Written for Day Six of Sifki Week 2021 and the prompt fluff.
All the ways that Loki and Sif express their love.
i. gifts
It shouldn't surprise her; he is a prince after all. His access to money and goods is likely unlimited, or nearly so. But Sif can't help the way her cheeks flush and her chest warms at the sight of the green velvet box, tied with a silky ribbon, waiting on her pillow when she returns from her assignment to Vanaheim.
It's less about the price of the gifts than the intention, the thoughtfulness behind it.
She tugs the ribbon free and gently lifts the lid off the rectangular box and lets out a sharp exhale at the sight of the blade inside. It is expertly wrought, shining with sharp edges. When she takes it in her hand, she feels a slight hum of familiar magic. The dagger is enchanted, likely able to cut through substances that would seem beyond what it's outward appearance would imply.
She tucks it lovingly into her boot for safekeeping.
ii. acts of service
He doesn't hear the plate of food land near his elbow, but the aroma of spiced meat pulls him from his haze. Mildly befuddled, he stares at the interloping food sitting on his desk for a moment, watching the steam rise from the warm food.
"It's not poisoned," a warm voice comes from across the room. Sif is there, replacing a candle that had burned down to a small stub. "Thought you might be hungry."
Loki feels the affection rise to his face and does nothing to stop it. He hadn't realized until just that moment that he actually was quite ravenous.
"Thank you," he says, and means it.
Sif's grin is fond. "Must be a good book, to have you so enthralled."
She sits on the edge of the bed and leans down to remove her shoes. Once free, she crawls up and settles near the top of the bed, pulling heaping blankets around her to nestle down. It makes his heart stutter, a strange twisting beneath his ribs, to see her so comfortable. In his bed. In his presence.
He nods softly and begins to pick at the plate, trying his best to retain some sense of decorum in her presence. The plate is full of ripe fruits and warm bread alongside the meat, all of his favorites awaiting him.
"Read to me?" Sif requests, settling down against his pillow.
He does, giving voice to the words on the page, the theories on magic and inter-realm travel. Reaching the end of the page, he pauses. In the silence, he listens to the sound of Sif's even breathing and smiles tenderly. She is fast asleep, cocooned in his bed. He turns back to his plate and his book, looking forward to finishing them quickly so he can join her.
iii. quality time
Riding together, sharing a steed through the forested road, they arrive at the small tavern. With each change of the season they seem to find themselves here, seeking out a corner away from the bustle of the palace. The establishment is neither luxurious nor elegant, but it is cozy and the food reminds Sif of her grandmother. A booth, tucked into the corner, awaits them. They eat their meal and split a bottle of wine.
They linger.
The night stretches on, other tables filling and emptying around them, a constant hum of noise and chatter. They reminisce. Sif asks if he remembers adventures past (of course he does), he plans future escapades (she agrees enthusiastically).
"Another drink?" he proposes, not yet wanting to part from her company. "If you're not in a hurry?"
"No rush," she shakes her head and slides nearer on the bench. "I have all the time you'd like."
"Careful, lady, I will hold you to that," he smiles and waves the barmaid over. "I am a greedy man."
iv. words of affirmation
He has always been more skilled with words than she. He can express himself with pretty poetry, adept at metaphors comparing her beauty to a star-sparkled night or his feelings to a deep and vast ocean.
Sif has always felt less confident in expressing herself verbally but has found that putting pen to paper let's her articulate what is sometimes hard to say.
They are one of his greatest treasures, little scraps of parchment hoarded and kept, her tidy handwriting scrawled with care. He finds them tucked into pages of his books, waiting under his pillow or inside of pockets.
"Thinking of you."
"Missing you while you're away."
"This reminded me of you."
"Proud of you."
He runs his fingers over the words until ink stains his skin and the message penetrates his heart.
Sometimes when they are curled together at night, her fingers in his hair, and he is in that blissful breadth between wake and sleep her words will wash over him.
"You, it's always been you."
It leaves him speechless.
v. physical touch
His hands are beautiful. Long and elegant, there is seidr at his fingertips, power in his palms.
Yet the way he touches her with such gentleness and assurance is it's own kind of magic.
Holding her in his arms they spin around the dance floor, all of the world falling away. He moves with grace and she follows his lead, confident he will not lead her astray. One of his hands is a gentle pressure between her shoulder blades, the other holding her hand out to the side. She presses her body against his, feeling comfort and calm at the warmth of his presence, the smell of his cologne.
The music fades and they are both silent, keeping their hands wound together. Leading her out to the balcony and away from the crowd, she looks out over the glittering city. Loki looks only at her.
Her throat aches with the weight of her devotion and she wonders if he can see it on her face, his own lovely visage framed by golden helm.
He lifts their entwined hands and takes hers in both of his palms, turning it so her palm is up. Slowly, he drops his lips to her fluttering pulse, pressing a tender kiss to her wrist.
Sometimes love can not be put to words, can only be felt. And Sif feels it all.