_{you ran from me
i chased you down
this time for just a kiss}

The armies clash and the earth trembles.

The pounding of hooves and the clash of swords upon shields seem to go on forever. An endless cacophony of fear, anger, and death.

The young king’s horse stumbles and with a glancing blow from an enemy’s sword against his breastplate while it flounders, he’s thrown from the animal’s back. He lands hard, the breath rushing out of him, but his sword is still in his hand and he is no mere soldier.

He lurches to his feet, swinging wide and true as he continues to fell other knights who’ve lost their mounts. It’s vicious and more bloody than he had ever imagined; his ears are ringing with the screams of dying men and the harsh grating of steel against steel as swords rend armor from men’s and horses’ bodies alike.

Anyone not wearing the crimson crest of his nation falls afoul of his blade, but the young king knows he can’t continue like this forever. His strength is fading bit by bit and every so often, his opponents will slip between his defenses, sword tips cutting between his chain-mail and piercing the vulnerable skin beneath before he can cleave their heads from their bodies.

Then, the young king cries out and stumbles as a white-hot flash of pain lances up from where a blade has nearly severed the tendons at the back of his left knee. He lashes out with a wounded roar, gutting his assailant, but when he tries to regain his feet, he falls.

With his leg no longer able to hold his weight, he lifts his head to see one of his assailant’s fellows with a sword held aloft, ready to strike.

And so my end has arrived…

He almost startles as a massive axe cleaves the man’s head from his shoulders, eyes gone wide as a terribly familiar figure emerges from behind the crumpling body.

“No one deserves the honor of killin’ you but me,” the huntsman snarls, whirling his axe above his head.

The young king stares up at him, eyes wide as the blade of the axe hurtles toward his neck and stops mere inches from the side of his throat.

“Do you yield?” the huntsman demands, expression like thunder.

He stares up at the man, unable to comprehend how it has come to this. But no. He will never yield. No so long as he has a kingdom to protect. He will die a warrior, not a coward.

“No,” he grits out, the pain in his leg intensifying by the second.

The huntsman sneers, his lip curling arrogantly. “So be it.” He whirls the axe around again, and just as the young king prepares himself for the end, the edge of the blade deviates from its original course and catches the interloper just behind the young king who had been about to stab the royal in the spine.

“You need a doctor, immediately,” the huntsman is already moving forward, hoisting him onto his feet and slinging a limp arm across those broad shoulders. “Better pray we don’t meet more of your delightful friends on the way.”

The young king laughs deliriously, silently wondering what led to this sudden change of heart. Even so, he leans his weight against the huntsman’s body without shame.

Perhaps now they have repaid their debts.

morethnus:

0526

inspired by this gif set :)

“This was not our agreement!” the huntsman snarls, grappling with the younger royal before losing his balance and falling back onto the rugs and furs with a disgruntled huff.

He fists a hand in the chestnut-haired man’s shirt, shoving him an arm’s length away. The grey-green irises of his eyes have been nearly swallowed by darkened pupils, and a light flush stains the elegant ridges of his high cheekbones. He is the very picture of debauchery and the huntsman wonders how many others the young king has had like this … or how many have had him.

“You are drunk, get off me,” the huntsman rumbles again, tightening his fist in order to push the king away.

However, the youthful royal apparently has other things on his mind because he curls several fingers over the neckline of his tunic and pulls, curling himself over the hand pressed against his chest in order to mouth sloppily at the huntsman’s neck.

With an affronted growl, the huntsman moves his hand to twist in the king’s chestnut locks, eyes narrowed dangerously. His free hand braces itself against the other man’s arm, half tempted to squeeze until something shatters.

“I will let you have me,” the king murmurs against his ear, prompting a quicksilver flush over his own cheeks. “The queen’s kingdom lies in ruins and it was due to your actions, after all. You deserve much greater boons than this.”

The huntsman makes a noncommittal sound, but his fingers tighten in the chestnut hair in spite of himself.

