#gow x reader

you find it endearing, really, that after all that has happened, týr retained his curious gentle giant self.

it was just like any other day when kratos and freya barged into your humble cottage in vanaheim. the two both looked tired, but fulfilled. freya looked especially happy, and kratos, well. he is kratos.

"come with me. someone wants to see you!" she exclaimed, not even letting you reply but instead just dragging you by the hand towards your door. you hadn't heard this much enthusiasm in her voice in forever.

what met your eyes has you almost sobbing to the grass.

týr, your long time lover, in the flesh stands tall in front of your cottage. he got paler, and his clothes a bit tattered and dirty, but the expectant look in his bifrost eyes turns teary as he holds out his arms open for you.

"my beloved, i'm finally back- oof!"

you didn't need to hear him say more, and just lunged yourself into his gentle embrace, crying uncontrollably. years and years without this warmth. without hearing his voice. without týr... now you could feel him again, hear his heartbeat through his chest again. from the corner of your eye, kratos and freya excuses themselves silently, with freya smiling at you both as she leaves.

it was as if the birds and insects are silenced in this moment, and the only thing you (want to hear) is the thrum of týr's heart.

you pull away momentarily, still tearing up while running your hands all over his face to trace the shape of his eyes, nose, beard. "it really is you... i... i don't know what to say," you whispered. how does one put the time you spent longing to be with him again, despite the allfather repeatedly saying he's already dead? to verbalize the pain you felt of not being able to say good bye before everything happened?

instead, týr just smiles, wiping away your tears. "no need, (name). we have all the time to say whatever is in our hearts and minds," he breathes out, brushing your hair away from your face. "may i kiss you, please?"

and kissed him you did.

that day, you two are practically inseparable again, just like old times. he immediately invited you over to his travels across he nine realms, catching up on what has transpired over the many winters he was not able to. it took some time to convince him, but he finally agreed to settle in midgard for a while to revisit his temple.

"i frequented in your treasury while you were gone, you know," you say as the both of you walk towards his vault. "your belongings are the closest things i had in connection to you."

týr smiles, ruffling your hair, "you still call my vault a treasury?"

"well, all of those things in there are treasures, are they not? treasures, or... gifts, important souvenirs from important people, places."

he leans down to your height, putting his lips near your ear, "not as important as the one in front of me though."

for the rest of the walk to the vault, the half giant god of war relishes at the sight of you blushing.

"here we are now," you gesture towards the door of his vault. "welcome back, my love."

he takes in a breath before he opens the doors, and the two of you are met with the familiar scent of metal and paint unique to this place. there's a slight chill to the vault, but the familiar sight made it feel like home. on the more hidden chambers, some of the contraptions leading to them have already been disabled. no thanks to when kratos and atreus retrieved a rune to jotunheim back then. týr makes a beeline to the rooms that held memorabilia from other pantheons.

"ah, my ghost of sparta vase..." you hear him groan from a certain section. you chuckle, but almost trip from a pile of books by your right foot.

"what the..." you grimace, as the hardbound of the books made contact with your leg and scratched you a bit. deciding to put them somewhere else, you dust off the covers, only to be curious of the illustration depicted on it.

"huh... court romance records...? and it even has a translation..." you mutter to yourself, impressed at how your lover really is beloved across different realms even far away from here, and how their fondness of him manifests in the gifts he brings home. you get a book from the pile and find a corner where you could sit and read, while týr goes to polish some of his weapons in another section.

after a while, týr emerges with some clothes in his arms. "(name)? i found some garbs that might suit you, love. they're from- oh." he notices you absorbed in a book he remembers receiving from a snowy land, and decides to join by your side.

"i see you've found this writing interesting," he settles beside you, putting the clothes away on a table before pulling you to his lap. he encircles his arms around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head. "i never got to finish it. i find the main character quite... disappointing."

you smile, flipping a page, "you've read this?"

"yes, but finish it? no... i do not like that the main character entertains multiple women romantically."

you laugh, and he smiles at the sound of it. the two of you stay in that position for a while.

"you don't want to go yet?"

you shake your head.

after some time, you were still engrossed with the book especially now that you are approaching the climax. týr feels the boredom creep in. the god of war resorts to mindlessly draw shapes on your arm, until an idea hit him. a mischievous smile appears on his lips and slowly, he traces his fingers from your arms to your nape. týr moves your hair to plant a wet kiss down to the side of your neck, humming at the feeling of your skin on his lips. the action made you flinch by surprise, but you continue reading.

"týr..." you say, as if warning him playfully.

týr takes note of this, and continues his work. he slides the sleeve of your top robe down a bit, kissing your shoulders. his hands then find their way under your top, caressing your stomach, slowly inching his way to your chest.

you suck in a shaky breath, "týr..."

"should i stop?" he moved his lips on the shell of your ear, "tell me, love."

you bite your lip, shaking your head. "no... but, don't tease too much, please?"

he just grins at your plea, leaning in to kiss your neck, and the sensation of his beard tickles you a bit. he slides his hands under your robe, undoing the fastening of the many layers you had to wear thanks to fimbulwinter. the temperature inside týr's vault is sufficient, but a bit of chill clings to the air. it becomes more evident as he sheds you of your layers.

by now you only have your robe and your last layer of linen on, which conceals your chest. your hold on the book wobbles, and týr has to remind you to keep reading or else he stops. you bite your lip in frustration, which týr enjoyed to see.

his hands continue their way under your cloth wraps, eventually releasing your tits to the chilly air of the vault. despite your robe still intact, the temperature makes you shudder, and so týr gathers you closer to his body where you can feel his warmth. he caresses your waist gently, sliding up to glide his hands on the underside of your chest, before sliding his fingertips to tease your nipples.

for a god of war, he is incredibly gentle when it comes to showing affection. it's been many winters since the two of you last did it, and so having to experience it again feels like it's the first time.

he rubs your nipples between his fingers and the action shoots up a certain kind of warmth between your legs, making you cross your legs out of instict. the god of war does not let this go unnoticed as he hooks one of his legs over your left to make you open them again, this time wider.

"tyr...!" you gasp as he uses his magic to make his fingers cold as he applies a bit more pressure on your nipples, making them harder. he plants another kiss to your neck, as he snakes a hand down and under your pants while the other continues to roll your nipple.

"my love, you're forgetting your book. please, keep reading," he hums, an obvious lilt of mischievousness laced in his voice. "don't let me distract you."

his still cold fingers find your wet slit, probing around a bit before spreading your lips and finding your clit. you let out a breath and týr catches on. the half giant makes his pointer and middle finger cold again, before rubbing the bundle of nerves. the feeling makes you squirm, your book now dropped to the floor.

"týr... oh... gods..." you moan uncontrollably, throwing your head back against his frame. you feel something hard brush against your backside as you squirm. he pulls off your pants and you help him kick it off.

"not fair..." you moan out, trying to talk despite being pleasured, "you're still.. oh.. mmh- fully clothed!"

týr only chuckles, "patience, my love."

he rubs your clit faster, which is now much more firm. every brush of his fingers sends a wave of pleasure throughout your lower regions, making you buck your hips involuntarily. týr moves his other hand from your nipple to your hip to make you stay in place. you feel a twist somewhere in your stomach as he continues to rub the sensitive bundle of nerves.

"i missed you so much, (name)," he whispers, his lips brushing against your neck. "how i longed to service you like this again, my love. every now and then, in my prison, i dreamt of seeing you, being near you... pleasuring you."

you grip the side of his pants as the pleasure becomes too much. you eventually cry out as you cum hard, your release making a small mess on the floor. týr peppers kisses all over your cheeks before kissing you fully while letting you catch your breath for a bit.

he slowly wedges a finger inside of your slippery heat. the feeling makes you whimper, still a bit overstimulated from the recent release.

"týr.. mmh..." you breathe out, slowly rocking your hips to the thrust of his finger. he inserts another, picking up the pace.

"look at me, (name)."

you do as he says, looking up at him with clouded eyes, panting a bit. he leans down to kiss you again, this time hungrily. through the kiss, he swallows your moans as he adds the third finger. your entrance had become sopping wet at this point that every thrust of his fingers makes an embarassing noise.

"týr... oh.. please!" you beg, "want to... cum with you inside.."

this seems to convince him, as he slows down his fingers and pulls them out. how can he say no to that? he makes quick work of removing his clothes and armor. you reach out to caress his chest, nuzzling the fuzzy hair with the side of your face. he discards his pants and underwear and you are once again reminded of how big he is, especially when he's hard. the size of his dick almost makes you gasp.

