#gow3

[manedazona]

[erika-kutsuki]

Imprisoned, rageful, and leaving nothing but ruins.

Kratos and Arkveld are my favorite chain wielders

[loverxiety]

That's how that fight went right?

[ididnotknow]

𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝓈 𝓅𝓊𝓈𝓈𝓎, 𝒷𝒶𝒷𝑒!

[ed-674]

I recently started watching GoW3 walkthrough :D

[mxxnkake]

Burning The Embers Low ~ God Of War 3 Remastered

Tags: Smut, Rough Sex, Greek Mythology, God/Mortal Relationship (or God/God), Height Difference, Size Difference, Wall Sex, Short Praise (Very Gruff), Hair pulling, Throat grabbing.

The air on the peaks of Olympus was thin, smelling of ozone and the iron tang of spilled blood. Outside the chamber, the world was a cacophony of crumbling stone and divine lightning as the foundations of the Greek world bucked under Kratos’s fury.

Inside, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thrum of footsteps against marble.

You stood by the arched balcony, watching the storm, until the temperature in the room seemed to rise twenty degrees. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was there. The weight of his presence was an anchor.

“Kratos,” you breathed.

He came to a halt directly behind you. He didn’t touch you yet, but the heat radiating from his massive frame was a physical force. He was caked in the dust of ruins and the white, chalky ash that never left him. The crimson tattoo that snaked across his torso and over his eye seemed to pulse in the low light of the hearth.

“The cycle draws to a close,” his voice was a low, guttural vibration that you felt in your own chest. “The Olympians fall.”

“And you?” You turned slowly, meeting his steely, weary eyes. “What is left for the Ghost of Sparta when the world is ash?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his large, scarred hand reached out, cupping your jaw. His thumb, thick and calloused, brushed over your lower lip. There was a desperate, hunger in his gaze — a need to be reminded that he was still made of flesh and bone, and not just vengeance and slaughter.

With a sudden, forceful movement, he crowded you back against the stone railing. You gasped as your lower back hit the marble, but his other arm was already around your waist, hauling you upward so your chests collided.

“Tonight,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, “there is only this.”

His mouth crashed against yours with the force of a tidal wave. It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a conquest. He tasted of bitterness and fire, his tongue seeking yours with a ravenous intent. Your hands flew to his shoulders, gripping the hard, corded muscle as he tasted you, his growl vibrating through your teeth.

Kratos broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing heavy and ragged. He took a handful of your hair, tugging your head back to expose the line of your throat. His teeth grazed the skin there, biting down just hard enough to mark you—a Spartan’s claim.

“Kratos, please,” you whimpered, your nails scraping helplessly at his back.

He didn't wait. He caught the hem of your clothes and rent them with a single, sharp tug. He wasn't being cruel—he was just a man with no time for subtlety. When your skin was finally bared to the cool mountain air, he took a moment to look at you, his eyes dark with a worshipful kind of greed.

He stepped back just enough to free himself. He was monumental, a deity carved from stone and trauma, his heavy length pulsing and eager. He stepped back in, lifting you by your thighs as if you weighed nothing.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms locked around his neck as he pinned you back against the temple pillar. The stone was cold, but Kratos was a furnace.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice cracking with the effort of restraint.

You opened your eyes, meeting that piercing, golden-brown stare. He waited until you were watching before he guided himself to your cunt. He pushed in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, his jaw tight as he felt you stretch and give way to him.

You let out a broken cry, your head tossing back against the stone as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him took root. He was too large, too much, yet exactly what you needed to feel alive.

“Good,” he grunted, the praise rough and blunt. “You take me so well.”

Then, the pace began.

He moved with the relentless rhythm of a battering ram. Every thrust was deep, authoritative, slamming your hips back against the pillar. The Blades of Exile jingled on his back with every snap of his hips. Kratos wasn't gentle; he pounded into you with a desperate urgency, as if he could fuck the rage out of his soul and replace it with the warmth of your body.

You were a mess of incoherent moans and scratches, your nails digging into the pale, ashy skin of his back. You felt the slick of his sweat drip and mix with your own, you didn't care, your mind focused only on the sheer force behind each thrust. You only wanted him deeper.

“Harder, Kratos!”

A dark, primal smirk touched his lips — the only shadow of a smile he ever wore. He adjusted his grip, one hand staying beneath your thigh while the other moved to the front of your throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the weight of his palm there grounded you, forced you to focus entirely on the friction between your thighs and the sight of his face above you.

The pleasure reached a fever pitch, a searing heat building in your core that made your toes curl and your back arch.

“Kratos—I’m—”

“I have you,” he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more violent. A low, primal growl rumbling deep within his chest only brought you closer to that climax.

As you hit your peak, your body convulsing around him in tight, rhythmic ripples, Kratos let out a guttural roar. He buried his face in your shoulder, biting down hard to stifle his own shout as he finished deep inside you. It was a staggering amount of heat, a flooding sensation that made you feel like you were being filled with liquid gold.

He stayed there for a long time, his forehead pressed against your collarbone, his chest heaving as he slowly lowered you to your feet. His hands stayed on your waist, keeping you steady when your knees threatened to buckle.

Silence reclaimed the room, save for the crackle of the fire.

He stepped back, his expression returning to that stoic, haunted mask, but there was a softness in the way he reached out to wipe a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

He didn’t say he loved you. Kratos didn't have those words left in him. But he pulled you into his arms, wrapping his massive, scarred frame around your smaller one, and held you in the darkness as the gods died outside.

a/n: This if my first time writing anything of Kratos since i saw there wasn't nearly enough fanfics or oneshots of him, chill on me. Credits to @issysh3ll and @saradika-graphics for the dividers!!

[ikilled2angelsthisweek]

its funny to me how slow kratos still is while wearing shoes he ripped off of hermes' ripped off legs

[okaramirezneheme]

I'M DEFINITELY VERY NORMAL ABOUT HIM