Notes: This story is set about ten years after kid!Loki happens. Sigyn is now living on Midgard with their children, Nori and Varli (yes I know their names are wrong, it's my mistake). Sigyn and Loki have been estranged ever since she discovered that he was once again a child.
The cold always gets to Varli eventually. It seeps into his bones and makes him dull and irritable. Angrboda is unperturbed by the temperature, of course. She walks in long strides, unencumbered by heavy furs, her solid blue limbs carrying her across the treacherous terrain while Varli, wrapped in furs and half her size, struggles to keep up. Her comments grate even more than usual because of it.
"You believe I speak in jest?" Angrboda smirks, her jutting fangs glinting in the permanent dusk of Jotunheim.
"I believe it does not matter whether you are in earnest or not," Varli huffs and pulls his cloak tighter around him. "The point is moot. I do not wish to sire a slug or a sea cucumber or whatever else that may result in such a union."
Angrboda chuckles and his irritation boils into anger. "You give yourself too little credit, godling. The anger inside you? You would give rise to a badger. Or at least a hedgehog."
Varli grimaces. "You assume I am as fascinated by procreation as my father." He pauses at the edge of the cliff and closes his eyes, stills his heart, and reaches out with his mind's eye into the abyss. "I do not wish to sire any children."
"Oh, but you will." Angrboda crouches and begins to build a fire. "You are your father's son, more so than your brothers. Though you should not let it go to your head. You are but a pale copy."
Varli grits his teeth. "I am my own man." And taller, which Loki could not take away from him. A paltry victory, to be sure, but Varli claims victories where he can find them.
Angrboda laughs again. Varli does his best to ignore her, and instead turns his attention to seeking out the pins between realms. He finds one, wedged in the gap between Vanheim and Nornheim, tiny and delicate. Beautiful, like all things Vanir. He begins to coax it free.
"You are not." She sparks a flame. "Not yet. When you are, though," she fans the flames into a small blaze. "When you are truly your own man I could give you a dragon child."
Varli takes a deep breath and wills himself to focus on the task. The pin is buried deep, and barbed at the end. Beautiful and tricky. Like all things Vanir. "I do not wish to lie with you, Angrboda. You are the mother of my brothers."
She rises and saunters over to him. "Do not be so squeamish. You are a god after all."
"First of all," he lifts one finger. "Technically, I am a demigod."
"Quadrigod. Your mother is half Vanir."
"Second of all," he lifts a second finger, refusing to acknowledge her statement. "We are Aesir. Not the Pantheon. If you wish to lay with the sons of your former lovers, go pester the Greeks." He concentrates harder, pulling and shifting the pin slowly, absolutely certain he could loosen it without breaking it. Sweat beads on his forehead and is immediately chilled in the wind. He can feel his pulse pounding under his skin.
"The Greeks are so dull compared to your clan." Angrboda steps closer. Uncomfortably so. "They do not have your passion."
"Perhaps they simply have less patience for your nonsense." Varli's lip curls in a sneer. "Do you mind? You crowd me."
"No," Angrboda chuckles.
Varli's anger flares anew and he yanks the pin. "I do not know how many ways I need to explicitly reject you, woman—" And then he feels it deep in his bones: the soft, subtle snap of the pin breaking in half.
"Oh no," Angrboda drawls, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did something go wrong?"