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The forge was quiet, the only sounds the low crackle of dying embers and the distant drip of water from the cavern ceiling. Atreus had left hours earlier with Mimir perched on his shoulder, the boy eager to track elk through the snow-dusted woods of Midgard. Kratos had stayed behind—ostensibly to sharpen the Leviathan Axe, but really because the weight of silence suited him better than company today.
He pushed open the heavy door to Brok’s personal forge without knocking. The dwarf never locked it; too proud, too ornery, too convinced no one would dare steal from him.
The heat hit first, thick and metallic. Then the smell—charcoal, sweat, molten gold. Kratos stepped inside, the Leviathan Axe slung across his back, its frost-rimed edge catching the orange glow of the coals. He had come for maintenance: the blade needed re-tempering after the last skirmish with draugr, and Brok’s work was unmatched, even if the dwarf’s tongue was sharper than any edge he forged.
Brok stood at the far end of the workshop, back to the entrance, one hand braced on the stone wall beside a crude trough carved into the rock. His leather apron was hiked up just enough, trousers shoved down to mid-thigh. A steady, heavy stream hissed against the stone as he pissed, legs planted wide, shoulders rolling with casual indifference.
Kratos stopped three paces inside the threshold.
The dwarf’s cock hung thick and heavy between his legs—blue skin flushed darker at the base, veins prominent even from this distance, foreskin partially retracted over a blunt, glistening head. It was obscene in its proportion: short-statured Brok carrying something that would have looked oversized on a man twice his height. The stream arced strong and unhurried, splashing loudly.
Brok didn’t flinch at the sound of boots on stone. Didn’t turn. Didn’t stop.
“Figured you’d show up eventually, big fella,” he grunted, voice gravel-rough and amused. “Boy’s off playin’ hunter with the talkin’ head. Left you all alone with your thoughts, huh?”
Kratos said nothing. His eyes lingered. Not deliberately. Not with intent. But they lingered.
The stream tapered, then stopped. Brok gave himself a lazy shake—once, twice—letting the thick length swing free before he finally turned his head just enough to catch Kratos in his peripheral vision.
A crooked, shit-eating grin split the dwarf’s face.
“Eyes up here, son of a bitch,” Brok drawled, though he made no move to tuck himself away. If anything, he shifted his stance wider, letting the heavy cock rest against his thigh, still half-hard. “Or don’t. I ain’t shy.”
Kratos’s jaw tightened.
Brok finally turned fully, hands on hips, apron still bunched, trousers still low.
“Surprised, huh?” he said, voice dropping lower. “Most folks think us dwarves got small tools. Cute little hammers.” He wrapped one thick hand loosely around the base and gave a slow, deliberate tug upward. “Guess I’m the exception.”
Kratos exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled.
Brok laughed, short and barking.
“Don’t gimme that stoic bullshit. You stared long enough to count the veins. So what’s it gonna be, Kratos?” He stepped forward, cock swaying. “You gonna stand there pretendin’ you didn’t see it… or you gonna come closer and find out how much of it fits?”
The forge door was still ajar behind Kratos. The wind carried faint howls from the woods—Atreus and Mimir were far away.
Kratos took one step forward.
Then another.
The door eased shut behind him with a low, metallic thud.
“I came for the axe,” he said, voice low and even. “The edge dulls too quickly against draugr bone. You will sharpen it.”
Brok snorted, finally tucking himself away. “Yeah, yeah. Axe work. Always the axe with you, beardo.” He jerked his chin toward the workbench.
Kratos laid the weapon down. Brok leaned in, testing the edge, then glanced up with that knowing smirk.
“Still starin’ at the wrong thing, huh? Caught you clockin’ my hammer back there.”
Kratos’s expression did not change. “I saw what was there. It means nothing.”
Brok barked a laugh and picked up the whetstone. The first scrape of stone on steel rang out, sharp and deliberate. Brok worked the edge with practiced strokes, eyes flicking up to Kratos.
“Heard some stories, y’know. Back when I was still tradin’ with the old Greeks… They say Spartan boys trained together. Close. Real close. Shared tents, shared beds, shared… everything. Supposed to make ‘em unbreakable. Brothers in arms. And other activities.”
Kratos shifted his weight slightly, a low grunt escaping his throat—neither confirmation nor denial.
“Word was, if a warrior proved himself strong enough, the older ones would bend for the younger,” Brok continued. “You ever bend for anyone, Kratos? Or were you always the one doin’ the bendin’?”
