Loki X Reader || Girl With The Gold Earring

22 | Into The Forest

Upon catching sight of her own blood, exposed and dribbling like wine in the flickering light, Ylva growls like some kind of enraged, wounded beast. "You feral minx!" She gives Y/N a hard shake like a child having a tantrum.

Her body flops about with a rag doll.

"HEY!" Loki barks, the sharp syllable slicing through the air like a whip.

Y/N feels Ylva's head rise. Her next roar is hurled right into Y/N's eardrum like a fistful of stones:

"Look what she's done!"

The bones in Loki's fingers flex on the handle of his knife. "Well, you can't blame her, you're not exactly acting civil."

She snarls, a nasal, phlegmy gargle from just behind her tonsils.

"...Now...I'll ask again: what are you?"

Somehow, Y/N knows Ylva's lips have contorted into a wry, unfriendly smile.

"...I could ask you the same thing."

A muscle in Loki's jaw twitches.

Y/N can see it through his wild hair, blue as the sky peeking between trees.

He continues to glare levelly up into Ylva's face, his gaze sharp as flint. "My father knows of my true heritage, but not of yours. You're a giant too, aren't you? But from where?"

"I'm from Asgard."

"I meant what is your heritage? Niflheim?"

"...Muspelheim."

"Gazuntiet."

Y/N is sure, if her arms weren't otherwise engaged, Ylva would gladly flatten the prince with a single boulder-like fist.

She says nothing but her grip on Y/N's torso tightens until she can feel her bones curve under the pressure like slender branches of a willow.

Eventually, the last of her breath is squeezed out in a strangled squeak, and every muscle in Loki's face clenches, sour and savage. "Release her. Or I'll march to my Father's chambers immediately and tell him what you are."

"You wouldn't."

Loki raises the menacing black line of one eyebrow.

Inch by inch, Y/N feels the arms around her loosen.

Giving one last wriggle, the flagstones meet her knees and she collapses, gasping a retching, gulping breath.

Dagger still raised protectively, Loki darts forward enough to bundle her up safely in his arms, and retreats back to the doorway, his gaze never once leaving Ylva's towering figure.

Braced and seething with rage by the vast industrial oven, a muscle by her lip twitches, exposing a smoke-leaf-blackened incisor.

Then her eyes narrow. "You..." She squints down at the meek little face staring up at her, her features screwing themselves up like a dishcloth caught in a plughole. "...I know you. You're used to be a pot wash."

Loki doesn't give Y/N room to answer. "We are going to leave now. I trust you understand what will happen to you if a word is breathed of our whereabouts." It's less of a question and more of a statement. "As you're aware, Odin doesn't take kindly to Jotnar, Muspelheimien or otherwise."

Ylva snorts. "What does he think of you, then? That skin, and hair as black as yours; you're a Jöttunn, if I've ever seen one. We always suspected you were one of us."

Y/N feels Loki's arm tense about her middle. "...We?"

Y/N has spent many mornings ducking out of the way of the cook's tyrannic marches about the small kitchen, but she's never been brave enough to stop and raise her eyes to her menacing visage long enough to take in her appearance.