#gow x reader

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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.

✿•····•✿•····•✿•····•✿•····•✿•····•✿•····•✿•····•✿

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.

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

While alcohol is one of Thor’s bad habits, you assuredly beat top—keep his rare, sober self clean as he desperately awaits your approval. Inhaling your words like oxygen itself. His obsession is a deep, instinctive, and inescapable type of devotion; a need to be near you, protect you, to ensure above all that nothing can ever take you away from him. Being heavily steered into violence if challenged. But, sharing a hold so faint, a ghost of touch, his fingers tracing the inner of your jaw, acting as if he hadn’t killed someone for you.

Of course, it’s shown that the mead is his support. His backbone. His stability. Swishing those complicated and oppressed feelings down his ragged throat. Drinking away every issue, every single regret, every beaten doubt he has about himself. It’s indeed the best way to enjoy the rest of his solaced evening.

The burning sensation of the ale never bothers him, but somehow, you do—you always have, and you forever will.

His eyes lay upon you from across the noisy tavern, an aura so different in the realm of Asgard. Lungs burning, a feeling of hazy butterflies spreading through his chest. Slurs of hiccups that nobody but you can understand. His eyes sharpened, watching how you loudly challenge for a drinking contest, boasting how you could outdrink anyone. And that itself, made him belly out a chilling chuckle. One that could be heard and felt. An ordinary challenge taken to the bone with Thor. It’s a go-to activity he looks forward to almost daily.

Or seeing you, the sweet, kind, and swelling type of person that rarely ever bothers him. Allowed him to drink alone, yet offered him a shoulder to babble on when needed. You didn’t treat him any less of a person, nor talk him down– like All Father did. Still, you willingly choose not to. It amazed him then, and it still amazes him now.

Sure, the amount of mead he consumed was certainly concerning, but you never outright said it. The look in your eye gave it away. A gaze tighter, lines around your eyes more pronounced; a faint, almost imperceptible crease formed between your brows. Blinking less often when he slurred his words, right until he mumbled on—an easy, gliding scenario sat beside each other to where he finally opened up one night. Vulnerability spilling out. Admitting just how miserable it is to be alone; have a strained relationship with his only daughter; and how lonely and angry he felt. Everything had gone to shit, especially with his two boys.

He knew the actions he chose were more than horrible and the chances of him making it up were low. You didn’t need to remind him, as everyone did.

Instead, you chose not to, teaching him that despite how big a mistake, it will get better. He can be better, a force of hope. Comforting him and nodding along with no unnecessary advice. No side-eyeing. Never offering solutions until he asks– always ends up with those eyes staring. A blue that didn’t soothe, but burned. Sharp as lightning, sizzling your skin that stuns your every move. Catch your breath still.

And each time his irises bore into your soul, you can feel the intensity of it. Harrowing through the back of your skull, the sort that raises gooseflesh on the nape of the neck. The room goes quiet as he calls your name, grumbling and motioning you to sit next to him. It’s an invitation that sends shivers down your spine.

Everyone knows his infatuation, yet, nobody dares mention it. Not even your friends. His reputation is threatening, just as his height. Direct as his gaze and hair-raising touch.

Even when Heimdall may mention something, the crack in his jaw is enough to halt the galling God. Beginning to tease before being shut down by Odin himself. All-Father knows how important your presence is to Thor, and despite his own opinion, the ignorant fool is smart enough not to mess with you. Even when he wants you gone, out of the picture, your entire presence is important. You let the ginger function, and that alone, is a tool for All-Father. Even if it is obvious, you are a threat.

And despite what you understand, your opinion matters more than anyone. Better than his own father. Far better than Sif. Truly more hypnotizing than Thrúd. Surpassing Kratos ever did when he tried fighting him. That look in your eye, has him grasping for your touch, begging for you to do anything but hate him.

It’s when you ask a favor, that he breathes out the sentence—I love you—like it’s him against the world. Staring at you like you’ve changed him and in so many ways, you have. You don’t make him feel like a burden; treat him as a weapon. But view Thor, as a man, not a God. Perhaps even your man. Your husband and beloved.

