What did you just do to me?” Heimdall’s voice wavered, uncertainty filling his future. For the first time, he felt scared.
“Mn.” Kratos grunts in return.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Mn.”
Heimdall shivers, trying to will his body to do anything, anything at all. Kratos takes his momentary silence to undo the smaller god’s belt and place a hand inside his tunic. He feels across his soft belly.
“Unhand me! Brute! You think this will stop me from going after the half-breed?!” Heimdall shouts, panic lacing into his voice.
“Soft,” Kratos mutters. Heimdall’s face flushes hot with embarrassment.
“Oh, well I’m so sorry we can’t all be tall as a mountain and made of steel!”
“Take this,” Kratos tries to feed Heimdall medicine, who in return spits it out immediately.
“What are you trying to poison me with now?!”
“It is to heal your wounds from our battle.”
“Fuck off!”
“Keep testing my patience and see how this will end,” the Spartan growls, calloused hand squeezing around his throat. Heimdall freezes unwittingly, heart thrumming like a hummingbird.
Kratos grunts, then covertly places the medicine within his own mouth. Giving no warning, the Spartan cradles Heimdall’s head with his hands and places his lips to the other god’s. Heimdall’s brain swirls as if he’s drunk and his lips sear hot as though he is being branded. A tongue licks at his lips and he gasps at the lightning it brings up his back, giving the other party an opportunity to push inside. He is faintly aware of swallowing something.
When Kratos retreats, a lewd string of spit connects the two of them and Heimdall looks at the other man with cloudy eyes. Almost immediately, he feels warmed from the inside and he squeezes his eyes shut. What did that monster end up feeding him?! The knife wound in his stomach begins to stitch itself closed and the various burns from the explosive spears start to cool and heal. But there is something else there. He feels… pleasant?
He can’t turn away to hide from the old war god. Every time he opens his eyes, he is being looked at with scrutiny. Kratos is intrigued. He opens Heimdall’s tunic to expose more of his pale skin and Heimdall can’t do anything to resist him.
The younger god picks up on Kratos’ feelings and heat fills his face and loins. He’s never been the object of one’s desire before. His breathing turns labored and Kratos leans in once more. Fire bites at his lips and chin and throat, everywhere the war god’s mouth graces. Huge, calloused hands rub against Heimdall’s naked sides, and one hand pauses at his chest.
There, strong fingers brush against his nipple and he releases a shaky breath. The nub eventually hardens and Kratos takes it between two fingers to pinch and pull at. This causes Heimdall to let out an embarrassing whine that startles himself. He would cover his face if he could. He is unable to spit out any witty remarks, and instead is remarkably silent.
Kratos focuses on the other side of the smaller god’s chest, nearly overwhelming Heimdall with the foreign sensations. He himself had never allowed any thought of this come to the forefront of his mind before. He had never explored with another person, this is true, but he had also never explored his own body. He had always, always been on watch for the All-Father.
This was getting dangerous. His lower half was beginning to respond to Kratos’ attention enthusiastically, and he couldn’t make it go away. Kratos looms over Heimdall’s useless body, sitting back on his haunches.
“You react as if you have never been touched,” Kratos looks at the blond with a heated gaze that could melt Hel itself. Desire was written plainly on his features and in Heimdall’s foresight.
“I…” Words were failing to come to Heimdall as they usually did. “I haven’t…” Shame was a feeling he isn’t very used to, but it made his ears burn now. How could he just admit that openly, and to his enemy at that?! He will die a thousand deaths when he returns to Asgard.
“Never?”
“…” Heimdall looks away, bifrost-reflecting eyes unable to meet the scorched gaze of the bigger man.
“Hrrng,” Kratos groans, low and beast-like. Heimdall jumps at the sound.
“Are you…?” Heimdall fails to finish his thought. He is partially numb with pleasure but also extremely numb with fear.
“Do you still have plans to harm my son?” Kratos says right into his ear.
Heimdall wishes he can lean away from the intimate touch. Gain some space to clear his head. He can’t think. “A-Absolutely. You believe doing this little is enough to sway me? I will use the half-breed as one would use a whore. You know he would be willing to ple-”
His words are cut off by an extremely strong hand cutting off his air supply. He cannot bring his hands up to fight against the other no matter how hard he tries. Tears well in his eyes as he fights for air. Just as his vision starts to go dark, the Spartan lets go. He keeps his hand on his throat.
“You are at my mercy,” Kratos snarls. “Be smart.”
Heimdall coughs and gasps for air. He can already feel the bruises forming on his neck. What he doesn’t expect is the rush he feels upon breathing again. Tears are streaming down his face without his knowledge.
When he locks eyes with Kratos, desire is at the forefront of the Spartan’s mind. He enjoys seeing his enemy incapacitated and helpless. He enjoys how Heimdall… looks? He likes how small and lithe Heimdall is compared to his bulk. His intentions keep flipping between fucking the Aesir god and using his hands to squeeze the rest of the life out of the god of foresight.
The knowledge is overwhelming and he finds himself growing more aroused the longer he is inside the Spartan’s mind. It’s chaotic and barely clinging on to a semblance of calm.
“If you truly have such intentions against my son, I will not hesitate to take you right here in the dirt. I will not offer you any kindness. After I finish with you, I will take Gjallarhorn and leave you exposed and bloody for another to find you. Perhaps it will be a stranger. Perhaps it will be an Aesir. It could even be someone from Vanaheim sworn to take vengeance on you and your kind. You will be powerless to stop any of them.” The Spartan says evenly and methodically. Heimdall feels his body tremble as he considers the consequences.
“I’m not…” Heimdall starts to say but the words taste like ash on his tongue. “It’s not truly like that… I don’t want anything to do with the half-breed.”
Kratos sits back and glances over Heimdall’s figure. The god of foresight’s arousal flagged slightly at the Spartan’s threats but started to twitch once again under the intense scrutiny.
“Do you wish for help?” The Spartan asks resolutely.
That makes the blond meet his eyes once again. “You’re giving me a choice?” He asks incredulously.
“I am.”
“Don’t…” Heimdall mutters under his breath, averting his eyes.
“You do not want me to give you a choice?”
Heimdall is a very proud individual. He will never say those words. He nods, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Mn.”