Loki frowned. It was a deep, unhappy frown. She was laughing at him, wasn't she?
Oh sure, she tried to explain that his advice was good, that it warmed her heart, that he was good to and supportive of his daughters, and that he was sweet to offer the same advice to her. Even that she appreciated it. But she was laughing. She was laughing. In fact, the longer she tried to qualify why she wasn't laughing at him, the more he waited for the “but.”
And it came. Sigyn might not have actually said the word, it was implied. Oh, his reputation. Because that was all he was -a man stuck in a perpetual quest for a rut. As if he had no worth if his clothes were on and something offensive wasn't coming out of his mouth. That, rather flatly, ruined the amusement he had with her earlier.
“I'll have you know,” he said and raised a finger as if to tell her what for, “that in regards to my reputation, I never go where not invited.” Then Loki crossed his arms over his chest. “I've had no reason to suspect that you'd invite such behavior, nor am I in the mood. But I am disappointed that you, who seem to think freely enough for yourself, would -like the others, reduce me to nothing more than a lech.”
Rolling his eyes, he sighed, “I keep forgetting. That must be the reason Odin, Thor and Hoenir want me around, right? My ability seduce women?”
He raised his hands in defeat. “Tell people, I don't care.” Loki shook his head, dropped his hands and bowed slightly. “And now, having been thoroughly laughed at when I was trying to help, I take my leave before I say something we both regret.
“Good day to you, Sigyn Holdadóttir . Good luck with your paint.”