The laughter made him flinch, soft though it was; there was a note of cruelty threaded into it, and he had no reason not to believe that cruelty unintended for him. Or perhaps it was intended for them both. He felt a clenching in his belly when Loki slid from him, a hollowness within him that he sorrowed for. Loki was unwinding himself from him, retreating, leaving him kneeling on the bed, and in the absence of that brief warmth and peace Thor began to feel other things, far more discomforting: a soreness and lingering wetness, slickness; a sense of being defiled, shamed. He bowed his head a moment or two, in silence and obedience to Loki's will.

But then he turned, and he caught Loki's wrist before he could slide away from the bed; not a hard grip, not one that his brother could not easily break if he chose, but in his gaze there was defiance and longing both. Was he now to retreat, to run away, after all that he and Thor had done here? Had Thor displeased him so much? It had been, he thought, what Loki wanted of him. His will above all, Thor made his and possessed, bowed down for his use, that Loki might prove himself master and king.

"Will you not help me?" His voice was low and rough and a tremor went through him as he glanced down at his erection, impossibly thick and upthrust. "I thought it was your brother you despised, not your thrall."