Chapter 8: Thunder's Tender Tempest
A sanctuary of silence—solitude's sacred shrine—rested upon the third floor of the Great Tomb of Nazarick, where Thor's valkyrie, the silver-haired shield-maiden Rossweisse, had made her home among the hallowed halls.
After battles that would break lesser beings—after wars waged in worlds beyond reckoning—Thor, the Thunder Berserker himself, awakened. His eyes, ancient as lightning's first strike, flickered open like storm clouds parting. Shirtless, bearing the scars of ten thousand triumphs carved into flesh that had forgotten mortality, he moved to rise—
—and found himself anchored.
Weighted.
Bound.
"Mm?" The sound rumbled from his throat like distant thunder over sleeping mountains.
He lifted the silk covers—black as Ragnarok's approach—and beheld beauty that would make Freyja herself pause with envy: Albedo, the raven-haired succubus, lay coiled against his right side like a serpent of seduction, naked as the day creation forgot its shame. Her obsidian hair cascaded across his chest like spilled midnight, each strand a promise, each breath a prayer.
She sleeps as the dead sleep, Thor thought, his mental voice as silent as snowfall on battlefields long forgotten. Peaceful. Pure. Untouched by the violence that defines me. How... curious. How utterly, impossibly... beautiful.
His calloused fingertips—hands that had shattered skulls and crushed gods—moved with the gentleness of falling cherry blossoms, brushing a strand from Albedo's porcelain cheek. She smiled in her sleep, a curve of contentment that could conquer kingdoms without drawing a blade.
A rising required strategy. Subtlety. The warrior's art of—
His left hand encountered something soft.
Too soft.
Impossibly, inexplicably, dangerously soft.
"Hn." Not quite a grunt. Not quite a word. Pure Thor—distilled and undiluted.
He looked left.
Rossweisse.
His valkyrie. His creation. Silver-haired, sharp-featured, beautiful in the way winter storms are beautiful—terrible and true and his. Also naked. Also sleeping. Also, apparently quite comfortable using his palm as a pillow for her considerable assets.
Of course, Thor's thoughts thundered silently, a smile ghosting across lips that rarely remembered how. The valkyrie's jealousy burns hotter than Surtr's flames. She sensed Albedo's presence like a hawk senses the hare. Territorial. Possessive. Absolutely... adorable.
The God of Thunder—Strongest of the Norse, Breaker of Jörmungandr, the Berserker Who Made Even Odin Hesitate—carefully, delicately, extracted himself from between two sleeping beauties. His movements were liquid precision, warrior's grace, the art of violence inverted into its opposite: perfect gentleness.
He donned his attire—not armor now, but the flowing crimson-and-gold robes befitting his divine station, styled with Egyptian influence from his time wandering mortal realms. Each fold spoke of power restrained. Each layer whispered of strength unspent.
Thor turned to face the bed—to face his fate—and spoke with that low, rumbling voice that could command armies or comfort children: "Wake. Both of you. The dawn demands consciousness, and I... require your attention."
"Nnnno..." Albedo's protest was pure petulance wrapped in silk. "Five... more... minutes..."
"Agreed... Master..." Rossweisse's mumble carried the weight of a tactical retreat.
Thor's eyes—those storm-gray, lightning-touched eyes—narrowed with strategic consideration. Then, slowly, deliberately, his lips curved into something almost, almost resembling a smile.
"A bargain, then," he said, and each word fell like hammer strikes on an anvil of inevitability. "Rise now. Greet the morning. Face the day. And in exchange..." He paused, letting anticipation build like pressure before the storm. "...I shall bestow upon each of you one kiss."
One.
Single.
Kiss.
Magic.
Pure, undiluted, reality-defying magic.
Both women materialized before him—dressed, prepared, ready—in the span of a single thunderclap. No transition. No process. Just: asleep-to-awake-to-standing-at-attention faster than thought itself.
Even Thor blinked.