"just like before, my love," he says as he gently moves you to lie on your back, with the clothes he brought earlier serving as a makeshift bed. you could still feel a bit of the coldness from the tiles of his vault, but your mind quickly short circuits as he starts rubbing the head of his cock against your opening. the sensation makes you curl your toes and hold onto his shoulders, feeling the muscles ripple when he readjusts his position to see your face better.

despite him towering over you, you feel the safest at this moment.

"tell me to stop if it hurts, alright?" he brushes your hair out of your face, bifrost eyes looking directly at your (e/c) ones. for some reason, it makes you feel flustered, but you keep the eye contact and nod.

"i will," you breathe out, "i trust you..."

he smiles as he pecks your lips, moving your legs to spread them wider. he slowly pushes the tip of his cock in, and you suck in a breath.

"oh... hel..." he groans as he slowly inches in, looking at your expression for any signs of pain. your face is a bit pink, and you whimper in response to his penetration. your hands claw on his broad shoulders from the initial discomfort. the tightness of your walls makes him lose his mind, and he resists the urge to bottom out quickly. he knows that it'll take some time before you can take him whole again, after all.

once more than half of him is inside, he notices a small bump on your stomach. he pulls out a bit, and notices that the bump follows. týr then runs his hand over the bumps, putting a gentle pressure against it as he pushed back inside of you. you both moan at the feeling.

"y-you can move now- oh!"

you yelp in surprise as he pulls out almost all of him, leaving the tip in, before thrusting back what he could again. the way he does it slow tells you that he's worried about your pain, but the slowness of it makes you feel every vein of his rub against your gummy walls and you can't help but moan loud. he picks up the pace, longing to hear your voice again and again.

a particular thrust reaches deep inside you, brushing against the opening of your womb. your legs start to twitch, and he folds one against your chest to get a better angle. he moans when he feels your walls clench around his dick. his hand finds your clit to rub it as his other one holds your hips down. you cry out in pleasure, and the sounds of your lovemaking echoes in the vault.

it's not too long when the two of you climax, moaning together as týr's warm seed fills you up to the brim. the feeling makes you think you just saw stars, your eyes rolling back by how good it feels. he cums so much that it some spill out into the clothes under you, creating a small wet spot of your mixed juices.

"hah... i'm sorry... i couldn't hold back for longer..." týr pants out, eyes still closed as his arm muscles ripple to support his weight still on top of you. you breathe out a short laugh, brushing hair away to peck his lips.

"it was perfect, love. don't say sorry," you reassure him, stroking his cheek with your thumb. "it's... been so long since we..."

he opens his eyes, taking in your dishevelled appearance. your hair is messy and sweaty, but your smile makes his heart skip a beat. he thinks the light in his vault does not do you justice, and he makes a mental note about it. he almost tears up when you reach up to kiss his the tattoo on his forehead.

a hundred winters ago, he thought he would never feel your lips on him again.

you caress his cheek, bringing him out of his train of thought. "i love you, týr."

he holds the hand on his cheek and brings it to his lips, "i love you, (name)."

you make a move and glance at the clothes he was supposed to give you earlier.

"well, i should wash those before trying them out, huh?"

Imagine being a new transfer and the sole survivor from your former team. Your fingertips ran over the fallen cog tags that had rested in your cog issued duffel bag that looked like it was about to tear apart.

The bumps of the broken roads had become a familiar sensation; up and down. You pulled from your breastplate, a worn photograph that had been worn down from your habits; a birthday and welcome home party in the same party surrounded during the only week of peace before emergence day. You remembered that day so vividly; the smell of a plain homemade cake with missing candles, the hugs given from family and the soft smiles mixed with long held laughter.

But it was only moments till a sinkhole had opened. You were alone again with only memories of the past that left marks on you.

The harsh stop of the cargo truck jolted you back to reality and the nervousness built in your stomach like a heavy weight; pressing down. You took a deep breath.

Stepping out of the truck, holding the same worn down straps of the duffel bag and in the other hand held a lancer coated in dried locust blood and dead hide tissue that stuck to the sharp edges of the chainsaw bayonet.

It was one of the few safe zones that still stood.

“You’re the new Lieutenant?” A voice chimed in with poorly veiled sarcasm.

You saw him; a blonde haired man with blue goggles on his forehead and wearing the familiar blue cog issued uniform.

“Yes.” You held out your hand for a handshake. “Are you a part of Kilo squad?”

He didn’t respond but he shook your hand.

It has been about two weeks since your arrival. Nothing new was coming, no news of an upcoming mission.

Kilo squad was getting to a breaking point; you and other members knew that it would be only moments till it would burst.

You lodged in a rundown apartment ground complex deemed safe by the COG, you and Baird shared the secondary rooms, the privates; Cole, Alonzo, Dickson, Jannis and Paduk shared the other rooms while the single cadet Hendrik’s room was closer towards the front, able to call for backup if needed.

The spare rooms were somewhat abandoned or occasionally filled with some from Jilane but one was a makeshift mechanical workshop.

You walked over to the workshop to fix something of yours, seeing nobody in there and placing the equipment back in its place— or that’s what you thought you did.

It had been a few hours. You heard your door open, looking at Baird who stood there.

“What are you—“

“When you use my things.” He stepped towards you. “Put it back in its correct place.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t?” You pressed.

His biceps squeezed around your neck and your nails dung into the tough skin.

“How did you even survive bootcamp, private?” He remarked. “I haven’t even tightened my hold on you. Already squeezing me…”

Your back was arched in an odd way that the standard gear armor ends that rode inches up revealing glimpses of your scarred stomach. Your hot breath grazed his covered forearm, mind wandering with each thrust of his hips smacking into your shuddering ones.

Your uniform pants were pooled around your ankles, the squelching noises echoed through the tiny room.

“What’s that, private?” He inquired. “I can’t hear you.”

“Oh—fuck,” you groaned out.

Black splotches bloomed like flowers throughout your vision, your cheek pressed against the throbbing vein on his forearm.

⋆.˚✮ Notes: I feel like Thor from the game doesn’t have a lot of screen time, so I’m not really confident in portraying his character. (Also, the only Thor depiction I’m super familiar with is MCU Thor.) I did my best, don’t hate me if it’s shit. 

Also, he’s married, so I went into this with the idea that he had divorced or something at some point.

✰Confessing Your Love✰

Thor does not really give me the vibe of someone who would laugh off a genuine confession unless he thought it was a joke or a trick at first.

He’d probably go still for a second, stare, and make sure he heard you correctly.

“You love me?”

Once he realizes you mean it, he’d give you his full focus.

He’ll breathe a little heavier and consider his options. 

Thor is emotional in a big, powerful way, and not always refined.

Since the confession took him of gaurd, he reacts by resting a hand on your cheek before he can tell himself otherwise. 

For how powerful he is, and how many enemies Odin has, and him by proxy, he’ll consider it a trick at first. 

He’ll ask you if you’re mocking him or lying.

When you grovel and tell him it’s true, and beg him to believe you, that little insecurity in the back of his mind will melt away. 

“Do you understand what it means to stand beside me?”

He’s a wreck and a drunk; his own family has decided that.

So what good could he do for you? 

Yet you are unwavering, and he feels the need to keep you close regardless of all of it.  

There will be a long heart-to-heart about your feelings and desires for him, and his hesitation. 

But after all that, he’s just a lonely broken man who revels in your affection. 

He’ll want to take things slow, but he will find himself reaching for you regardless of that. 

Thor is not a subtle man, so he’ll parade you around afterward.

✰Confessing his Love✰

Thor is not the kind of man who would pine forever and do nothing about it. 

He waits longer than he should if he’s unsure, or if he thinks the timing is wrong, but once he decides to act, his confession will be direct.

He’d approach you privately when he finds you alone, just in case you turn him down.

He does not want witnesses to his embarrassment.

Nor does he want them for what he’d planned to do if you’d accepted him. 

He’ll just say it.

“I want you.”

“I have tried to master this feeling, and I find I no longer wish to.”

He might accidentally come off a little intense in his confession.

His hand twitches, like he wants to hold your face or take your hand, but he waits for your reaction first. 

When you look shocked, he just waits silently. 

Maybe painfully, maybe intensely, but he’d wait.

He’ll watch every rise and fall of your shoulders and the gears turning behind your eyes.

As soon as your mind catches up with what just happened, and you smile at him and return the sentiment, all that tension in him breaks.

He cups your face, pulls you close, and kisses you. 

