The scent of her heat filled the halls of the Avengers Tower, thick and heady, impossible to ignore. It was unlike anything human—a call to something ancient and primal, something that resonated deep within Loki’s blood. Asgardians did not simply choose mates as Midgardians did. No, their unions were forged in instinct, in battles fought and won, in the unshakable pull of fate.
Sif had been restless for days, prowling through the tower like a caged beast. She avoided the others, snapping at Thor when he grew too close, baring her teeth at anyone who dared approach. Even the mortals sensed something was different, watching with wary eyes as she bristled at every interaction. But Loki knew the truth. He had known from the moment her scent changed, shifting from the usual steel-and-leather musk to something deeper, richer—something that spoke of need.
He found her in the training room, her body tense with unspent energy, eyes sharp with something she refused to name. Loki stepped forward slowly, meeting her gaze with a knowing look.
“You should leave,” she said, voice tight.
He ignored the warning, stepping closer. “And yet, you do not tell me to go.”
Her fingers twitched at her side, her breath hitching ever so slightly. Asgardians did not take mates lightly. It was not a passing indulgence but a lifelong bond, written into their very beings. Loki had spent a lifetime resisting fate, but this—this was something he would not fight.
He moved closer, letting her scent envelop him, watching as her nostrils flared and her pupils darkened. There was a challenge in her stance, but also the slightest yielding. He tilted his head, exposing just enough of his throat to signal trust—a gesture older than words.
Her hand shot out before she could stop herself, fisting in the fabric of his tunic, dragging him forward. “You know what this means.”
He did. And still, he nodded. “Do you?”
Her grip tightened, her body thrumming with tension. And then she exhaled, a sound low and resigned, her forehead pressing to his for the briefest of moments. A promise, a surrender, an acceptance.
—
Their bond formed in quiet moments as much as in instinct. Sif, who had spent a lifetime forging herself into an unshakable warrior, allowed herself to soften in his presence. And Loki, ever the trickster, found himself uncharacteristically sincere.
Days passed in a haze of whispered words and silent understanding. Sif’s instincts burned within her, demanding proof of devotion, of strength, of commitment. Loki gave it willingly—not in grand gestures, but in the steadiness of his presence, in the way he guarded her without caging her, in the way he understood that she was as much a protector as she was someone to be protected.
Then came the consequence of their union.
—
The pregnancy changed her.
Sif grew more territorial as her body swelled, pacing their chambers with narrowed eyes whenever someone dared enter uninvited. Her instincts were razor-sharp, her aggression barely leashed. Loki took it in stride, indulging her possessiveness, his own protective urges rising to match hers. He brought her food, massaged her aching muscles, kept others at bay when her moods darkened.
There were moments of quiet, too—moments where he traced his fingers over her taut belly, feeling the life within stir and shift. He would whisper to them in Old Asgardian, telling stories of their ancestors, of battles fought and victories won. Sif would watch him, her sharp gaze softening in those moments, her fingers combing through his hair as he spoke.
The pregnancy was not easy. Asgardian gestation was long, demanding, and Sif’s body changed in ways even she had not anticipated. There were nights when the weight of it all pressed too heavily upon her, when she would wake trembling, aching, her body a battlefield of growing life. Loki was always there, his hands steady, his touch grounding. He would soothe her with whispered words, press cool cloths to her fevered skin, and when she needed it most, simply hold her until she found sleep again.
Then came the birth.
It was violent, as all Asgardian births were. Sif labored for hours, her cries raw and primal as she brought their offspring into the world. Loki stayed by her side, holding her hand when she let him, murmuring soft encouragements between each wave of agony. The room was filled with the scent of sweat and blood, with the sound of life struggling to emerge.
Five were born, tiny but strong, slick with blood and the scent of life itself.
Two did not survive.
Sif wept, cradling the lost ones in trembling hands, pressing kisses to their still faces before letting them go. Loki ached for her, for their loss, but he knew this was the way of their kind. They would mourn, but they would endure.
The remaining three thrived, their tiny cries filling their home, their presence a living testament to the bond he and Sif had forged. They were small, yet fierce, their grip strong even in their first hours. Loki marveled at them, at the tiny fingers that wrapped around his own, the delicate weight of them against his chest when he held them close.
Sif took to motherhood with the same ferocity she brought to battle. She was vigilant, protective, her presence a constant shield around her young. And yet, there was a tenderness to her now, a quiet devotion in the way she nursed them, her body their first sanctuary. Loki would watch her, entranced, as she fed them—how their small bodies pressed against her, how her fingers traced soothing circles against their backs. It was a sight both powerful and humbling, a reminder of the strength she carried, of the life she had forged within her own body.
Loki did not simply watch; he was as much a part of it as she allowed him to be. He would cradle them in the deep hours of the night, letting Sif rest when exhaustion overtook her. He would whisper to them, his voice a soft lull in the quiet, telling them of the world they would one day inherit. When they cried, he was there; when they slept, he kept watch, ensuring nothing dared threaten the fragile peace of their family.
The days passed in a blur of feedings and sleepless nights, of whispered words and shared touches. Their pups grew stronger with each passing day, their cries turning into coos, their eyes beginning to open to the world around them. Sif remained as fierce as ever, but there was a softness to her now, an openness she rarely allowed herself before.
Loki curled around her one night, their pups nestled between them. He ran a finger down the length of her arm, marveling at her, at what she had endured, at what she had given them. “You are magnificent,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her damp hair.
Sif exhaled, exhausted but triumphant. “And you are mine.”
He smiled against her skin, breathing in the scent of her, of their pups, of their home. “Forever.”