The first kiss is frenzied, desperate, and so earnest. It’s rumbling like a storm. Heavy with all the things he can’t say out loud. Thor’s lips meet yours, holding you so closely. The soft but prickly beard brushes against your chin and cheeks. Fingers digging into your hips, his breathing ragged and irises following your every twitch. He doesn’t move, until you do—a reassurance strong in his mind—fingers caressing your cheek, blunt nails tracing small shapes. Never letting go, until you choose to do it.

Though, your choices also count in how your future plays. By chance, you decline his devotion, he’s far broken. Angry. Surely embarrassed to think that of course, you would indulge him in marriage. How foolish of him, yes?

In reaction, Thor’s emotions are erratic, just as your public appearance. You disappear out of the blue. Belonging still, as if they hadn’t been touched in days, and waiting for you. Pets are just as gone, ideal food, and dishes taken. Everyone assumes the worst, but can’t do anything—Thor just chuckles at your friend’s worries, snapping at them that you are well and safe. Thrúd assures them that you are happily her step-parent, the greatest person in the world. Your old life is merely meaningless, now.

Life in Asgard is incredibly smothering. Thor doesn’t know how to hold back– not in a fight, not in bed, not in love. Everything is overwhelming, a fear of you leaving deeply imprinted in his brain, being a hovering shadow. Even if you were to use the bathroom, he's right behind you. Someone unrecognizable approaching you has his thumbs wrapped around his hammer. Tightening as they engage with you more, jealousy fuels his entire being. His shadow, despite your height, looms over the two of you. Grunting in response as they leave, asking what they want, and how it is associated with you. His shift in weight creaks the floorboards, a constant reminder that privacy is nonexistent.

Despite that, you’re allowed to have friends and family. He doesn’t isolate you, completely.

It’s just that Thor’s jealousy is a sensitive time bomb; once it reaches the top, it’s nearly impossible to pull back down. Break off. His attention, his anger, is solely focused on the threat. To eliminate any remark that could or can hurt you.

But, despite his love for combat—the violent desire, and impulse to tear your friends in half—Thor realizes, for once, that bloodshed isn’t the best idea. At least for certain circumstances. And in truth, that pisses him off. Grumbles how it’s his duty to keep you from harm. Look out for you. It’s mercy, really. Living a life in pure corruption, only to see a glimpse of light, is surely miserable. Thor would know. It drives him crazy when you’re not around. In every way possible, they are a waste of space. Of flesh.

Though, he will listen if you say no. If anything, you are the only person who can tell him "no". He’ll glare, pace, continue grunting– but Thor will listen.

His love language is a plethora of things. Gift-giving, even an outfit, is situational. Words from him flow like his desire to fight; compliments are often direct. Sometimes, too blunt. But his touching? Oh, that is constant.

Thor doesn’t leave you when you’re at arm’s length. Standing too close, feeling his massive presence– the warmth he wavers, and a palm around your waist. Pulling your hand on top of his cheek, covering your own to gently whisk with your fingers. Squeezing your digits when you do anything else, let alone breathe. Kissing the inside of your wrist, inhaling how you smell. The pressure of his touch never wavers, if anything, it deepens. Sometimes so much so, you have to remind him to be gentle. Bruises happen more than he likes.

Him squeezing your skin, fat and muscle, all the way to the bone isn’t being clingy; rather needing to feel you to recharge, to regain his independence, a vital energy. Thor isn’t just reliant on you for emotional support, but also physical.

If you have long hair, expect him to offer to braid it—even if you have curly hair, he still wants help with the moisturizing. Once he learns how to detangle with his fingers, let alone give you a nice head massage, it quickly turns into a strict nightly routine.

Alcohol, despite being his past coping mechanism, you replaced it permanently. Thor promises never to drink again. Lift a cup, all for you.

Even when All Father instills hatred, a toxic reflection, screaming at him to let loose, he still refuses. When Heimdall is a teased fuck, igniting every single fiber of his being aflame, he still stands his ground. Refusing mead. Every thought goes back to you, his poll of support. His restored, lasting addiction. Giving him something to believe in, a place to feel a part of, and the only thing keeping the man alive.

—

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How could all this have happened?