✰Nicknames✰

He’d likely tolerate your nicknames for him at first, then secretly grow very attached to them.

At first, he might act a little gruff about it, especially with something very sweet or teasing.

When you first started calling him “Love”, “Dear”, and “Sweetheart”, his reaction would just be a raised brow and maybe a scoff.

“Is that what you call me now?”

He’s not used to soft and sweet pet names.

The world sees him as this big, imposing God, so that is how the world treats him.

When you call him these pet names, they make him feel a little more like just any other man. 

He kinda likes it. 

He warms up to them eventually, though he’d prefer the nicknames stay private. 

They feel intimate with him, and would prefer it if it were just something between the two of you. 

Though he’d eventually have his own for you as well.

He’d call you “Dear”, “Darling”, and “Beloved”. 

Though he’ll stick with calling you by your name when others are around. 

If you ever called him something outrageous, like cupcake, cutie, or sugar, he might react differently to those. 

“You test me.”

Though as long as it’s not meant to tease or mock him, he’d very obviously indulge them anyway.

✰Little Gremlin✰

You are impossible, and I think that would fascinate him.

So if his lover has a talent for finding trouble, his immediate response would usually be physical and decisive.

He’d move in front of you, or actually hold you back if you were all but literally barking at someone, and glaring at the offensive party, even if you started it.

 He would be constantly torn between scolding and laughing.

“You are forever one breath from disaster.”

A very obvious ‘you exasperate me, but I adore you’ kind of tone.

Thor would respect that you are not timid.

He likes that you are fiery and mouthy. 

It’s constant entertainment, really.

A lover who turns into a tiny snarling beast when threatened? 

Thor would pretend this is the most aggravating thing in the world.

He’d groan.

He’d mutter to himself.

He’d tell you to hush.

And then later, when the danger had passed, he’d remember exactly what you’d said and how you bit the man in that bar fight.

And he’d spare it a chuckle, and be privately entertained by it.

Sometimes he has to step in when he knows it’s a fight you won't win.

He’ll pick you up and move you out of the line of fire.

Plant a hand on the back of your neck to steer you away

Physically turning your face away from danger, so you stop barking at the enemy for one second.

“Enough. You’ve had your turn.”

Then handle it himself.

When you argue that you could’ve handled it just fine without him, he’d entertain the idea for a single second before, “No. You couldn’t.” 

You’d bicker about it with him.

You insist you could handle yourself.

Thor telling you that was not the point.

You accusing him of treating them like you are fragile.

Thor snapped back that you are not fragile, merely reckless.

You calling him overbearing.

Him calling you impossible.

Then plenty of kissing and making up after the heat has settled. 

He’s learned your patterns and your ways and is always paying attention to try to keep you out of trouble before you can find it. 

✰His Reaction to your first Kiss✰

Thor and you are alone after an argument.

Thor is standing close, saying something low and serious, still focused on you with that full, heavy attention of his.

You’re struck by how open he is in that moment, even if he does not mean to be.

Even if you're bickering, he’s telling you off for doing something dangerous.

And before you can overthink it, you lean in and kiss him.

Thor goes completely still for a second.

The sudden affection catches him off guard.

His eyes widen slightly, and there is a brief moment where he just stands there.

He seems almost shocked by how gently you’re touching him.

For one suspended breath, he does not move, as though he is making sure this is truly happening.

Then his hands react before his words do.

He reaches for you carefully.

One hand at your waist, the other at your jaw.

At first, the return kiss is almost cautious, like he is restraining the full force of what he feels.

Then it deepens quickly, because Thor is not built for half-measures.

The kiss becomes a mess of tongue and teeth.

When you finally part, Thor stays very close, still holding on.

He is breathing heavier, staring at you, looking a little stunned and a little hungry for more.

He does not speak immediately.

Then he says something like, “Do that again.”

Afterward, he rests his forehead against yours.

From that point on, it would be much harder for him to pretend his feelings are manageable or hidden.

He’d be confused about how they went from bickering to tongue wrestling, but he wouldn’t argue. 

He indulges in the affection you give him.

He can argue with you for your recklessness and ask questions later.

For now, he just wants to milk as much of his moment as he can. 

✰Cuddle Bugs✰

Thor likes to cuddle.

Plain and simple.

While some men see it as a sign of weakness or silly, Thor sees it as just a natural thing between lovers.

It’s a comfort he has to look forward to after a long day.

And intimacy that doesn’t require mess like kissing and sex. 

Thor’s love language is acts of service and physical touch. 

He likes to hold you close. 

Cuddling lets him do several things all at once: 

Keeping you close.

Reassure himself that you’re safe.

Show affection without needing many words.

And relax in a way he does not allow himself to often.

He seems like the kind of man who carries a lot of tension, so lying with someone he loves wrapped against him would probably calm him more than he expects.

He doesn’t openly admit it in the beginning.

He acts as though he only tolerates it for your benefit.

He’d sigh and say, “Come here, then.”

But once the motion of your relationship is set, he grows comfortable admitting he likes and looks forward to it.

He likes it best when you're tucked against his chest, and he wraps his arms around you. 

He also loves to be the big spoon.

Its the most comfortable to fall asleep in.

Though every now and then, after tossing and turning all night, he’ll wake up to find you spooning him. 

He’s a big guy, and it's amusing to see your arm swung over him.

But he likes that too. 

He’s not openly clingy, nor a man of profound words. 

But when it’s just the two of you, winding down for some shut-eye, he’ll open his arms and wait for you to take your place in them.

He’ll pull you back when you try to get up too soon.

✰ABC’s✰

A is for Aftercare ★  Thor is very attentive afterward, even if he’s not overly talkative. He’d want you close, make sure they’re comfortable, tuck you against him, check whether they need water, warmth, or rest. His version of care would be practical and protective, with a softer side that he doesn’t show many people. He’d probably stroke your back or hair and keep them tucked to his chest until they drift off. He’d only worry about cleaning up the mess if you were uncomfortable with it. Otherwise, it's a future Thor problem. 

B is for Body ★ Thor takes pride in his hands and arms, the parts of him most tied to his strength and ability to protect. His favorite part of your body is your face. He’s drawn to your expressive features, especially during the act. He likes to watch your face when he fucks you, or the curve of your lips when they're around his cock.

C is for Cum ★ He likes to come on you rather than in you. He likes how intimate the mess feels. He’s not done until you’ve cum.

D is for Dirty Secret ★ He may seem steady and dominant, but privately he’s more affected by tenderness, praise, and being wanted than he’d like anyone to know. So he’ll often let you be the one to take control and tell him what to do and how to do it. He’s a submissive top.

E is for Experience ★ He’s had plenty of experience. He’s a father, so clearly he’s fucked. But he feels inexperienced when it comes to fucking you. Everything you two get up to in the bedroom is really new to him. And what isn’t new is just intimidating. He’s fucked up relationships before, and he’s determined not to fuck up this one.

F is for Favorite Position ★ He favors positions that feel intimate rather than impersonal. So while he does love how you feel from behind, it’s not his favorite. He prefers letting you sit on him, either his cock or face, and set the pace. He likes to watch you use him.

G is for Grooming ★ I do not think Thor would be overly fussy or vain, but he would likely be clean and put together, just not shaved.

H is for Halla At Ya ★ His way of getting you in the mood would probably be through intense attention and physical closeness rather than clever pick-up lines. He’ll tell you outright that he’s turned on and what he wants from you. He’ll touch and caress whatever skin is exposed beneath your clothes. He’ll stand close and press as much of himself against you as he can until the clothes start coming off. 

I is for Intimacy ★ Even if the moment is heated, there is a strong thread of care in it. Even if it’s a quick hard fuck, he’s kissing and coressing, and making sure you’re enjoying it.

J is for Jerk Off ★ He doesn’t mind it, but he’d rather it be your hand, mouth, ect, on him. Mostly, he’ll wait until he can get you alone, but if that's not an option, he’ll close his eyes and imagine it’s you touching him. He’s a big fan of lying beside you and touching you while you stroke him. 

K is for Kink ★ He likes being used by you. With his size and strength, you can’t really do much in the way on manhalding him, but he likes it when you push him back and use him until you're finished. It gets him off to watch you enjoy yourself on his cock like he isn’t even there. Also, a mild overstimulation kink. If he’s finished and you’re still going, it’s painful in the sweetest way. 

L is for Location ★ Any setting where he can fully focus on undoing you without interruption. He doesn’t really care for risky public places as much, though sometimes what happens happens. He prefers to fuck you in the comfort of your bed, or on the floor by the hearth. 