The king hums softly against his throat, and his grip on the man’s arm loosens. “I’ve been told that I beg very prettily,” the voice is nothing but pure sin. “Shall I beg for you?”

He snarls, unable to decide if he should be raging at himself or this manipulative bastard who crowned himself king.

“Yes.”

sequel to this

Brother.

The huntsman stumbles and falls against the tree beside him as a thousand images flicker to life before him. Glorious battles, halls of golden spires and tapestries, riding on horseback over a rainbow bridge, the ancient song humming beneath his consciousness from the hammer clutched in his sword hand, a pair of stunning green eyes and an endless expanse of pale skin splayed out beneath him-

He gasps, shoving himself upright again and staring at the horseman.

“Loki,” he growls, right hand clenching into a fist. “What have you done?”

His once-brother snorts, though the amusement has faded from his eyes. Instead, he looks tired. Oddly worn, as though he has been overtaxing his magic.

“I have done nothing,” he snaps, though it lacks his usual venom. “Your precious father decided to cast us onto Midgard to ‘repent for the wrongs dealt between us’. I’ve been trying to find you for over fifty years. Did you never stop to wonder why you never seemed to age despite having lived for so long?”

Thor pauses for a moment, blunt fingernails digging into his palm as he considers his once-brother’s words. He itches to be reunited with Mjolnir, but his immortality has long been stolen from him. She will not answer his call for some time yet.

“I assume you’ve already had time to plan our escape,” he phrases it as a statement rather than a question, knowing Loki would mock him for doubting him in a situation such as this.

Loki cants his head, and Thor notices the shadows beneath the trickster’s eyes for the first time. “We are little better than these pathetic insects,” he answers bitterly. “What am I supposed to do with no link to my magic?”

Thor grinds his teeth, then approaches, carefully laying a hand on the horse’s neck. “We work together,” he says firmly, searching out his once-brother’s eyes. “Combine our efforts and find our way home.”

Loki stares down at him, and for a terrifying moment, Thor imagines that he might say no. But, Loki inclines his head just enough to qualify as a nod, and Thor exhales loudly, letting his temple fall to rest against his once-brother’s thigh.

Perhaps they have a chance after all.

What started as an awkward friendship eventually turned into a life-long bond.

They’ve been working together far longer than any of the rest of the Avengers cast, and Tom supposes that gives them a bit of an edge, character-wise.

Regardless, he’s never felt more at home than he does working alongside this incredible gathering of talent and genuinely wonderful people. He thinks that perhaps he and Chris stumbled onto the winning tickets of some Hollywood lottery without even knowing it, but he’s sure as hell not regretting any of it.

His life has transformed from working occasional theatre gigs to jumping onboard one of the largest cinematic franchises in the history of the industry and that thought still overwhelms him a bit. Hell, before Thor, he was a nobody. Barely anyone knew what he’d done career-wise, let alone his name. Now, there are billboards the size of houses with his face plastered on them scattered throughout the world.

It’s surreal at the best of times, but Chris is always there. No matter what, even when they’re several continents apart, he’s always there. He’s the steady bedrock in the midst of the storm and Tom counts himself blessed a hundred times over to know him.

Their relationship is fluid in the most interesting ways, and Tom finds he doesn’t really care to label it. There is intimacy, obviously, but not always in the way you’d expect. Sometimes, it’s just the firm placement of Chris’ hand on the slope of his shoulder, holding on tight enough to say ‘this is mine’ without actually saying anything at all.

Tom revels in it. He revels in the time they get to spend together, he revels in being able to help Elsa out if Chris has a shoot or a press conference to attend, he revels in being called at two in the morning to be updated on yet another wonderful thing India has accomplished in her first weeks of life, he revels in knowing that he’s part of this little family that’s slowly growing.

The sequel to Thor will be coming out next year, and the sequel to the Avengers following soon after. They’ve got a packed schedule, but they’ll be weathering it together. Tom wouldn’t have it any other way.

