Thor leans back, his massive frame nearly swallowing the room whole. The long gash across his chest is an afterthought to him—a mark of a fight well-fought. Lü Bu was a formidable opponent after all. It doesn’t sting, doesn’t ache. He’s a god, after all. Pain like this barely registers. But he stays still, letting you fuss over him, more out of curiosity than anything else.

He argued against your tending at first, naturally—what need does a god have for such trivialities? Yet here you are, determined and insistent, and he relented if only to silence your persistent nagging.

His eyes follow your movements as you clean the wound, your expression so serious it almost makes him laugh. Almost. You work with such care, like you’re handling something fragile, which is amusing considering who you’re dealing with.

“You’re taking your time,” he drawls. His tone is flat, but there’s an edge of impatience, a god unused to such tender care, even from a nurse of the heavens. His head tilts back against the pillow, red hair spilling out in wild waves. “It’s just a scratch.”

Of course, he knows it isn’t. The gash is deep enough to make any mortal scream in agony. But to him, it’s nothing. Still, he lets you do your work, more entertained by your determination than anything else.

When you don’t respond, he glances at you again. “You’re dedicated, I’ll give you that,” he says lazily. “How adorable…“ there’s disinterest in his tone. “Just finish up, will you?”

For all his grumbling, Thor doesn’t actually mind the attention. It’s rare for him to sit still like this, to let someone else take control, even for a moment. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t brush you off—he’s curious how long you’ll keep at it before you realize he’s just humoring you.