M is for Motivation ★ He’s a slut for you doing those dirty little dances and stripping down in front of him. That's one way to get him in the mood real quick. But other than that, he finds that you showing feats of strength (not always physical ones) gets him hard rather quickly. 

N is for “No” ★ Anything that feels cruel or mocking, or even humiliating, is a very easy way to make his dick deflate like a sad pool floaty. That degrading kind of dirty talk turns him off so quickly. Although he will agree to praise you for being a slut for him and vice versa, as that is just a fact, not an insult. 

O is for Oral ★ Thor is a generous, attentive lover rather than a selfish one. He loves to put his mouth on you, taste you, and watch you squirm. Though he wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t like watching his cock disappear behind your lips and feel your tongue stroke him. Still, he’d much rather have you riding his face.

P is for Pull-Out Game ★ He’s not looking for you to get knocked up, so pull out game string with this one. However, if that's not a problem, he’ll leave it in and paint your insides happily. Still, he’d rather see his cum on your chest, back, or face.

Q is for Quickies ★ He prefers to be able to take his time. Though if the heat of the moment is strong, and you ask really nicely, he will happily give in. He’d absolutely be capable of being swept up in it, removing only the clothing necessary to get the job done. It’s not his favorite or a regular thing, but very likely passion runs high.

R is for Risk ★ He’s all for risk. If you want to try something new, no need to ask twice, or even once, just do it. He’s a blunt man; he’ll tell you outright if he’s not into it. But he’s always willing to try if it’ll make you cum.

S is for Stamina ★ He could go for hours if you let him. And he does, often. Though the longer it goes on, the more rounds that pass, the more he slows down. Not cause he’s tiered, he’s a God, but because he’s overstimulated and his cock is aching, and it just feels better to slow the pace when you’re on the 6th round of the night.

T is for Toys ★ Eh. He doesn’t care for them persay, but he likes your reactions to them. As long as you’re cumming, he won’t make a fuss. 

U is for Unfair ★ His teasing would probably be very deliberate once he realized the effect he had. He’d enjoy getting a reaction out of you, especially if you're easily flustered. It’d mostly be teasing touches, edging you during foreplay, and remarks about how desperate you’re becoming.

V is for Volume ★ In the beginning, he’s quiet, low huffs and grunts. But as the night goes on, and his intense focus on unraveling you dissolves into a need for release, this man pants and moans just as badly as you. He’s not shy about how good you feel; he’ll praise you and moan your name, unashamed if anyone passing by overhears something. That’s their problem. His goal, aside from making you cum, however, is to make you sound just as much of a desperate whore as you make him. He loves it when you’re loud.

W is for Wild Card ★ Anyone would expect him to handle passion well, but soft touches, forehead kisses, quiet praise, or you fussing over him after a hard day? That would probably hit him straight in the chest. When you shower him with buttler fly kisses and lazy pecks afterward, it feels like a reward for a job well done. 

X is for X-Ray ★ His dick is just like the rest of him. Big and thick. Need I say more?

Y is for Yearning ★ Moderate to severe. Your body is never far from his mind. If you’re down, he’s down. 

Z is for Zzz ★ Once he’s tapped out, he’s out. Especially when you’re curled up against him and already worn out and asleep. That man goes into a cum indused comma for the next few hours. Completely dead to the world. 

Marcus felt the slippery tentacles wrap around him, the slimy innards held him in a suffocating cocoon—his nose picked up something familiar, a smell of the past. The smell of you, his calloused hands reaching out and expecting to feel the slimy insides of Snatcher—but he feels another hand reaching out and grabbing his calloused hand.

Pulling him up, he’s there. His burning lungs breathed in the fresh air, looking around and seeing the estate; how well kept it was? How alive it felt…His heart ached, remembering and tasting the carcasses of love that had bloomed and died with you. His blue eyes widened slightly, seeing you in front of himself.

You were smiling at him, he stared at your face. Taking in the soft wrinkles that defined your face that he missed and the old scars from the wars that littered on your forearms. His hand rested on your forearm, he knew what happened. His scraped knees—he had fallen while trying to reach you as you had also tripped on the back porch steps while entering the garden.

“Hey.” His blue examined you. “You…”

“I’m alright, Marcus,” you replied. “Are you alright?”

He rubbed his jaw, his vision blurred from feeling slimy-like fluid coat his whole body and the pink that surrounded his vision then your hands pulled him back to you looking at him with such love-filled eyes. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight hug.

He pulled away, hearing the echoing voices of people he didn’t recognize—seeing pieces of memories that were not his own. Your hands, so callous but so you had pulled him back into the quiet sanctuary of the garden.

“How…” his eyes darted around the quiet garden. “Where’s James?”

“He’s in bed,” you replied with a smile on your face.

It—it wasn’t real. No matter how hard, he wanted to believe. The fluid pumped into his lungs as he tried to ignore the discomfort, wanting to be with you.

“At this…”His head jerked around; he heard the familiar voices of Kate, Del and JD. “Come on—We are getting out of here.”

He gripped your hand and ran—you tugged your hand away from him; a forced stop near the door. His heavy footsteps echoed out, walking towards you and looking at you.

“Come with me,” he pleaded. “I can’t do this without you.”

“Marcus, I—“ you were cut off.

PLATONIC:

Nothing yet!

ROMANTIC:

Nothing yet!

PLATONIC:

Nothing yet!

ROMANTIC:

Nothing yet!

✿•·······························•●❀✿❀●•······························•✿ 

The cabin was quiet without him. Too quiet. The crackle of the hearth filled the silence, but even that felt thin, fragile, as if it too might snap under the weight pressing on her chest. She sat at the wooden table with the kettle in her lap, its jagged crack running deep across the side. Her fingers fumbled with twine, pitch, anything she could find, trying to piece it together like a wound she could stitch shut.

It was pointless. She knew it. But still, she tried.

The kettle had slipped from her hands that morning, shattering against the floor. It had been nothing, really, kettles break, things can be replaced. But it was the last straw in a day that had been determined to unravel her. The chores had fought her every step of the way: the wash-basin leaked, the goats scattered, the wood pile collapsed twice before she could stack it. Small troubles, one on top of another, until her patience wore thin and her chest was heavy.

So she had gone to the village. She told herself she’d find a new kettle, perhaps even take comfort in seeing faces other than her own reflected in the dishes she’d scrubbed spotless earlier. Instead, she had found only whispers and stares. Words that cut without meaning to, or worse, words meant to cut.

Her throat tightened at the memory. She had walked away quickly, head down, clutching her basket though it was empty. She had made it home before the tears came, hiding them in the hollow safety of the cabin walls. He wouldn’t be home until nightfall, she had thought. She had time to compose herself, to swallow this weakness down and bury it.

But still the tears had come.

Now, she sat with damp lashes and a trembling lip, scolding herself in whispers as she tried to mend the kettle.

“Big baby,” she muttered, voice thick. “Crying over a broken dish, tch, pathetic.”

Her hands shook as she pressed the pieces together, as though her own will might force them to hold. The kettle wobbled, the twine slipped, and it fell apart again in her lap. The sharp clatter of shards against the floor echoed through the cabin, louder than thunder.

She flinched, pressing her sleeve to her eyes before the tears could spill over again. “Stop it. Stop. It’s nothing.”

She pushed back from the table so quickly that the chair scraped harshly against the floor. The sound pierced the silence, but it didn’t matter. Her chest burned too hot, too tight to sit still. She began to pace the length of the cabin, arms wrapping around herself as if she could hold the pieces of her heart together the way she tried with the broken kettle.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She forced herself to breathe slowly, deep, like Kratos always told her when panic clawed its way too close, but the air came sharp and stuttering anyway.

The villagers’ words echoed louder in her mind than they ever had in the square. Their narrowed eyes. She hated herself for letting them matter. For letting strangers peel back her confidence like it was nothing more than paper. She had survived so much, endured so much, how could a handful of careless words cut deeper than any blade?

Her throat thickened again, tears prickling. She pressed her palms to her eyes, furious with herself. “Enough,” she hissed into the hollow of her hands. “You’re pathetic. Crying over nothing. Over strangers. He would hate if he saw you like this.”

She shook her head, pacing faster, trying to outrun the weight pressing down on her ribs. Shame coiled in her gut until she could hardly stand upright. She told herself she was undeserving of his love, of his protection, of the life they’d built. That he deserved someone stronger, someone unshaken by whispers in a marketplace.

And in that moment, she didn’t hear the heavy tread of boots in the snow. She didn’t hear the steady creak of the cabin door opening.