_{(it’s okay, huntsman, he means that in a romantic way)}

“So you expect me to roll over like a dog and let you slaughter me?” he growls threateningly, blue eyes snapping from the stranger’s face to their surroundings, attempting to see if there might be any way out of this.

The stranger laughs, though the sound is far from amused. Those frighteningly intense grey eyes flash, and the huntsman wonders if there is more at stake here than he first imagined.

The white horse moves closer, its rider still watching him with an unflinchingly severe expression. He glowers, trying his damnedest not to act like the cornered animal he’s beginning to feel like.

“My dear huntsman,” the man’s voice is gentler this time, almost calming. He doesn’t trust it. “I have no intention of killing you.”

“Oh? Then how exactly d’you propose to carve my heart out of my chest, then?” he snaps back, rising to his full height in order to keep as much distance between them as possible.

“I want your heart, huntsman,” the stranger repeats, leaning slightly over his horse’s neck. “I want it wholly and completely.”

He bares his teeth, confused and conflicted. “You think you can just toy with me like this? I’ve been given a mission and threatened with death if I don’t complete it. You think you can meddle in the Queen’s affairs with no worry of retribution or punishment?”

The stranger’s lips part, revealing impossibly straight white teeth bared in a hungry smirk. “Oh yes,” he replies. “I am quite beyond her jurisdiction.”

“Who are you?!” he shouts, nearing the end of his already frayed patience.

“You know who I am,” the stranger says, and for the briefest instant, the huntsman could swear that he saw a flash of green in the complicated depths of those eyes. “Brother.”

It’s alright to be scared.

He knows that. He has known that for the duration of his long life. Despite his reputation, there are many things the Mighty Thor is frightened of.

But not this. Never this.

He has never had cause to fear his own brother.

Now, as he meets those pale green eyes, it’s as though he’s staring at a stranger. There is nothing familiar in their depths.

His stomach twists into knots as he remains still, holds Loki’s gaze. Everything is wrong. It feels as though the earth is cracking in two beneath his feet.

Loki. Loki Liesmith. Loki Trickskin. Loki Silvertongue. Loki Odinson. Brother.

Are any of these right? What he has known of their life together has turned out to be nothing but a lie painstakingly crafted by his parents. He doesn’t know what to trust anymore.

A tremor slides down his spine, eyes closing briefly before opening and refocusing on those pale green orbs mere feet away.

“I wish I didn’t have to be.”

Go on then precious fanfic writers. Let your imagination run free.

“It’s almost endearing, how you think I need to be coddled in the bedroom.”

Gregory paused right in the middle of opening his mouth to demand an answer as to why they’re currently waiting at 221B for John and Sherlock to get back from the morgue, his brain skipping once before settling back on its tracks.

“Er .. why exactly are we discussing this now?”

“You were staring at my groin, Gregory. It doesn’t take a great deal of deductive reasoning to figure out why.”

He opens his mouth to argue with that, but decides against it. Sometimes, it’s better to lose battles rather than the war.

“Alright, fine. Maybe I was. Why exactly are we having this conversation when your brother and his boyfriend might walk in at any minute?”

“Because I’d hear them before they even set foot inside the flat and it seems to be a prominent thought in your head as of late,” Mycroft sounds almost bored, but the subtle tugging at the corner of his lips indicates he’s amused.

“Right, so you feel like I’m coddling you?” Greg raises an eyebrow, then cocks his head a bit. “I erm .. how, exactly? Is there any certain way you mean?”

Mycroft gives that little one-shoulder shrug that can mean a thousand different things. “You seem … hesitant. As though I’m fragile in some way.”

Greg swallows, then frowns slightly. He doesn’t really think of Mycroft as being fragile (for god’s sake, the man was with intelligence for the majority of his life), but he supposes that does make some amount of sense.

“I can assure you that you don’t need to hold back,” there’s a smirk in Mycroft’s voice, he can hear it. “I’d enjoy it, in fact, if you didn’t.”

There’s another swallow, followed by a deft clearing of his throat. “Have you got some ideas in that head of yours, then?”