How could things have gotten so bad?

The place was silent now. Everyone living on Olympus was now dead. You were the only one still alive with the executioner.

"You… You killed everyone," you said with a tight throat. "You killed all the Gods, all the slaves, all the inhabitants of Greece… Why haven't you killed me yet?"

Kratos didn't answer you, he just moved closer to you. He put away his blood-soaked blades, his body was covered in the blood of his victims. You didn't dare look at him, you couldn't. You were too afraid to face him.

"Why am I the only one still alive?"

Kratos moved the corpse so he could kneel in front of you, in the pool of blood. You jumped in fear as you felt the rough fingers of the God of War grab your chin to lift your face. Your gaze met Kratos's. He was crazy. He had gone mad after all his years of loyally serving the Gods of Olympus, killing all those people, the murder of his family.

"Oh (Y/N). Why would I kill you?" he asked, smiling at you. "You're everything to me."

"No," you said, shaking your head and lowering your head as you sobbed. "No, no, no, no, no, no… No…"

Kratos let go of your chin to caress your cheek. He wiped away your tears, whispered reassuring words to console you. He tried to make you believe that everything was going to be okay.

"We're finally going to be able to be together," he said, grabbing your hair and violently lifting your head. "No one's going to separate us anymore."

You looked at Kratos terrified, a squeak escaping your lips because of the pain. He had torn your hair out. Kratos quickly let go of your hair when he heard you squeak in pain. He ran his hand over your sore scalp, soothing the pain.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I just bothered," he said, placing his lips on your forehead. "It's not against you. It's not going to happen again."

"Why?" you asked in a breath before starting to scream at him. "Why don't you kill me?! Why me?! Kill me so we can end this!"

Kratos stared at you with a perfectly neutral expression. Tears rolled down your blood-stained cheeks, like the rest of your body. The Spartan simply reached out to wipe away your tears.

"(Y/N). You are my world. Everything is everything I need. And there is no way I'm losing what is mine again," he said, caressing your cheek. "We're finally going to be able to be together, have a family. You'll have everything you've ever dreamed of."

You couldn't do anything against Kratos. You couldn't run away from him. How could you? He would be capable of destroying the world if he wanted to. What he did to Olympus was proof of that. You didn't have time to understand that you felt a pressure behind your neck and your world became darkness.

(o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o)

You felt good. You felt like you could feel the sun's rays caressing your skin. It was strange. Helios was dead, how could there be a sun? And all his dead. The image of the many dead came back to you and Kratos. This simple thought woke you up. You looked around you perplexed. You were lying in a bed, you found yourself in a strange place. There was greenery everywhere, butterflies, there was even a clearing with a waterfall.

"What is this place?"

You got out of bed. You realized that someone had changed your clothes and cleaned the blood you had on you. You were wearing a semi-transparent white dress with a slit skirt and a gold belt that tightened your waist. You searched the place, looking for an exit. Without finding anything.

Where were you?

What are you doing here?

"Do you like this place?"

"You bear a gentle hand, goddess," he said at last, voice roughened by both exhaustion and something heavier.

"You have endured enough cruelty....it is the least I can do...." you replied, your fingers lingering a moment too long against his skin.

Deimos's lips curved into a wry smile. "Cruelty is the way of the world. Yet you..." His hand caught your wrist with surprising gentleness.

"You would teach a warrior mercy....to lay your hand in healing and mercy...." You met his eyes — fierce and bright like his brother's, yet tempered with mischief, with longing.

A heartbeat passed. Two. You could feel your skin tingle, and your stomach warm from the way he looked at you.

Then Deimos rose slightly, despite the protest of his wounds, and his other hand found your waist.

"Permit me," he murmured, voice low and thick, "to show my gratitude." His lips met yours in a soft but hungry kiss. A soldier deprived of everything in life, now had it at his fingertips and would take full advantage of it. His mouth slanted over yours, hungry and reverent, his hands pulling you into the hard planes of his battle-worn body.

You gasped, and Deimos groaned against your lips, as if your very breath was wine he had been long denied.

"You are soft..." he rasped, nipping lightly at your lower lip. "So soft....so supple..." he pulls you to straddle his lap

"Deimos—" you whispered, half a plea, half a prayer.