The door creaked open, and the cold breath of the evening swept into the cabin ahead of him. She startled, spinning toward the sound, her sleeve swiping hurriedly across her damp cheeks.

“Kratos!” Her voice rose too brightly, too quickly, forcing a cheerfulness that sounded brittle in the quiet. She turned from the hearth, smoothing her skirts as though nothing had happened. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”

He stood framed in the doorway, the great bulk of him filling it. A fresh-killed doe hung heavy over his shoulder, but he let it drop just outside before closing the door behind him. His eyes, sharp and dark, swept the room once. The broken kettle on the table. The uneven breath she tried to swallow. The false smile clinging to her lips.

He moved to her in three great strides, and her heart leapt into her throat.

“Show me,” he rumbled, voice low but commanding.

She blinked, forcing a laugh that trembled at the edges. “Show you? There’s nothing-”

“Do not lie.” His eyes narrowed, scanning her hands, her arms, the folds of her dress. He caught her wrists gently but firmly in his calloused hands and turned them over, as though expecting blood or glass buried in her skin.

“Kratos, I-”

“You broke the kettle.” His voice carried no accusation, only the heavy certainty of a man stating what he already knew. “I heard you. You have hurt yourself trying to repair it.” His thumb brushed across her palm, rough but careful. “Where?”

The scolding edge in his tone made her chest ache more than any wound could. He was not angry; he was afraid. She had seen that fear before, masked behind his sternness.

“I-I’m not hurt.” Her voice cracked despite herself. She lifted her chin, blinking back the last of the tears, hoping he couldn’t see how red her eyes were.

But of course, he could. 

His towering frame bent closer, his shadow falling over her as his face drew level with hers. Even softened by worry, his features were carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with an anxious gleam that pierced straight through her defenses.

“You must be more careful,” he said quietly, though the weight of his words felt like an embrace. “Do not take risks over such things. I would not have you harmed.”

Her lips trembled, and this time, she couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked down at their hands, small and trembling in his, his were broad and unyielding, yet gentle. Her throat tightened, not from shame now, but from the sheer force of love swelling in her chest.

He worried for her. Even when she tried to hide, even when she told herself she wasn’t worth worrying over, he always saw her.

She swallowed, willing her voice to steady. “The kettle, I dropped it this morning,” she admitted softly, unable to meet his eyes. “I didn’t expect it to be so heavy, even empty. It slipped, and-” she gestured helplessly toward the shards still resting on the table, “-it was my mistake.”

Kratos’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing, letting her speak.

“I thought I could replace it,” she continued quickly, hoping to push past the quiver in her voice. “I went to the village, but they had none. So I came back with nothing.” She forced a small laugh, brittle around the edges. “I suppose I let my frustration get the better of me. That’s all.”

Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve, desperate to keep her composure. “I just feel bad. It was the only way we could brew proper stews, and now-now we’ll have to find some other way to cook what you’ve brought home.”

At that, she dared to glance up at him, only to find his gaze fixed on her, steady and unreadable. She knew that look; it meant he was weighing her words, sifting through what she said and what she left unsaid.

His silence stretched for a long moment before he finally shook his head. “We have cooked without it before,” he said simply, his voice a low rumble that carried no judgment. 

Her chest tightened. She wanted to believe the conversation would end there, that he would take her excuse and let it rest. But his eyes lingered on her damp lashes, on the faint tremble in her voice, and she knew he didn’t believe her. Not entirely.

Kratos’s hand lifted, large and warm, brushing briefly over her cheek. The calloused pad of his thumb caught the faint trace of a tear she had missed. His jaw tightened, though his voice stayed calm.

“This is not cause for such sorrow.”

Her lips parted, a protest rising, but no words came. She only looked at him, towering over her, whose stern voice disguised a heart too tender where she was concerned. He had seen through her once again.

Her silence stretched too long. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her eyes darted toward the broken pot, then back to the floor.

Kratos’s jaw hardened. “You are holding something back.”

She shook her head quickly. “I told you, it was only the pot-”

“No.” His voice cut through hers, low and firm. “I know when you lie to me.”

Her heart lurched. “I’m not lying,” she insisted, though the words tasted weak even as they left her lips. “I just- Kratos, it isn’t worth bothering you with. I’ve already wasted enough of your time today-”

He leaned closer, his massive frame eclipsing hers, his voice tightening with quiet authority. “You are my wife. Nothing you carry is a burden I will not share.”

She flinched at the tenderness hidden in his words. But still she turned away, pressing her sleeve against her eyes again. “It’s childish. I’ll sound foolish. I don’t want to make this your problem-”

His hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist, pulling it from her face so she had to meet his gaze. His eyes burned steadily into hers. “Your problem is our problem.”

Her chest hitched, shame rising in her throat. “You’ll think I’m weak.”

“I have fought gods, monsters, kings.” His voice rumbled, steady and sure. “And yet you think I could be troubled by your tears?”

She bit her lip hard, fighting the wobble in her voice. “You don’t understand. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed. I can’t- I can’t tell you without feeling pathetic.”

His brows drew together, a frown heavy with both frustration and worry. “You think I would ever see you so?”

She didn’t answer. The silence hung between them like a blade.

Kratos let out a slow, restrained growl of exasperation. “Enough of this. Speak the truth. Do not deny me again.”

The command in his voice clashed against the gentleness in his eyes, and she trembled in the middle, torn between her shame and the unshakable certainty of his love.

She sighed, her shoulders sinking as the fight drained out of her. Her eyes slipped away from his, settling somewhere near his chest where she could feel his warmth without enduring the weight of his stare.

“Something did trouble me,” she admitted quietly. “While I was in the village.”

Kratos’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent, waiting.

She shook her head quickly before he could press. “I don’t want to speak of it. Not now. It’s nothing, truly. I’m sure I’m just overreacting.” Her mouth twisted into a humorless little smile, brittle and aching. “You know how I get. Tears over little things. I’m a hopeless case.”

Kratos’s eyes narrowed, a deep rumble in his chest betraying his displeasure at her jest. “Do not mock yourself.”

But she forced the weak smile anyway, shaking her head. “It isn’t something I want to drag you into. Please, just understand that I’m fine. I only need time to calm myself before I can speak of it.” She finally dared to look up, eyes shining, though her smile trembled. “Tonight, I don’t want to think about it. Let’s have a peaceful meal instead, hm? Talk of lighter things.”

The silence stretched, his gaze weighing her words. She could almost hear the storm turning behind his dark eyes, the battle between his demand for truth and his respect for her will.

At last, he exhaled, a long, reluctant rumble. “Hmph.”

His hand slid from her wrist, but not before his thumb brushed once more over the back of her hand, a silent tether, a reminder that he was not letting go, not really.

“You may keep your silence for tonight,” he said, his voice low and stern. “But hear me, woman: I would shield you from all things that would harm you. All things.” His gaze bore into hers, fierce and unyielding. “Do not forget this.”

Her chest ached, but this time, not with shame. She nodded, the smallest of smiles breaking through as her hand lingered in his. “I know,” she whispered. “And that is why I love you.”

She cleared her throat, eager to catch the thread of a different subject. “And you? How was your hunt?” she asked, turning to gather the knives and board he would need to dress the deer. The change in her tone was deliberate, too bright, like sunlight forcing its way through clouds.

But she hadn’t taken more than two steps when his hand caught her arm, not harshly, but with the quiet strength that always rooted her in place. She looked back at him in surprise, only to find his face softened in a way that words could never capture.

Wordlessly, he pulled her to him.

Her breath hitched as she melted into his embrace. His arms, broad and unyielding, wrapped around her with the kind of safety no walls could provide. She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart, and for the first time all day, she felt her own heartbeat slow, steadying to his rhythm.

Her hands fisted in the fabric of his leather shoulder guard as she let herself lean into him fully, surrendering her weight into his. His chin lowered just enough that his beard brushed her hairline, rough yet tender in the way only he could be.

When she tilted her face up, he was already looking down at her, eyes dark but softened at the edges. The kiss that followed was unhurried, slow, deliberate, filled with the same gravity as the first they had ever shared. His lips pressed against hers as though the whole world had narrowed to just this moment.

She sighed into him, her smile blooming against his mouth. Her first real smile of the day.

Kratos’s expression barely changed when they parted, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed his satisfaction. He had succeeded in what he set out to do: to lift the shadow from her heart, even if just for now.