Kratos grunted once, low and final. “Enough.”
Brok set the axe down. “Blade’s good. Question is… you still only here for the axe? Or did somethin’ else catch your eye worth testin’?”
Brok’s grin sharpened. He unbuckled his belt again. The heavy blue cock sprang free once more—semi-hard, thick and heavy, hanging with a lazy curve, the blunt head already glistening faintly under the forge glow.
Kratos stared at it—eyes locked on the flushed blue shaft, the prominent veins already faintly pulsing even in its half-state. He did not move.
Brok chuckled low, voice gravel-rough. “Yeah, that’s right. Take a good look, big guy. Ain’t every day you see somethin’ built like this. Go on—touch it. Ain’t gonna bite… much.” He gave a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, making the semi-hard length sway invitingly. “Or you gonna keep pretendin’ you ain’t curious?”
Kratos exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled. Then, slowly—reluctantly—his thick hand reached out, fingers closing around the warm shaft.
He stroked once, twice, thumb circling the head with surprising tenderness. The thick length responded immediately: veins pulsing hot under his palm like a living thing, the shaft thickening and lengthening with each firm pull, hardening fully until it stood rigid and throbbing in his grip, the head flushed darker, foreskin fully retracted, pre beading at the slit. Every heartbeat sent a strong, insistent throb through the meat—alive, demanding, swelling against his fingers as if eager for more.
Brok groaned. “Bet this brings back some memories, huh, son of a bitch?”
Kratos only grunted, eyes fixed on the thick blue length—now fully engorged, straining in his grip, the pulse steady and powerful against his skin.
Brok’s voice dropped. “That’s it. Feel how full it is? Built to stretch somethin’ tight. Why don’t you test it out? Let this giant dwarf weapon see if it can crack the unbreakable Kratos. Prove you ain’t scared.”
There are things from my homeland I miss, Kratos thought, the old memories stirring unbidden. Olives. The taste of wine under the olive trees. The rough camaraderie of the agoge. The rare nights when strength was proven not just with spears, but with bodies. He could not have those things again. But this… this was a rare opportunity to feel something of those days. And it was doubly convenient: it was rare to find a cock so huge, and even rarer to find someone bold enough to speak to him this way—let alone try to fuck him. Brok’s challenge gave him the perfect excuse. No longing. No emotion. Just pride refusing to back down from a smaller man.
Kratos released the cock. It bobbed, glistening, now rock-hard and swaying with its own weight.
He gave a slight nod—barely perceptible—and a low grunt of assent.
Brok’s smirk widened, satisfied. He reached behind the bench and pulled out the wide strip of dark, oiled leather—thick, supple, studded with small iron rings.
“There’s just one thing, though.” He dangled the collar. “I know you got a thing about chains. But leather… leather’s different. Softer. Personal. You put this on yourself, it means you chose it.”
Kratos stared at the offered leather. The forge fire popped. A wolf howled far away.
Slowly—reluctantly—his thick fingers took the collar. He lifted it to his throat. A single, low hmph escaped him, barely audible, before the buckle clicked shut. The iron rings clinked softly against his tattoos.
Brok flashed a quick smirk—sharp, satisfied.
“Now that’s a pretty sight. God of War collared like a prize bull.”
Kratos dropped to one knee, then the other. He lowered himself fully onto all fours on the cold stone floor, back arched, ass presented.
Brok let out a low whistle, circling slow.
“Goddamn. Didn’t think you’d go full dog for me.” He stepped closer, one thick hand sliding over the curve of Kratos’s ass through the leather, squeezing hard. “Always figured you’d fight tooth and nail before bendin’ like this. Guess seein’ the goods changed your mind.”
He tugged the laces open, shoved the breeches down past Kratos’s hips, exposing pale scarred skin. The forge light cast a warm orange glow over only one cheek of Kratos’s ass, the other falling into deep shadow.
Brok spat into his palm, slicked himself, and lined up.
“Ready to take the real test, big fella? Gonna split that godly ass open with dwarf cock. And you’re gonna feel every fuckin’ inch.”
He pressed forward—just the blunt head nudging the tight ring.
Kratos’s shoulders tensed. His fingers curled against the stone.
Brok spoke from behind him, voice low and rough, carrying clearly over the crackle of the coals. “Say the word if you want me to stop. Or stay quiet… and let me breed you proper.”
Kratos stayed silent.