He silenced you with another kiss, rougher, more demanding. His hands slid over your back, your hips, grounding you to him. You could feel the heat of his skin, the tremble in his muscles, the sheer need radiating from him like fire. Something hard and needy grew and throbbed under his clothing.

And then — the heavy door creaked open.

Kratos stood there, his frame rigid, his golden gaze cutting through the shadows like a blade.

You stilled — heart hammering in your chest — but Deimos did not falter. Instead, he held you tighter, a challenge gleaming in his eyes as he met his brother's stare.

Kratos's jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides. The silence was a palpable thing, heavy with unspoken desires and darker hungers. You would have said something to the god that stood before you, but Daimos turned your gaze back to him.

Deimos's mouth found yours again, greedy and coaxing, hands roaming your waist, your hips. You gasped softly, your body alight with sensation — so caught in him you almost forgot the other presence in the room.

Almost.

Kratos stood a mere pace away, silent and seething, golden eyes burning brighter than the fires that burned in the sanctuary.

His hand shot out, seizing Deimos by the shoulder and ripping him from you with a growl. You stumbled, caught only by Kratos’s other hand — large, calloused — curling possessively around your arm.

"You are too bold, brother," Kratos snarled, his voice like stone grinding against stone. Deimos chuckled low in his throat, undeterred.

"Would you have her all to yourself, then?" he taunted, licking a stray bead of your taste from his lip. Kratos's glare could have split the earth in that very moment.

"She is not yours to toy with," he said, and the low rumble of it set your heart hammering against your ribs. His gaze fell on you — searing, claiming.

"She is mine." something in your stomach flipped and boiled at the statement.

Deimos leaned lazily against the pillar near the fireplace, still smiling, watching as Kratos pulled you against the hard planes of his body — his mouth descending to claim yours in a kiss far rougher, far more desperate than Deimos’s had been. There was no question in it — only command, like the general he was... Your knees went weak, clutching at the folds of Kratos’s scarred leather as he devoured you.

His hands roamed with greedy need — one cradling the back of your skull, tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you knew you would bear his mark. He kissed you as if trying to stamp his soul onto yours. When he finally tore his mouth from you, his breathing was ragged, chest heaving.

"You belong to me," Kratos growled against your lips.

And though Deimos only chuckled low, amused, even he did not dare argue. Kratos lifted you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you toward the furs near the fire, laying you down like an offering he meant to claim completely.

He shed his weapons and armor with brutal efficiency, golden gaze never leaving you — never blinking, never softening. Only once, as he knelt above you, did Kratos cast a look over his shoulder at Deimos — a warning, a threat, and a promise all in one.

"Touch her again without my leave..." his eyes said, clear as speech, "...and you will answer to me."

Deimos raised his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk remained.

Kratos turned back to you — all the violence of war coiled in his touch — and you knew,

Tonight, you would be taken, thoroughly and utterly — but not gently. You would be his. He tosses you over his shoulder and exits the healing chamber to find yours. Walking down the hall and finding and grand chamber with a large bed at the end of the hall, he lets you fall onto the bed.

Kratos loomed above you, his shadow cast long and powerful by the firelight.

"You will take none but me," he growled, voice thick with hunger, the words rumbling low in his chest. his rough hands rip the fabric of your garments. Leaving you bare for him, his hands roamed possessively, calloused palms sliding along your hips, your thighs, spreading you open beneath his heavy frame. Unbeknownst to him, Deimos leans against the doorway watching intently, a wolfish grin playing at his lips, arms crossed lazily over his broad chest.

"You handle her like a prize, brother," he taunted, voice thick with amusement. "Yet she is no gold nor sword — she will not break."

Kratos did not answer and simply focused on you. The way your pussy was wet and ready to receive him. The way your skin shivered, how your eyes were half lidded as they stared at him. Instead, he gripped your jaw firmly, forcing you to meet his burning gaze.

"You will cry for me," Kratos rumbled, low and unrelenting, his thumb sweeping across your parted lips. "You will remember whose touch brings you ruin."