Kratos did not let go. His arms remained locked around her, the weight of his presence steady and immovable. For a long moment, he simply held her, his silence heavier than words.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t to release her, but to thread his hand through her hair, thick fingers combing gently from crown to nape. The motion was awkward, almost uncertain, as though he feared mishandling something so delicate, but it was steady, careful, and achingly tender.

A low grumble rumbled in his chest. “I do not like it,” he muttered. “Seeing you unhappy.”

She smiled against his chest, the sound of his voice vibrating through her cheek. “You’re sulking,” she teased softly. “Like a bear denied his supper.”

His only reply was another grumble, deeper this time, which made her laugh, a small, bright sound that pushed back the heaviness in her chest. She tipped her head back to look up at him, mischief sparking faintly in her eyes despite the redness around them.

“You’re a big, scary softy,” she whispered, her smile widening.

Kratos’s brow arched slightly, the closest he came to a glare when he wasn’t truly angry. “Soft,” he echoed, testing the word like it was a weapon unfit for his hand.

“Yes,” she answered, her grin playful, though her voice was warm. “Soft. And mine.”

His jaw worked, his expression unreadable, but the faintest flicker at the corner of his mouth betrayed him, a ghost of a smile hidden beneath his stoic mask. He huffed through his nose and tightened his embrace, pressing her closer against him. “Hmph. Then I am yours.”

And though he would not say it aloud, the truth sat heavy and certain in his heart: if being hers meant being soft, then so be it.

Once, in another life, he might have welcomed an audience. A younger Kratos had been proud, violent, and all too willing to prove his strength to anyone who dared watch. But those days were long gone. Now, in the quiet of the Wildwoods, he had no appetite for eyes upon him.

He was silently grateful for it tonight.

Atreus was far away, exploring the realms, chasing his own path. Mimir was not perched by the table in front of his book, running his mouth with endless commentary. Sigrún had spirited him away just yesterday, and though neither Kratos nor his wife would dare ask outright, both suspected the pair was off on some romantic venture of their own.

It left only the two of them here. Alone.

And with no one around to tease him for his softness, save, of course, for the woman in his arms, Kratos let himself indulge.

His head dipped lower, his beard brushing against her cheek as his mouth found hers again. The kiss was firm, insistent, and when she giggled against his lips, he chased the sound with another. And another. Until the laughter turned breathless, until her teasing dissolved into nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the steady strength of his embrace.

“Kratos!” she laughed, trying half-heartedly to push against his chest. “You’ll smother me.”

He grunted, unimpressed, and kissed her again, slow this time, deliberate, savoring the sweetness he would never admit aloud he craved every waking second.

Her hands curled against his shoulders, her smile blooming wide even as she pretended to scold him. “You are hopeless,” she murmured, eyes shining now not from tears but from joy.

“Mm,” he rumbled against her lips, the faintest curl of satisfaction ghosting across his face. “Perhaps.”

For a long moment, they simply held one another, breathing in the quiet that belonged only to them. Her fingers traced the edges of his tattoo, his hand rested broad against her back, and in the glow of the hearth, their eyes lingered, unhurried.

At last, Kratos broke the silence, his voice low and rough, as though he had to force the words through stone. “Earlier, you said you love me.” Her smile softened, patient. He dipped his head slightly, his dark eyes never leaving hers. “I love you very much, as well.”

The words came slowly, deliberately, heavy with all the weight of a man who was still learning the power of saying them aloud. Once, he had believed actions alone were enough, the protection of his sword, the roof over their heads, the game brought home to the hearth. But she had taught him otherwise. She, Atreus, even the friends who had come into his life despite his gruff exterior, they had shown him that words mattered too. That sometimes, a heart needed to hear what hands alone could not say.

She swooned at once, her smile breaking into something radiant as her hands lifted to cradle his face. “Oh, Kratos,” she whispered, before kissing him sweetly, tenderly, like she was sealing his words to her heart.

When she pulled back, her lips still brushed against his as she whispered, “I love you too.” Then, with a sly grin, she added, “More than you love me.”

Kratos’s brow arched, his only reply a grumble from deep in his chest, the kind that sounded like displeasure but hid the truth too poorly.

She giggled, knowing she’d struck him true, and kissed him again.

And though his face betrayed only mock annoyance, inside he was undone, swooning, though he would never dare call it that. She could tell, though, by the glimmer in his eyes. 

Their quiet was broken by a sudden chorus of growls, yips, and excited scrabbling claws just outside the door. Both of them turned toward the sound.

She gasped. “The wolves!”

Kratos grunted, already knowing what had happened. He had dropped the doe just outside the cabin, and his loyal sled dogs- wolves, though she stubbornly insisted on calling them her “sweet pups”- had wasted no time in finding it.

She pressed her hands to her mouth, eyes wide with dismay. “Oh, Kratos, if they drag it to pieces right there, we’ll never get the front step clean again!” Her voice was full of flustered worry, though her smile betrayed her affection. “And there’ll be hardly anything left for us.”

“Hmph.” Kratos let out a low, reluctant sound and finally eased his arms from around her. “Stay.”

She chuckled softly at the command, but didn’t argue as he stepped outside.

The wolves yipped louder when he appeared, dancing around the deer with wagging tails and eager teeth. They had once pulled his sled through the endless snow of Fimbulwinter, but since Ragnarök had come and gone, and the deep ice receded, they had remained here as companions. Loyal. Fierce. His family, in their way.

Still, they were gluttons.

Kratos drove them back with a sharp command, then bent to drag the carcass around the cabin toward the wolf pen. The animals bounded after him, circling and whining with excitement. Inside the pen, he dropped the deer and, with practiced ease, drew his knife. The blade cut swiftly through flesh, and with a single fluid motion, he separated enough meat for two hearty meals. The rest he left for the wolves, who leapt upon the gift with unrestrained joy.

By the time he returned to the cabin, hands full with his portion, their chorus had shifted to happy growls and the messy sounds of a feast.

Inside, she had cleared the counter, laying out knives and bowls for him to work with. The fire in the hearth crackled, and the air already smelled faintly of herbs she had fetched to season their supper. She turned when he entered, smiling now with no trace of tears left in her eyes.

“Well,” she said brightly, brushing her hands together. “I suppose everyone will eat well tonight.”

Kratos set the venison on the counter with a solid thump. “Hmph. Everyone.”

His tone was gruff, but the corner of his mouth softened as she stepped closer, brushing her hand along his arm in quiet thanks.

She stepped close as he set to work, slipping her arms briefly around his middle and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. The brush of her lips left him still for half a breath, though his hands never faltered as he drew the knife through the hide with practiced ease.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly, her words brushing warm against his ear. “For always providing for us.”

His brow furrowed, but he did not turn. He only gave a low hum in his chest, the sound deep and quiet, accepting her gratitude in the way he always did when she always insisted on thanking him for what he felt was the bare minimum. He did not need words; the weight of his presence, the steady rhythm of his work, was answer enough.

Still, her smile lingered as she turned to the hearth, retrieved the iron spit that sat across the fire, and brought it back to the counter beside him. She took a bowl and prepared herbs and seasonings, crushing them together to later rub over the meat before roasting it. The smell of herbs soon filled the air, mingling with the rich scent of venison as Kratos worked behind her, the scrape of his knife on bone a steady, grounding sound.

For a while, neither spoke. It was a silence that had once been uncomfortable, but now, after years of learning each other, it was a silence full of peace. A silence that said more than words could.

She hummed softly under her breath as she skewered the ready meat beside her, her voice light again at last. The fire crackled, the wolves outside still gorged themselves happily, and within the little cabin, there was only warmth.

Kratos glanced at her then, just once, his stoic face betraying nothing to the world, yet in the dark of his eyes there was satisfaction. She had smiled, laughed, kissed him, teased him, and now she hummed while preparing their meal. Whatever shadows had touched her earlier, he had driven them back.

And that, to him, was victory enough.

Once the venison was skewered, she dusted it with the herbs she’d prepared earlier, salt, thyme, and a pinch of something sweet she’d dried from the summer past. Her hands moved tenderly, rubbing the seasonings deep into the meat until her fingertips carried the scent of it.

When she finished, Kratos took the spit from her hands with ease and lowered it into place over the fire. The iron creaked as it settled into the grooves, and the flames licked eagerly at the fresh offering.

She dragged a chair closer, the legs scraping across the wooden floor, and patted the seat with a little smile. “Sit,” she said warmly, echoing the same tone he often used with her.

He gave her a look, one brow raising ever so slightly, but did as she asked. The chair groaned beneath his weight, and he leaned forward, massive hands gripping the spit as he turned it with slow, practiced movements.