In answer, Mycroft moves his free hand, lifting his suit jacket out of the way just enough to expose the silver of a pair of handcuffs dangling from the inner pocket. There’s a real smirk on his lips now.

Greg gapes at him. “How did you-“

i-got-dressed-in-a-hurry:

It’s like his look’s saying “Mycroft, do something!”

One minute, he’d been shouting at the judge and demanding that the convicted killer sitting in the box not be given a pardon. Sherlock proved his guilt! This man killed seven people! And you’re going to let him go?!!?

The next, two security officers are marching over and bodily hauling him out of his seat, faces set in grim masks that hint he’ll be granted no leniency if he puts up a fight.

“The hell do you want? I’m a goddamn cop, get off!” Greg snarls, bucking forward to try and throw the left one off, but only succeeding in letting the right one accidentally yank his jacket off before regaining his handhold.

He thrashes again, brown eyes going wide as he scans the courtroom, looking for anything, anyone. He needs help. He should’ve asked for Sally to come with him when she asked yesterday. He should’ve taken anyone’s offer.

Then, there’s movement out of the corner of his eye.

Two seconds later and it feels like he’s been thrown headlong into some high-octane thriller. The guard holding his left arm just drops, eyes rolling back into his skull. Greg whips his head in the opposite direction to gape as a long arm slams into the second guard’s windpipe with deadly accuracy. The man stumbles, and is summarily defeated as a vaguely familiar shoe plants itself in the center of his solar plexus, effectively rendering him immobile until he regains the ability to breathe properly.

Once he regains his bearings, Greg finds himself staring Mycroft Holmes in the eye. They’ve met plenty before, sure, but that still doesn’t stop him from being quietly awed on occasions like this. The man himself is well over six foot, making it so Greg has to lift his chin just a bit to maintain eye contact.

“Orders, sir?” he quips, trying out a halfway steady smile.

The elder Holmes angles a scathing glare at the judge and other officials at the front of the courtroom then curls a surprisingly gentle hand round Greg’s bicep, eventually meeting his gaze again with something that might distantly qualify as fondness. “Come with me.”

It’s obvious, even to him, that the rest of the “team” is trying to distract him.

Barton and Stark keep trying to engage him in conversation over the most bizarre subjects and while Thor humors them by replying occasionally, he doesn’t really put much energy into doing so.

Banner approaches him when Stark and Barton get into an argument over weaponry, and casually insinuates himself into the conversation. At least this one isn’t so transparently fake. Thor knows the rest often see him as a bit slow when it comes to adapting to Midgardian customs and dialects, but he isn’t unintelligent. Banner seems to be one of the few who respect that.

Thor smiles as the scientist pats his arm and offers him a drink. The god accepts with a gracious nod, then glances up as Banner is called away by Stark, presumably to weigh in on the argument still taking place.

That’s when Thor glances out the window of the war room.

There is a small army of armored SHIELD soldiers marching through the hall across the room and in the middle of them, shackled and bound, is Loki.

Thor freezes, every muscle in his body locking up.

“Shit,” a distinctly female voice distantly registers as he sprints across the room, throwing himself against the near-impenetrable plexiglass. He would use Mjolnir, but that would most certainly not be taken well by Fury or any of the commanding officers.

“Loki! Loki!” Thor screams, throwing himself against the barrier repeatedly until cracks begin to spider-web outwards from the central impact point.

His not-brother glances across the room, a serenely confident look on his face. The trickster meets his eyes, then smirks privately, an ugly promise glinting in those haunting green eyes.

Things are about to get very violent and Loki has no interest in prisoners. He continues walking, lets his gaze fall from Thor’s, maintains an almost docile disposition in spite of the fact that he could have slipped free of those pathetic excuses for restraints the instant the soldiers captured him.

Thor snarls incoherently, bashing himself more violently against the plexiglass. “Loki! You cannot do this! Someone stop them! Let him go! Release him! LOKI!!”