ChatGPT said: In the beginning, Ares had only ever known how to take.

To conquer. To bruise. To dominate.

He was war incarnate—bloodstained, brutal, and unwanted among his own kind. The other gods recoiled from him. He brought destruction wherever he went, and he wore that truth like armor.

But then there was you.

You, with the eyes that did not flinch when they met his. You, who stood tall before him even when his shadow swallowed the sky. You, who didn’t run—even when you should have.

And now…

Now you were carrying his child.

Ares’s child.

When you told him, you had expected violence—perhaps a yell, a roar, something primal. But instead, he froze. For the first time in his existence, Ares stilled. His blood-soaked hands trembled.

And then… he smiled.

A terrible, awe-struck smile. And before you could blink, you were in his arms—his mouth covering your face in kisses, so many they turned frantic. He muttered words in a language older than time, rough whispers against your skin:

“Mine. Mine. Ours. You carry war’s heir.”

He couldn’t believe it. You had given him purpose. Not just as a god, but as a man. He was going to be a father. And for the first time in a thousand lifetimes, he felt something so alien, so vast, it swallowed his wrath whole:

Joy.

From that day onward, Ares changed. Not in his nature—no, he would always be what he was. Blood and fire. Chaos. Wrath.

But with you, something softened.

He no longer gripped your waist like a claim; he held you like a lifeline. His fingers no longer left bruises—they lingered softly on your stomach, in awe of the life growing beneath.

He slept with his head on your shoulder now, his towering body curled protectively around yours like a beast guarding its mate. When you stirred, he stirred. When you winced, he panicked. Ares, the god who had never feared anything, now feared your pain.

He watched you constantly. You were never alone.

And though he still snarled at others—especially the gods who dared look your way—he was oddly at peace. Because within you, grew his legacy. His proof that he was not just war, but life.

Even when you scolded him for being too clingy—“Ares, I’m just going to the bathroom”—he would grumble and follow like a shadow anyway, one hand always resting on your stomach, as if daring the world to try and take what was his.

He spoke to the baby sometimes. At night, when he thought you were asleep.

“You’ll be strong like your mother,” he’d whisper against your skin. “Fierce. Untouchable.”

He didn’t know gentleness, not really. But he was learning it—for you.

For the child you would bring into the world.

For the family that no one ever thought he deserved.