You whimpered under him, the heat of his words making your blood sing. Slowly, deliberately, Kratos aligned himself, thick and heavy against you, pressing forward with a slow, claiming force. You gasped, your back arching, nails clawing at the furs beneath you. He filled you completely — a brutal stretch that left no part of you untouched. Every rumor, every story was right; this truly was a pleasure you had never known.

Kratos groaned low in his throat, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

"You take me well," he breathed, hips beginning a slow, relentless rhythm. "You were made for this — for me."

Each thrust drove the breath from your lungs, every movement fueled by the seething need to stamp his claim onto your body, your soul. You clung to him, whimpering his name, and when you did, his pace grew even harsher, teeth gritting with possessive satisfaction. From the corner of your blurred vision, Deimos leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching intently.

"Is there room for another, brother?" he drawled, voice low and teasing. You've had other lovers and affairs in the past, even men who begged to even touch you, but never two at a time. Let alone two powerful men who had you at their mercy. Yet you let them, you let them worship and use your body.

Kratos growled — not in refusal, but warning.

"You will wait," he snarled without looking back, thrusting into you harder, forcing another sharp cry from your lips.

"You will watch." And Deimos, perhaps wisely, obeyed.

Kratos fucked you like he intended to carve his name into your very bones. He spoke against your skin, dark, reverent words that made you shudder.

"You are mine... my spoil, my prize..."

"None shall touch you and live..."

"You will bear my mark deep within."

You could feel the raw power in every movement — the brutal claim of a man who had lost everything before and refused to lose again. At last, after leaving you trembling, broken open beneath him, Kratos slowed, only then lifting his head to meet Deimos's gaze across your heaving body.

"Now," he said, voice a rough command, "you may touch." Deimos rose with the easy grace of a predator, a gleam of hunger flashing in his amber eyes. He approached, hands sliding along your sides, mouth finding the hollow of your throat, but Kratos never fully relinquished his grip. Even as Deimos joined, Kratos kept a hand possessively on your hip, anchoring you to him — a constant, silent reminder: You are his.

Deimos's touch was lighter, more coaxing — kissing along your collarbone, sucking at your breast — but Kratos watched his every move, muscles taut as a bowstring. And when Deimos made you moan, a soft, helpless sound, Kratos seized your jaw again, forcing you to face him.

"You will cry for me again," he rasped, his thrusts resuming — harder, deeper — as if daring Deimos to try and match him. Deimos only chuckled, tracing your ribs with lazy fingers.

"Greed and jealousy will get you nowhere, brother," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your fluttering pulse. "He has not changed, even in pleasure," Kratos growled a low, dangerous sound — and slammed into you with such force that your gasp broke into a keening cry.

"Say it," Kratos demanded, his breath hot against your lips. "Say who fills you."

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation, but you obeyed, voice broken and desperate:

"You... Kratos...!"

Only then did he allow the faintest smirk to curl the edge of his mouth, a rare glimpse of satisfaction. Before bending to claim your mouth again, devouring your cries as he took you harder, rougher, deeper than before. Beside you, Deimos laughed softly — but even he did not dare challenge the victor. AS promised the God had taken you and claimed you as his. With sheer lust, passion, and dominance. Your body was spent and still shaken from the wonderful orgasm he had given you. Your body is covered by a sheer layer of sweat.

You sagged against Kratos, spent and shuddering, the heat of his seed still burning inside you. Kratos’s hand curved around your middle, holding you steady against him, but his chest heaved with the effort of restraint. Deimos rose slowly from his crouch beside the bed, the firelight catching the gleam of sweat along his scarred skin.

"Is it my turn, brother?" Deimos asked, voice low, mocking.

Kratos’s jaw tightened — the muscles in his arms flexed — but after a moment, he loosened his hold on you.

"Do as you will," Kratos rumbled, though the words sounded torn from his throat. Deimos smiled, slow and wicked, and reached for you. You whimpered as he pulled you forward, Kratos's cock sliding free of your abused entrance with a wet, sinful sound.

Deimos gathered you into his arms — strong and sure — and laid you out beneath him on the bed as though presenting an offering.