The firelight glowed across his face, softening the sharpness of his scarred features. The scent of roasting venison began to fill the cabin, rich and mouthwatering.

She settled beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed against his arm as she leaned forward on the table, her cheek resting in her hand. Her eyes softened, watching him spin the spit with the same care he gave to wielding a blade.

For a long while, the only sounds were the fire’s crackle, the hiss of fat dripping into the flames, and the steady rhythm of his hand turning the meat so it would not burn. And in that quiet, with the wolves content outside and the storm in her heart long passed, the cabin felt like the safest place in all the realms.

By the time the venison was cooked through, the cabin was filled with its rich, savory scent. Kratos lifted the spit from the fire, setting it across the board she had readied. Together they carved thick slices of meat, steam curling up into the rafters, and laid them onto wooden plates. She fetched the bread she had baked that morning, still soft within, and a small jar of preserved berries to sweeten the meal.

They sat side by side at the table, firelight flickering across the wood. For a while, they ate in companionable quiet, the kind of silence that had grown familiar and comforting between them.

It was she who broke it, as she always did. “You’ve a smudge of ash on your cheek,” she teased gently, pointing with her fork.

Kratos grunted without looking up. “It does not matter.”

She reached across the table to brush her thumb against his cheek, smudging away the ash. “There,” she said softly. “Perfect.” He hummed, gruff but satisfied, and returned to his food.

The conversation turned lighter as she told him a story about a squirrel that had nearly stolen their drying herbs, waving her hands in animated gestures, while he listened with a faint shake of his head. When she imitated the squirrel’s chattering, he gave a sound that might have been a chuckle, though he masked it with another bite of venison.

She gasped dramatically. “Was that a laugh, Kratos?”

“No.”

“It was,” she said triumphantly, her grin widening. “I heard it. Admit it!”

He only grumbled into his plate, but she laughed harder, leaning against his arm as though she had won some great battle.

And so the evening passed, soft talk, small smiles, the fire’s warmth and the comfort of full bellies. Her tears were forgotten, her heart light again. And though Kratos’s face betrayed little, he carried a quiet, fierce contentment. For he had brought her back from sorrow, and in her laughter, he had found peace of his own.

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The sun had barely crested the treeline when the steady thunk of an axe echoed through the small clearing that was their front yard. Kratos stood before the woodpile, bare-armed in the chill air, the muscles in his back and shoulders flexing with each swing. The axe bit deep into the logs, splitting them clean with the force of his strike. He bent, gathered the halves, and stacked them neatly bark side up, before setting another upon the block.

From the doorway, she leaned against the frame, wrapped in her shawl. Her eyes softened as she watched him work, steam curling faintly from her mug of morning tea.

For a moment, she only admired him in silence—the towering figure of her husband, the God of Hope, now simply a man at peace in the Wildwoods. The memory of yesterday’s tears felt far away, dulled by the safety she felt now.

He paused mid-swing when he sensed her gaze, head turning just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye.

“You should be warm,” he rumbled, lowering the axe and planting it in the block.

She smiled gently into her cup. “And you should rest once in a while. But I don’t see that happening either.”

He gave a low huff, somewhere between amusement and disapproval, and turned back to the wood. She stepped down from the doorway, crossing the dew-dusted earth until she reached him. Without a word, she set her tea aside, plucked one of the smaller pieces of wood from the pile, and set it on the block.

Kratos raised a brow at her in silent question.

She lifted her chin stubbornly. “You split. I’ll stack. Teamwork.”

His lips pressed into a line, but the faintest spark glinted in his eyes before he lifted the axe once more.

The next swing split the log neatly in two, and she scooped up the pieces with a smile, setting them on the stack. Side by side, in the crisp morning light, they worked together, quiet, steady, content.

They worked together in quiet rhythm. The pile grew, neat and orderly, each piece settled in its place with care. The air was crisp, the ground still damp with morning dew, but the labor kept them warm.

Yet Kratos’s thoughts were elsewhere.

Every swing of the axe carried with it the memory of her tear-streaked face, the tremble in her voice, the shame in her eyes as she tried to laugh it away. She had smiled for him since, teased him, kissed him, laughed at his grumbling, but it nagged at him. It was too deliberate, too much like she was burying what had cut her so deeply, pretending it had never happened, so that he would not press.

And though she thought it kindness to spare him her burdens, it troubled him more than any wound of his own ever could. He wanted, needed, to know. So that he might guard her from it. So that whatever shadow had found her yesterday could never again bring her to tears.

She bent to stack the last pieces onto the pile, brushing the wood dust from her hands with a satisfied sigh. “There. That should last us a good while.”

Kratos stood beside her, the axe resting against the block. His gaze lingered on her profile, softened in the morning light. After a long moment, he rumbled, “You are calm.”

She looked up at him, blinking, then tilted her head slightly. “Calm?”

“You said,” he continued, his voice low, steady, “that you wished to calm yourself. To have a quiet night. Before you told me what troubled you.” His eyes darkened, searching hers. “The night is past. You are calm.”

The air stilled between them, heavy with his meaning.

She stumbled over her breath, caught off guard by his words. “It was nothing,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her hands brushed invisible dust from her skirts, her eyes darting away. “Truly, Kratos. Not worth your worry.”

But as she spoke, the voices of the villagers crept back into her mind, sharper now in the silence of the morning. Their narrowed eyes. Their whispers. The way the words had clung to her, heavy as chains. She had almost forgotten, no, pushed it aside, under the weight of his embrace the night before, under the kisses that had chased her sorrow away. But now, called forth by his reminder, it all pressed back against her ribs, raw and bruising.

Her throat tightened. She tried to swallow it down. “I don’t want to think on it anymore. Please.”

Kratos set the axe aside, his broad shoulders squaring as he turned fully toward her. The morning light caught in his scar, in the hard set of his brow, but his voice when he spoke was low, gruff, almost pleading.

“You gave your word.”

She froze.

“You said you would tell me, when you were calm.” His gaze bore into hers, unyielding but not unkind. “Do not break your word with me.”

Her lips parted, but no excuse came. He stepped closer, towering, yet his eyes softened with something almost fragile.

“Let me share it,” he urged, the roughness of his tone carrying a weight more intimate than gentleness. “Whatever burden has made its home in your heart, it is mine, as well. Let me carry it.”

The plea hung heavy between them, spoken by a man who rarely begged for anything.

She sighed, shoulders slumping as though the fight had been pulled from her. “It’s nothing,” she whispered again, though even she knew how hollow it sounded. Her lips trembled into a rueful smile. “But, if you insist.”

Her eyes lifted to his, catching that steady, piercing gaze that always seemed to strip away her defenses. And though his mouth was set in its usual stern line, there was something soft in it, too. Something she teasingly called his puppy-dog eyes. He denied it, of course, but she could never resist them.

“Fine,” she breathed. “I’ll tell you. I suppose I can’t say no to that face of yours.”

Kratos said nothing, only waited, his hand settling warm and firm against hers, a silent vow that whatever words came would not break her.

She took a deep breath. “It was my first time in the village in so long. . . alone. Without you.” Her voice wavered, but his thumb pressed reassuringly against her knuckles, grounding her. “And the people, they looked at me. Not kindly. Not like they look at you.”

Her eyes dropped, shame prickling hot behind them. “After Ragnarök, you became something to them. The God of Hope. The one who gave them peace, who rebuilt what was broken with Freya and Mimir. You are worshipped now, beloved.” Her throat caught, and she forced the words through. “But me? They saw only weakness. Softness. They gossiped, whispered cruel things. That a god who saved the realms had settled for a mortal, for someone like me. That I wasn’t worthy.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

“I shouldn’t have listened. Nobody said it to my face, but I heard enough. And hurt me deeper than I expected.” She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “I know it’s foolish, Kratos. I know I’m overreacting. But in that moment, I believed them. I felt so small, unfit to be at your side.”

Her confession spilled into the morning air, fragile and raw. She bit her lip, bracing for his silence, her heart pounding as though he might agree with the villagers’ cruel whispers.

“Come.” The single word rumbled from his chest like a command to the earth itself. Before she could respond, Kratos slid the axe into the holster across his back and turned toward the path that led down to the village.

Her brows shot up. “Kratos-!”

He did not answer. Instead, he reached for her gathering basket, the same one she used to fetch herbs or carry the few things they could not make or harvest themselves at shops. He held it out to her, his face set, his jaw tight.

