For Asgard!

"Perhaps I just had a more firm grasp on the realities of Fandral's talents," Loki replied, idly, still smirking. "Anyone else might have seen the headbutt coming, but thought that, perhaps, surely there was no way Fandral could fail... maybe I'm just negative." He tipped his head to the side as he looked at her, like a cat ascertaining a playmate. "Then again I think it was just obvious that you were a woman of more elegant tastes. I don't think sweet words or lusty, male-driven promises are the keys to your heart." And, while he figured compliments may help open the doors to her bedchamber, so to speak, he was also relatively sure that that was something Sif decided upon beforehand. She wasn't a woman to be swayed, in fondness and in attraction. He supposed it was a good sign, then, that she decided to be friends with him at all. "You were clear enough for Fandral, I think."

About the laundry, he laughed. "That is true. I confess to having done something like that myself, once or twice, where my own blood in my clothing was concerned. I'm under the impression there was a royal edict going out not to break a prince's nose, though," he added. "I was pummelled practically everywhere else when it came to sparring. It's just as well." As Sif was utterly aware, of course. She landed a good number of those blows in training.