Dating Asgard came with a few… unique experiences. One of them being his complete and utter refusal to let you look up at him for too long.

It didn’t matter where you were—in the Sanctuary gardens, in the training grounds, or even mid-conversation in a hallway—if he noticed you tilting your head to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds, something would happen.

Without warning, he’d scoop you up with those massive arms, careful and gentle like cradling a bird, and place you on the nearest ledge, pedestal, boulder—anything sturdy enough to support your weight. And then he’d nod, content, and continue speaking to you like nothing happened.

You’d blink, slightly stunned, now eye-level with your very large, very serious Taurus Saint.

“Asgard,” you’d sigh, “you can’t just—”

“I can,” he’d say, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “It’s only fair.”

Fair. That was his whole thing. To him, height should never imply superiority, and he refused—absolutely refused—to have you feel small in any way just because he was built like a sacred temple.

Sometimes, if there was nowhere to perch you, he’d kneel. Silently. Gracefully. Like you were royalty.

Other times, he’d offer you his forearm with a solemn expression, and you’d just end up sitting on it like a throne, carried without a single wobble.

“I can walk, you know,” you’d mutter.

“Yes,” he’d say simply. “But you’re safest here.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t just about eye level. To Asgard, lifting you wasn’t just practical—it was reverence. In his quiet, soft-spoken way, he showed you again and again: you were his equal. His partner. Someone he’d raise, not just protect.

Big boy, big arms, even bigger heart.