Her cheeks flushed hot. “You can’t mean to-no, Kratos, you can’t just march me down there-” She hurried after him as his long strides carried him toward the edge of the clearing, the basket pressed into her hands whether she wanted it or not.

The very thought made her stomach knot. The last thing she wanted was to look like a foolish girl who had run home crying to her husband about the meanies in the marketplace. She imagined him storming into the square, demanding names, shaming them into silence with the sheer weight of his presence. The image was mortifying.

“Please,” she begged, catching his arm as they walked. “Don’t be angry. Don’t- don’t do anything rash.”

Kratos slowed only enough to glance down at her, his face carved in stoic lines. “We require a new kettle for the hearth.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “That’s all?”

His silence was answer enough.

But as they continued down the path, his broad hand brushed briefly against hers, a quiet tether, reminding her that whatever else this errand became, he would not allow her to face it alone.

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The market was alive with chatter and color when they entered, stalls crowded with goods, the air thick with the scents of bread, smoked fish fresh from the Lake of Nine, and wool dyed in bright hues. Yet as soon as Kratos’s heavy tread touched the cobblestones, the mood shifted.

Heads turned. Conversations hushed. Then, as if a tide had shifted, people began to approach.

“God of Hope,” a farmer greeted, bowing slightly as he offered a carved wooden charm.

“Your strength keeps us safe,” another murmured, holding out a bundle of furs.

Kratos shook his head at each, refusing every gift. Not with sharpness, not with disdain, but with the blunt weight of truth. “I need none of this,” he said, his voice deep and even.

When a mother stepped forward, three children huddled close at her side, she extended a warm loaf of bread, wrapped in cloth. “Please,” she said softly, her eyes bright with gratitude. “It is fresh, baked this morning.”

Kratos glanced at the loaf, then at the small faces peeking out from behind her skirts. His voice softened just enough for her to hear. “Feed your children. I require nothing from your earnings.”

The woman’s eyes brimmed with tears, her hand pressed over her heart. She bowed, and her children, giggling shyly, did the same.

And so it went, every offer turned away, every rejection somehow met with brighter smiles. Whispers of admiration rippled through the square. They saw in him what they had begun to believe in: a god not greedy, not cruel, but steadfast.

Beside him, she walked quietly, keeping pace with his stride. Kratos noted the silence, unlike her usual warmth and chatter, and the way her gaze darted away from those around them. The villagers hardly spared her a glance, their focus fixed solely on him. She shrank inward, her hands tightening around the basket, her shoulders bent against the weight of being invisible.

Kratos’s brow furrowed. He said nothing, but his eyes flicked toward her once, then again, the muscle in his jaw tightening.

This silence of hers troubled him more than any words could.

Kratos’s steps slowed before a stall lined with cast-iron pans and kettles, their blackened surfaces gleaming faintly in the sun. He stopped, towering before the modest shop, and spoke in his steady way:

“We require a replacement for our broken hearth kettle.”

The shopkeeper, a stout man with a ruddy face, nearly stumbled over himself as he hurried forward. “Of course, my lord! Of course, anything you wish.” His hands swept wide over the display. “Dutch ovens, stew pots, kettles of every size, take whichever suits you best.”

Kratos did not move. Instead, he turned, his gaze settling on her. “You will choose.”

Her eyes widened faintly, but when she looked up at him, she found no hint of jest. Only quiet certainty, as though the decision had always belonged to her.

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the heavy handles as she inspected them one by one. She mumbled softly to herself, about the weight, the depth, the balance of each, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kratos watched. Not just with patience, but with a steady, unshaken admiration. The kind that made it clear he would stand there all day if she needed. The kind that spoke more loudly than any declaration.

The shopkeeper, eager to please, tried to interject now and then, only to falter when he noticed where Kratos’s attention lay. The God of Hope wasn’t watching the goods. He was watching her.

One by one, bystanders began to notice too. Curious glances turned, then lingered. Whispers hushed as they followed Kratos’s gaze to the woman at his side. The mortal wife they had overlooked only moments ago.

Graceful in her concentration, she finally settled on a kettle, lifting it by its handle to test the weight. She turned to the shopkeeper, her tone polite but sure. “This one. How much do you ask for it?”

The man’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He seemed dazed, as though the question itself had startled him. “For you, my lady,” He bowed deeply. “There is no cost. Please, accept it.”

The crowd stirred with approving murmurs, but Kratos’s eyes never left her. He said nothing, but the weight of his presence at her side, the calm certainty of his choice to let her voice be heard, had already reshaped the air around them.

She smiled, warm and gracious, but her heart tightened all the same. The kindness shown her now, it was only because Kratos stood beside her. Yesterday, alone, there had been none.

Still, she would not let that truth sour the moment.

Shaking her head gently, she cradled the kettle against her side. “No,” she said softly. “You must take payment. Your work is worth more than nothing, and your family must eat. Besides, Kratos is spoiled enough as is.”

The shopkeeper blinked, his mouth parting in surprise. “My lady-”

She was already digging through her coin purse, slender fingers finding the worn leather pouch at her belt. She counted quickly, then pressed several silver coins into the man’s palm, more than the kettle’s worth. “For the kettle,” she said, her smile kind but firm. “And for your kindness.”

The shopkeeper stared, wide-eyed, his hand closing slowly around the coins. His lips trembled into a grateful bow. “You honor me.”

Around them, the crowd stirred again, but this time, the whispers were not about the God of Hope. They were about her. About the mortal woman who had insisted on fairness, who had spoken not with power but with gentleness, and given more than was asked.

Kratos’s dark eyes never left her as she tucked her purse away, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across her face. His jaw tightened, but not with anger, with something else. Pride.

And though he said nothing, the weight of his silence was as loud as any declaration: This is my wife. This is the woman I chose. And she is worth more than any of you dare whisper otherwise.

Kratos lifted the heavy kettle as though it were nothing more than a feather, tucking it against his side before turning from the stall. His wife fell into step beside him, her basket swaying lightly from her arm.

“Is there anything else we require?” he asked, his voice low, practical.

She tapped her chin in thought, then smiled. “Atreus’s paints. The last time he was home, I noticed his supply was running low. If the village has any, I’d like to surprise him with more. He’ll be pleased to have them waiting.”

Kratos stilled for a heartbeat. Her words, simple as they were, warmed his chest like a fire catching in dry wood. His son, her dearest friend save for himself, he thought, was never far from his mind, but hearing her speak with such kindness toward the boy stirred something deep in him.

A hum rose from his chest, low and approving. He nodded once. “Good.”

But before they moved on, he paused. His hand shifted from the kettle to her arm, steady and sure, guiding her gently to face him. Without a word, he bent, lowering his broad frame until his lips brushed hers in a deliberate kiss.

It was not hurried, nor hidden in the safety of their cabin walls. It was unshaken, deliberate, and undeniable.

Gasps rippled softly through the onlookers. For Kratos, who preferred privacy above all things, to show such affection here, openly, was no small gesture.

Half the reason was as plain as the fire in his chest: he adored her. Always.

The other half was quieter, sharpened with intent. A modest act of dominance. A reminder to the watching eyes that this woman was his choice. That their whispered doubts had no ground, their scorn no weight. That the God of Hope cherished her, without shame, without hesitation.

When he pulled back, her smile was radiant, her cheeks warmed pink. She blinked up at him with stars in her eyes, and for all the crowd around them, she looked as though she stood alone with him in the world.

Kratos straightened, the kettle still cradled in one arm as though it were nothing, and turned once more to the market path.

“Come,” he rumbled, as though nothing had happened. “We will find the paints.”

But inside, his heart burned with quiet triumph. Pride swelled in Kratos’s chest, unbidden and undeniable, as he looked upon her now. That radiant light in her eyes, the shine that had first undone him, that still left him unsteady even now, had returned.

He had been uncomfortable, yes. To kiss her before strangers, to bare his tenderness where others could see, such things were not for him. Not anymore. But the sight of her crystal-clear gaze, the joy brimming in her expression, was reward enough. More than enough.

The memory of her red, glossy eyes, her cheeks wet with tears, tried to surface. The way she had trembled in his arms only the night before, weighed down by whispers and shadows. The image stung, sharp and unwelcome. But it paled against the face before him now, her smile warm, her eyes bright as sunlight on fresh snow.

The contrast was stark. Yesterday’s sorrow, today’s glow. And it warmed him more deeply than the fire of battle, more fiercely than any victory in war.

This laughter, her peace, her light, was the triumph he held dearest.

He shifted the kettle in his arm, towering and impassive once more to any onlooker. But within, his heart burned quietly with something greater than pride.

It burned with love.

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