"I'm..." He paused, the mighty Thunder God actually searching for words. "...impressed. Truly. Though I confess surprise, Rossweisse, that you harbor no resentment toward Albedo's presence in our chambers."
The valkyrie's cheeks flushed crimson—not with anger, but with something softer, warmer, infinitely more dangerous than rage. "How... how could I resent my creator? My god? My everything?" Her voice trembled like bowstrings before release. "You are Thor. You are the Thunder. You are... everything. If you desire both of us, then we shall be desired. If you require more, then more shall be provided. I am... I am merely..."
"You are mine," Thor interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp as Mjölnir's edge. "Never 'merely' anything. Understood?"
"Y-yes, Master Thor..."
"Good." He stepped toward her—each footfall a promise—and when his lips met hers, lightning danced invisible between them. The kiss lasted minutes, maybe hours, maybe eternities compressed into heartbeats. Deep. Demanding. Devastating.
Albedo watched with eyes burning green as envy's eternal flame, her tail—rarely visible—coiling and uncoiling behind her like a serpent's agitation made manifest.
Patience, her expression seemed to say. Patience, for I shall devour him next.
When Thor finally released Rossweisse—the valkyrie's legs visibly trembling, her breath coming in gasps—he turned to face the succubus with that same terrible, tender intensity.
"Your turn, demon of desire," he rumbled, and thunder echoed in empty spaces behind his words. "Are you prepared for what you've summoned?"
"Always," Albedo breathed, and the single word carried weight enough to crush mountains. "My Lord Thor. My Thunder. My god."
She struck like lightning—faster than fast, quicker than quick—tackling the Thunder God with enough force to fell fortress walls. They crashed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and lightning-touched laughter, her lips finding his with the desperation of the drowning discovering air.
The kiss ignited.
Rossweisse moved to intervene—valkyrie's duty, shield-maiden's responsibility—attempting to pry the succubus away with shouts of "Propriety!" and "Decorum!" and "Lord Thor needs to breathe, you insatiable creature!"
But Thor's laugh—rare as winter roses, precious as peace—rumbled up from depths unexplored. He didn't mind. Not truly. These two—valkyrie and succubus, creation and companion—they were his. His treasures. His trials. His... loves, though he'd swallow Jörmungandr whole before admitting such weakness aloud.
Later—after passion's tempest passed, after order was restored—Thor reclined upon a couch in Ainz Ooal Gown's personal office like a god lounging on clouds. The Overlord himself sat shrouded in shadows and bone, shuffling through paperwork with Albedo's meticulous assistance.
"Aura's reconnaissance reveals... emptiness," Albedo reported, her voice crisp as a winter morning. Professional now. Focused. "No Yggdrasil players detected within our immediate domain. However, surveillance expands toward the Great Woodlands. We cast wider nets into deeper waters."
"The hunt continues, then," Ainz replied, skeletal fingers drumming against ancient oak. "If they exist—if our companions linger somewhere in this world—Aura will unearth them. She possesses the Dark Elf's patience and the hunter's heart." He paused, crimson eye-flames flickering. "Additionally, our captured agent has... confessed."
"The Slane Theocracy's dog," Albedo's words dripped venom. "Commander of their shadowed operatives."
"Indeed." Ainz's tone darkened like storm clouds gathering. "The Slane Theocracy—a theocratic tyranny obsessed with human supremacy above all else. They dream of genocide: every ogre extinguished, every goblin gutted, every lizardman left lifeless. Given opportunity, they'd orchestrate extinction."
Silence fell heavy as a headsman's blade.
"Contact with such... fanatics," Ainz continued, "would prove catastrophically premature. We shall watch. Wait. Prepare."
"Wisdom, Master." Albedo's approval resonated. "And the rescued villagers? Carne's survivors?"
"Handle them... delicately. Carefully. Perfectly," Ainz commanded, each word weighted with import. "We secured Carne Village through salvation, not subjugation. Through heroism, not horror. That goodwill—that fragile, precious trust—must be maintained. Nurtured. Protected."