Brok’s smirk returned—slow, wicked.
“Good boy.”
He pushed in—slow at first, then harder.
The blunt head pressed against the tight ring—hot, slick, impossibly wide. The stretch began immediately: burning pressure forcing the rim to yield, muscle fluttering and giving way inch by brutal inch. Thicker than his own wrist, heavier, veins dragging along sensitive walls. Kratos’s hole stretched taut, burning, the ring whitening from the girth.
Gods… it is too much. The thought clawed at him. Filling me… splitting me open like a fresh-forged blade. He clenched his jaw, collar creaking. Not a sound. Not a flinch. Eyes fixed on stone, breathing controlled.
But inside the dwarf’s cock sank deeper, relentless, head nudging past the first ring and brushing the second only lightly, fullness stealing breath. Ass clenched involuntarily, pulling Brok tighter.
“Fuuuuck,” Brok groaned. “Look at that greedy hole swallowin’ me whole. Tight as a virgin forge on its first heat. Squeezin’ me like you wanna keep this blue monster buried forever, son of a bitch.”
He rocked forward, bottoming out with a wet slap—balls against Kratos’s. The stretch obscene; Kratos felt every ridge, every throb, weight rearranging him.
Brok’s hips snapped forward—hard, deliberate—the thick blue cock driving deep with wet slaps. Each thrust sent Kratos’s heavy muscled ass bouncing back, pale flesh rippling, cheeks jiggling and clapping around the shaft. Every pull-back left the rim clinging to veins; every slam spread the globes wide and rebounded with meaty smacks echoing like hammer strikes.
The iron rings of the collar clinked softly against his tattoos with every punishing thrust.
Kratos kept arms locked, refusing to buckle. But the fullness overwhelmed—Brok so deep it pressed untouched places, stretching walls taut, head bullying his core. It is too much, he thought. This dwarf’s length… thicker than my arm, filling every inch, pressing against my guts like it means to reshape me. Pressure built low—aching distension making his cock throb untouched, leaking onto stone. He clenched instinctively, milking Brok deeper.
Kratos closed his eyes for the briefest moment, letting the relentless rhythm carry him. The thick, punishing stretch dragged him back—lifetimes ago—to the rough stone floors of the agoge, the heavy weight of older warriors, the rare nights when strength was proven in flesh as much as steel. It was literally lifetimes ago, yet for one heartbeat the huge cock inside him made the memory feel real again.
His own cock—thick, pale, rigid as iron—stood parallel to his stomach, the flushed head brushing against the ridged muscle with every deep thrust, smearing pre across his skin in glistening streaks.
The collar around Kratos’s neck began to glow: faint at first, then brighter—golden runes crawling across the dark leather like molten veins, pulsing in time with Brok’s thrusts.
Brok noticed immediately. His eyes flicked down, then back up to Kratos’s bowed head. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his soot-streaked face.
“Would ya look at that,” he rasped, never slowing his pace. “Collar’s wakin’ up. Pretty runes lightin’ up like they’re happy to see you bent over for me.”
The words snapped Kratos back to the present. His golden eyes flicked open.
“What are you talking about?”
Brok laughed, short and filthy, slamming in again.
“There’s a little surprise woven into that fancy collar I gave ya,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “Old dwarven craft. Nothin’ fancy—just makes the wearer fertile. Real fertile. Ready to take seed and make something with it. Breedable, even if you’re a big tough god.”
Kratos grunted—low, noncommittal. His hole clenched harder around the thrusting shaft, but he refused to acknowledge the words.
Brok’s smirk turned feral.
“Not kiddin’, son of a bitch. And I’m gonna prove it.”
Kratos may be known for his strength and brutality but he’s no fool. He heard the words Brok just said—fertile and breedable. He knew what dwarven magic was capable of, defying logic and the fundamentals of nature. He realized the true meaning behind the words and panicked, one massive hand shooting up to claw at the collar, fingers scrabbling for the buckle.
Brok had other plans.
He gripped Kratos’s hips with bruising force, yanked back once—then rammed forward with everything he had.
The head breached the final barrier, punching fully past the second ring in one vicious thrust. Kratos’s back arched sharply—spine bowing, head snapping up, raw choked grunt tearing free. His cock—already painfully hard—exploded untouched, thick ropes of divine cum shooting onto the stone floor beneath him in forceful pulses, splattering in heavy white streaks.
