A tale by Homie Bear and his friend Sarah (part 1, anyways):

This story isn't about Hrungir but it starts with him- Hrungir was a fierce and fearsome frost giant that everyone was scared of. Everyone except for Worng the Pixie. Worng knew that Hrungir had a weakness- Hrungir, it seems, was always hungry. So Worng invited him over for dinner. Worng’s sister Yggir thought it was a great idea, but their older, wiser and more mature cousin Fretnir disagreed.
"Ahh come on, Fretty, we need you to cook for us!" pleaded Worng.
"Yeah yeah yeah!" clapped Yggir, "You're the best cook ever!"
"The very best," Worng added.
Fretnir had something of a weakness of his own, and that was vanity. Already his Pixie-sized head was getting bigger. Still, he was suspicious. "What do you want me to cook?"
"Oh you know, nothing fancy, maybe some Pixie beans."
"Pixie beans. You want to invite a frost giant to our house, and then render him flatulent? I don't think so."
"Oh come on, Fretnir, please please please?" Yggir was practically jumping up and down, giving her best doe-eyed look. But Fretnir still wouldn't budge, so Worng had to resort to bribery- four baggies of his best Pixie dust. Fretnir used it to get high- he magically grew himself, his cousins and their house large enough to host Hrungir.
When Hrungir knocked on the door, it was kind of cute, insofar as a frost giant could ever be called "cute". He brought the pixies some flowers (trollius, of course), and was all dressed up in his very best Viking suit. Worng almost felt a little guilty for what he had planned. Almost.
Dinner was pleasant, overall, though of course there were some uncomfortable silences as pixie and giant strained to think of something to say to the other. Hrungir complimented Frettnir's cooking, which relieved some of the strain. Yggir asked Hrungir what he did for fun, and Hrungir launched into a passionate monologue on the pleasures of eating faeryfolk, detailing how he liked to pull the wings off and save them for last, since they were such a delicacy. Frettnir turned a strange purplish shade on hearing this, and Worng was quick to change the subject, steering the conversation towards something a little more neutral- religion. Hrungir started talking about how much he was looking forward to Ragnarok, while Yggir listened intently, elbows on table, head on her hands. Worng, meanwhile, had quietly slipped away, unnoticed by Hrungir and Frettnir.
Hrungir was beginning to realize that, over the course of the evening, he was developing a pretty serious case of gas. It might come as a suprise that Frost giants, as rude and unrefined as they are, actually hate to fart. That is the domain of their cursed cousins the Fire Giants- Surtur and his ilk, and the Frosts were happy to leave them to it. So Hrungir was getting increasingly more agitated, and trying to hide it from the pixies. Luckily Frettnir was talking incessantly about himself and so they weren't paying too much attention to him.
That all changed rather dramatically when Hrungir blew up.