"Understood completely, Lord Ainz. Your will becomes reality." Albedo bowed, elegant as evening. "The daily report concludes. Nothing further requires your infinite wisdom."
"Excellent work, Albedo."
"I am... unworthy," she breathed, humility and hunger mixing. "Your praise exceeds my merit, my lord. Your kindness... overwhelms."
Thor finally stirred from his statuesque stillness, sitting upright with the fluid grace of coiled lightning given mortal shape. His voice—that low, rolling thunder—filled the office like storm fronts filling summer skies.
"Ainz speaks truth, Albedo," Thor declared, and conviction rang in every syllable. "Your performance merits celebration. Commendation. Compensation. You have labored with excellence, and excellence... excellence demands reward."
Albedo's composure—her careful, calculated control—shattered.
She flushed scarlet from collarbones to hairline, her golden eyes going wide as full moons, her breath catching audibly in her throat. Within seconds—faster than thought, quicker than question—she materialized beside the couch, practically vibrating with barely-restrained desire.
"Then... then take me," she whispered, and the words emerged half-prayer, half-plea, wholly desperate. "Right here. Right now. This office. This moment. This—do whatever you desire with me, my love, my lord, my everything—"
"Albedo—" Thor began.
"Perhaps," Ainz interjected hastily, waving skeletal hands in alarm, "perhaps we should consider that I... that is to say... I programmed these feelings into you, Albedo. I altered your settings. Changed your parameters. Made you... made you feel this way toward Thor specifically. Taking advantage would be—"
"So that's your scheme, you sneaky skeleton!" Thor's laugh rumbled like distant avalanches. "Meddling matchmaker masquerading as Overlord!"
Albedo blinked. Paused. Processed.
"I... I genuinely fail to perceive the problem," she stated flatly, confusion replacing passion temporarily.
"Ah?" Ainz.
"Hm?" Thor.
"Tell me truthfully, my Lord Thor—" Albedo turned those golden eyes upon the Thunder God, and they burned with intensity that could ignite oceans. "—are my feelings truly... troublesome? Does my love burden you? Am I... unwanted?"
The office held its breath.
Thor met her gaze without flinching, without hesitation, without mercy.
"I find your affection..." he rumbled slowly, deliberately, choosing each word like selecting weapons before battle, "...endearing. Charming. Genuinely... adorable."
Adorable.
The Thunder Berserker—the god who'd battled Jörmungandr to mutual extinction, who'd made Odin reconsider strategies—had called something adorable.
"No, no, that's not—" Ainz flailed verbally. "That's not the point—"
"Wonderful!" Albedo's jubilation could've powered solar systems. "Then our relationship advances! Deepens! Evolves!" She turned back to Thor with triumph blazing. "We progress to intimacy's next echelon, my lord!"
"As you wish," Thor agreed simply, and those three words carried the weight of divine decree.
"Uh..." Ainz, eloquent as always.
"I am... so incredibly happy..." Albedo practically purred, settling onto Thor's lap like a cat claiming kingdom, nuzzling against his chest with utter contentment, "...that consensus was achieved so... smoothly."
"But I modified you," Ainz protested weakly, grasping at argumentative straws. "I tampered with Tabula Smaragdina's original design for your character. Your creator's vision—"
"Lord Tabula Smaragdina wouldn't object," Albedo interrupted, voice soft but certain as sunrise. "I was... I am... like a daughter to him. If anything, he'd rejoice knowing I discovered genuine love after his departure. After he... left us behind."
She cuddled deeper into Thor's embrace—into the Thunder God's surprisingly gentle arms—and for once, Thor neither resisted nor retreated. He simply... allowed. Accepted. Perhaps even... enjoyed.
"You truly believe that?" Ainz asked quietly, something almost human touching his undead tone.