“Don’t—” he managed, voice strained, gravel-rough. “Don’t cum inside—”
Too late.
Hot thick ropes erupted straight into his core—pulse after violent pulse, far more than mortal. Brok’s shaft swelled thicker, flooding Kratos’s guts with insane volume, lower belly swelling heavy and distended under the pressure. The seal held perfectly—not a single drop escaped. The runes flared brighter with every pulse, searing warm against his throat.
Then—deeper—a strange warmth settled. Not the burn of cum, but slower, softer. It spread low where Brok’s cock-head pressed—like a seed taking root, spreading gentle heat. Foreign. Wrong. Impossible. Yet it lingered, muscles fluttering around the shaft.
Kratos’s eyes widened fractionally. Breath hitched—once—then steadied.
Runes glowed steady, warm against his throat.
Brok leaned over, tugging the collar like a leash.
“Still think it’s bullshit? That warmth you’re feelin’… that’s the collar doin’ its job. You’re breedable now, big fella. And I just planted my seed deep.”
Kratos did not speak.
But he did not pull away.
The forge fire crackled. The warmth spread further, settling like a quiet promise.
Brok gave one last grind—milking the last pulses—then pulled out with a wet pop.
The thick cock slid free, leaving Kratos’s hole gaping: red-rimmed, stretched wide, walls glistening, fluttering. Thick rope of cum welled up—threatening to spill.
But Kratos refused.
His ass clenched hard—snapping shut like a vice. Not a drop escaped. Pressure shifted painfully, load trapped deep, sloshing with every movement. He would not leak. He would not give Brok that satisfaction.
Kratos rose fluidly—knees straightening, back straightening, towering height reclaimed. Breeches tugged up, laced roughly. His face was a mask of thunder—jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped, eyes burning with barely-contained rage that promised violence. Collar still glowed faintly.
Brok looked unbothered. Shook his spent cock, tucked it away, cinched belt, strolled behind the bench.
He leaned elbows on scarred oak, smirking.
“Damn fine work. Filled ya to the brim, didn’t I? Bet that belly’s feelin’ heavy already.”
Kratos said nothing. Fists clenched.
Brok jerked chin toward collar.
“Hand it over, big guy. Unless you wanna wear it home like a trophy. Might make the boy ask questions.”
Kratos’s hand rose slowly. Fingers closed on buckle. Unfastened with calm. Leather slid free. Runes flickered, went dark.
He tossed it onto the bench. Soft thud.
Brok picked it up, turning it over.
“Next time you need the axe sharpened… or somethin’ else stretched… you know where to find me.”
Kratos slung the axe across his back, turned, and slammed the heavy door shut behind him with a thunderous crash that rattled the forge walls.
The fire in the hearth crackled low, throwing flickering light across the wooden walls. Atreus sat on the floor, legs crossed, mending a tear in his cloak with careful stitches. Mimir rested on the table nearby, golden eyes glinting as he watched Kratos move about the small space—chopping kindling that didn’t need chopping, rearranging supplies that were already in order.
Kratos had been… off. For weeks.
He’d taken to eating everything in sight: entire haunches of venison, baskets of berries, even the last of Sindri’s honey cakes when no one was looking. His temper flared at nothing—snapping at branches that got in his way, growling at the wind for being too cold. And twice now, Mimir had caught him standing motionless, one hand pressed low on his belly, staring at nothing with a look that could only be described as bewildered.
Atreus glanced up from his stitching. “Father… you’ve been eating a lot lately. Like, a lot a lot. And you keep… rubbing your stomach when you think no one’s watching.”
Kratos froze mid-step. His hand dropped instantly from where it had been resting against the faint, almost imperceptible swell beneath his tunic. “It is nothing,” he said, too quickly.
Mimir snorted. “Nothing? Brother, you devoured three whole trout this morning—raw—and then complained they tasted ‘wrong.’ You’ve never cared how fish tasted before. You usually just chew and swallow like it’s a chore.”
Atreus set his needle down, tilting his head. “Maybe it’s a god thing? Like… divine indigestion? Or maybe you’re just hungry from all the fighting.”
Kratos grunted. The sound came out lower than usual, almost pained.
Atreus brightened. “You know who’d know about weird cravings? The dwarves. Brok and Sindri are always experimenting with potions and food and… stuff. Maybe we should go ask them. They might have something to help.”
Kratos’s entire body went rigid.
Everything except his hole which gave an involuntary twitch at the mere mention of Brok’s name.