"You are a sight most rare," Deimos murmured, gazing down at you, trailing his fingers lightly over your slick, trembling thighs, "Ravished and radiant."

You tried to reach for him, but Deimos caught your wrists easily, pinning them above your head with one hand.

"Ah, ah," he chided. "You shall not rush me, little goddess. I mean to savor you." Kratos shifted behind him, the bed creaking under his weight as he watched, his dark eyes burning into your skin. Deimos leaned in slowly, deliberately, and pressed his mouth to your breast, suckling, biting just enough to make you gasp.

You writhed beneath him, your body already too sensitive, too raw — but Deimos was relentless. He kissed lower, over your ribs, your belly, his free hand spreading your legs wide.

"You are still open for us," he murmured against your skin, voice rough with reverence. "Still wet with my brother’s seed."

Kratos let out a low growl from behind — not in protest, but in approval. Deimos grinned against your skin, then rose to his knees, stripping the last of his armor free with swift, brutal movements. You caught sight of him — thick, heavy, flushed with need — and whimpered softly, your thighs trembling. Deimos caught the sound and laughed low in his throat.

"You fear I shall break you?" he teased, crawling over you, aligning himself at your slick entrance. "Be not afraid, little one. I shall only bring you past the peak of pleasure again...and again..."

And then he drove into you, slow but deep, splitting you anew on his cock. You moan, a broken, keening sound, your body arching against the bed. Deimos groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, as he sank into the hilt.

"Gods," he muttered. "You are tighter than the Fates’ own knots."

Kratos’s hand came to rest on your ankle, gripping, possessive, as he watched Deimos claim you. Deimos began to move — a slow, grinding rhythm his eyes locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every sobbed gasp.

"You take us well," he rasped. "As though you were made for us." He thrust harder, faster, making the bed slam against the stone walls with every brutal drive.

"You will shatter again," Deimos growled against your throat. "You shall cry for me, as you did for him." Kratos’s hand slid higher — caressing the inside of your thigh — but he did not interfere.

He watched. Watched as your eyes rolled back, watched as your jaw went slack, watched as your back arched off the bed. Deimos shifted his angle, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision see stars, and your cries grew high and desperate.

"Ah~ Oh Gods!~"

"You hear her, brother?" Deimos taunted through gritted teeth. "She begs for me now." Kratos’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing, his dark gaze heavy on where Deimos’s cock disappeared inside you.

You were helpless — undone — as Deimos took you to pieces, your body pliant and yielding beneath his brutal worship.

"Come," Deimos commanded, his voice a low, savage growl. "Come and mark me as you did him." You broke with a sob, your body convulsing, your inner walls clamping down around Deimos with a desperate, choking grip. Deimos snarled, thrusting deep once, twice, before spilling inside you with a guttural, broken sound.

You lay boneless beneath him, gasping for breath, your body trembling violently. Deimos collapsed beside you, panting, dragging you into his arms possessively. Kratos loomed at the edge of the bed, his jaw tight, his fists clenched, the hunger in his gaze undiminished.

"You think yourself victorious," Kratos rumbled darkly. "But the night is not yet ended."

Deimos laughed — low and wicked — as he stroked your trembling body.

"Then come, brother," Deimos taunted, voice thick with triumph. "Let us see which of us she favors, when the dawn breaks."

Morning breaks....

The sun had risen, casting pale light across the chamber, the soft glow illuminating the disheveled sheets and the quiet aftermath of the night. You lay still for a moment, the weight of what had happened pressing on your chest, a heavy mixture of soreness and lingering emotions that refused to be easily shaken off. Deimos was still beside you, his body warm and relaxed, the rise and fall of his chest steady with sleep. He seemed more at ease than usual, his features softer in the morning light. But even in his rest, you could see the edge of intensity that always clung to him, the sharpness in his expression even as he lay still.

On the opposite side of the bed, Kratos was already awake. You could tell by the tension in the air—the way his body was perfectly still, poised, as though bracing for something. He had his back to you, his massive frame still, yet there was a strange stillness to him. You couldn’t tell if he was lost in thought or simply keeping his distance.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of soft breathing and the occasional shift of the bed. The fire crackled quietly in the corner, the flames still alive, though their warmth seemed distant compared to the heat of the night before.

