"Good eve, Loki," Thor is saying. "My brother, on the morrow- Oh." He stutters to an unsure halt, takes his hand away from Loki's bare skin, then puts it back, somehow managing to do so with both hurry and hesitance. He clears his throat. "You're cold." "...Yes," Loki confirms, more unwilling than unable to think of any coherent elaboration (or obfuscation). "On purpose?" asks Thor. He seems to be making some effort to keep his voice low, and also to keep from being obvious about it. He is failing at both — though, credit where credit is due, not half as dismally as he would have only years ago. "...No," Loki admits, after a brief internal analysis of the costs and benefits of lying about it. Thor stares at him for a moment, uncharacteristically stiff from the discomfort of uncertainty. "I see," he says eventually. "Is this a concern I should apply myself to?" Loki grimaces involuntarily at the thought. "May Yggdrasil rot at the root if you do."
from [untitled hulki mating cycle fic], currently 2k