"Mm-hmm," Albedo hummed happiness itself. "Absolutely. Completely. Certainly."
Knock knock knock.
The moment shattered like glass beneath Mjölnir.
Silence stretched. Anticipation built. Then—
The door opened.
Shalltear Bloodfallen swept inside with vampire's grace and predator's poise, her crimson eyes gleaming with hunger barely masked as decorum. Her gothic lolita dress—frills and lace and danger—swished with each step.
"Lord Ainz," she purred, voice sweet as poisoned honey, "I trust this beautiful day finds you in excellent spirits?"
"Quite well, Shalltear," Ainz responded carefully, cautiously, like defusing arcane explosives. "I hope the same proves true for you. Is there... something specific you require?"
"Oh, nothing urgent," Shalltear breathed, and her gaze—heavy, heated, hungry—raked across Ainz's skeletal form like fingers across flesh. "My day improved immeasurably simply by beholding your magnificent presence, my lord. Your form... your power... your everything..."
"Well!" Albedo's voice cracked like a whip across stone. "If you've finished your pathetic fawning, perhaps you could leave? Lord Thor and I are busy, and your desperate flirtation with Lord Ainz has interrupted us."
"Now, Albedo—" Thor began, a single bead of divine sweat forming.
"Oh my~" Shalltear's smile turned sharp. "Shriveled old hags can be such tedious bores, wouldn't you agree, Lord Thor? Clinging so desperately to anyone who'll tolerate them, since their prime passed centuries ago..."
Lightning flickered in Thor's eyes. Danger.
"You dare—" Albedo rose like rising rage given form, her wings manifesting unconsciously. "—dare masquerade as 'young and perky'? When do I know the truth about those two pathetic lumps you call breasts? Padding. Stuffing. Pitiful, transparent deception—"
"I'LL RIP THAT HAG FACE OFF YOUR SKULL!" Shalltear shrieked.
"Rich words from a walking corpse!" Albedo shot back.
"ENOUGH!" Ainz's voice detonated through the office like a magical payload, shaking foundations, rattling reality. "You're both acting like children! Petulant! Unacceptable!"
"...Forgive us, Lord Ainz," both women whispered simultaneously, heads bowed in shame.
Thor's voice—quiet now, soft as falling snow but cold as winter's heart—cut through the silence like a blade through silk:
"Disappoint me again," he rumbled, each word a promise and a threat, "and rewards... cease. Permanently. Play nicely with others, or discover what displeasure truly means."
"Understood... completely... Lord Thor..." Albedo whispered, suddenly very interested in the floor.
Thor disliked discipline. Detested dominance deployed as punishment. But necessity was necessity, and gods—even gentle ones—must sometimes show their thunder. To soften the sting, he guided Albedo's head back to his shoulder with fingers impossibly tender.
"Now," Ainz said, composure restored, "why are you actually here, Shalltear?"
The vampire straightened, professionalism sliding back like well-worn armor. "I depart shortly with Sebas for our extended assignment. We may be absent from Nazarick for... considerable duration." Her voice softened—genuine affection bleeding through calculated seduction. "I couldn't leave without... without a proper farewell. Without one final glimpse of you, my lord."
Later still—time flowing like rivers toward inevitable oceans—Ainz stood fully armored in warrior's regalia, accompanied by his adventuring companion Nabe (Naberal Gamma in disguise). They prepared to depart for E-Rantel, the frontier city, to infiltrate the Adventurer's Guild and gather intelligence about this strange, new world.
Thor would join eventually. Soon. When ready.
But first—
First, he had daughters to embrace. Valkyries to inspect. Missions to oversee. Nobles to monitor.
First, he had family to attend to.
Because Thor—Thunder God, Berserker Divine, Breaker of Serpents—had learned something crucial in this new existence:
Power without love is lightning without purpose.
Strength without connection is thunder without meaning.
And he—
He had both.
To Be Continued...
When thunder speaks, even heaven holds its breath.