After a long moment, you couldn’t bear the silence anymore. You shifted slightly, your muscles aching in protest, and broke the stillness. "How long have you been awake?" you asked, your voice hoarse from sleep, though the words felt too heavy in the quiet room.

Kratos didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, the weight of his presence in the room still as imposing as ever. Slowly, he turned to face you, and when his eyes met yours, they were unreadable, but not without an undercurrent of something deeper. Something unspoken.

"I’ve been awake for some time," he said gruffly, his voice as heavy as the silence had been. His gaze shifted to Deimos briefly, but it was only for a moment before he returned to you, as if trying to decipher something in your expression.

Deimos stirred next to you, blinking groggily and stretching as if the night had been nothing more than a fleeting moment. He let out a low groan, his voice thick with sleep.

"The dawn breaks," he muttered, glancing up at you with a lazy smile. "Still alive, little goddess?" His grin was teasing, but it held a hint of concern beneath it, a softness that contrasted with his usual bravado.

You nodded slowly, unsure how to feel. You weren’t sure whether you should feel relief or something more complicated.

"I’m… alright," you said quietly, though the words felt hollow, as though they weren’t entirely true. Your body was sore in ways you didn’t want to acknowledge, and the emotional weight of the night was too much to fully process just yet.

Kratos’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he said nothing more. He stood slowly, his movement deliberate, as though he was putting distance between himself and the moment. His large hand gripped the edge of the bed as he rose, and you could feel the tension in his movements—the unsaid words that hung in the air like a storm that hadn’t yet broken.

"I’ll gather my things," Kratos rumbled, his tone low, strained. "There are duties that must be dealt with."

Deimos watched him leave, his expression softening, though the glint of mischief in his eyes didn’t fade entirely. He shifted closer to you, propping himself up on one arm, his eyes watching you carefully.

"You’ll be alright," he said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Last night was… intense, yes, but we’re still standing. We’ll make sure you’re not alone in this."

His words were oddly comforting, though you couldn’t fully shake the feeling that there were things left unsaid between all of you—tensions that hadn’t yet resolved. You glanced at Kratos, his broad back disappearing through the door, and a part of you wondered if he would ever let down the walls he so carefully built around himself.

"Will he be alright?" you asked, almost without thinking. You were referring to Kratos, of course, but you weren’t sure if Deimos would understand.

Deimos’s expression softened, his eyes reflecting a deeper understanding. "He’s not one for comfort," he said quietly, his tone more thoughtful than you expected. "But he’ll handle things in his own way. He always does."

You nodded slowly, your thoughts swirling with the confusion and complexity of it all. Deimos leaned forward, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. "Take your time, little goddess. Let yourself heal. We’ll figure out what comes next."

You stayed in the quiet of the room for a while, Deimos’s presence a strange, comforting weight at your side, and Kratos’s departure leaving behind a silence that felt just as loud as any spoken word. The aftermath of everything felt uncertain, but for now, you were left to try and make sense of it, with both brothers looming in the background, each carrying their own burden.

Hoping to see them both one day.

The next memory washed over him like a wave. They were seven years old, hunting a rabbit in the forest. They were about to catch it, but then, disaster struck — Y/N’s foot caught on a root, and she fell. “Get up, or we’ll lose it,” Atreus said, jumping over a tree root. Y/N tried to get up but immediately fell again, tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t get up, my leg really hurts,” she murmured, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Atreus looked into the forest where the rabbit had disappeared. Y/N looked guilty and burst into tears, tears rolling down her cheeks. The boy looked around, unsure what to do. Approaching, he sat down beside her and kissed her scratched knee. “Mom always kisses the hurt spot,” Atreus smiled. A light blush appeared on Y/N’s cheeks.

The next memory — he was ten years old, and his mother had just died. He just wanted to hide from the whole world in his mother’s warm embrace, but she was gone. Atreus didn’t see where he was running; tears blurred his vision, and his legs carried him along the familiar route to their secret place with Y/N. Arriving at the clearing where they usually played, he noticed T/I in the shelter. She looked up and saw Atreus. Quickly getting up and running to him, she looked concerned and asked, “What happened?” “My mom… she… she’s… gone,” Atreus replied, and tears flowed more heavily from his eyes. Y/N hugged him tightly and said, “Your mom will always be with you. In your memories, in how she cooked your favorite meals, in how she told stories before bed, in how she taught you to shoot a bow.” Atreus felt he wasn’t alone in his grief. If his father didn’t understand his feelings, he had a best friend who would always support him. Gradually, Atreus’s breathing became steadier, and his shoulders stopped shaking.

“Are you okay?” A sharp voice made the boy jump and open his eyes. Sindri stood before him, concerned. “I’m fine,” Atreus said, covering the notebook with his hands. “So, you decided to write her a letter?” Sindri asked, noticing the boy’s gesture. “None of your business,” Atreus replied rudely, and a blush spread across his cheeks. Tearing out and folding the sheet, he put it in his bag. Picking up his bow and running out of the room, Loki headed for the house exit. Running out of the house, the boy took the Yggdrasil seed and held it to the portal. Before him, Sindri appeared in the portal. “Maybe you shouldn’t leave. Your father might get angry,” Sindri said in a frightened voice. “We agreed to meet last time. Besides, I’ll be quick — just give the letter and come right back,” the young giant replied and stepped into the portal’s light. Running out of the portal near his house, the boy ran along the path familiar to him since childhood to their place. Over time, the clearing had changed greatly; the shelter had been replaced with a canopy under which a bench was placed. Running close enough, Atreus stopped and looked around. T/I stood in the clearing, her body shivering from the cold. Taking a deep breath and gathering his courage, the boy took the letter from his bag and approached Y/N. “YOU CAME!” Y/N exclaimed joyfully and rushed into Atreus’s embrace. Emerging from the girl’s embrace, the boy handed her the rolled-up paper. “What is it?” Y/N asked in surprise. “You’ll find out when you read it,” Atreus said with a grin. "Sorry, I have to go," the boy said, turning around and running towards the house and the portal. Returning to his room, Loki collapsed onto the bed. “So, how did it go?” Sindri asked, appearing out of nowhere. “Don’t scare me like that!” the irritated boy replied, sitting up on the bed. “Well?” Sindri repeated his question. “Of course, I gave her the letter.” “And what do you think she’ll answer?” “I don’t know,” the disappointed boy replied. After Y/N lit the candle, she took the rolled-up paper and, unfolding it, began to read. The letter read:

Dear Y/N, You know, I’ve tried to write this letter to you so many times, but every time my thoughts ran in different directions. It’s so hard to express what’s going on inside me, and I can’t understand all my feelings! But today I decided that I simply must share everything that has accumulated in my soul with you. Do you remember the day I first saw you? I was so scared when you ran up to me. When you looked at me with your big eyes. When you smiled that genuine smile. You have no idea how many times I froze, watching you, noticing every little detail: how dimples appeared on your cheeks when you smiled, how you looked thoughtfully at the sky, how your eyes lit up when you told something interesting. I’ve never been very perceptive, but with you, my observations turned into a real art. I know I can sometimes be too energetic and even a bit unreliable in my plans. But believe me, every one of my endeavors is an attempt to discover this world and our purpose, making our lives more interesting. Yes, I can be a bit deceitful, but only because I’m afraid to upset you. And every time I do it, my noble heart is tormented by remorse. You’d be surprised how much I’ve learned thanks to you! You’d be amazed at how well I’ve come to know the world around us. I promise to be faithful to you always. Yes, I can be a bit brave and even reckless, but only because I want to make you happy. I’m ready for the most desperate acts for you — from painting pictures to going to Helheim. There are so many ideas in my head! And even if my plans sometimes seem questionable, I always find a way out of any situation thanks to my rich imagination and intelligence. You are the most important thing in my life. And I promise to be better, more honest, more reliable. I will watch you, learn from you, become better for us. Because I’m truly motivated to make our relationship special. With love and devotion, Wolf cub P.S. And yes, I really wrote this letter myself, without any help from friends. Honestly! P.P.S. Well, maybe Sindri helped a little.