#as long as it's tagged properly and/or kept somewhere private and i can avoid it i don't care what you do

[anachronistic-falsehood]

OHHHH im going to fucking lose my shit. do people who are into incest not realize that incest is, in fact, inherently a mature topic, and is also not safe for work. do they realize that it is in fact not something that MOST FUCKING PEOPLE would want to see in the main tags of their fandoms. "it's not sexual so i don't have to tag it <3" THATS NOT HOW IT WORKS!!!!! IF YOU'RE INTO FICTIONAL INCEST THAT IS STILL MATURE AND NSFW AND IT NEEDS TO BE TAGGED PLEASE. I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING SEE IT. *MOST* PEOPLE DON'T WANT TO FUCKING SEE IT. TAG YOUR SHIT AND/OR DON'T PUT IT IN THE MAIN TAGS HOLY SHIT

[starl1ght-child]

Dating Saint-14 HCs

Saint-14 is extremely gentleman-like.  He’s honest and noble, he’s a man of hope and faith, extremely kind, generous, and compassionate.

Saint certainly makes an impression the first time you meet him in person, even if the circumstances were dire at the time.  He’s a legend, a hero of the battles the Last City faced, a man of myth that had disappeared to Mercury for over a century and died there.  That was, until you, with the help of Osiris, broke time and saved him from death at the hands of the Vex.

When he finally returned to the City, you were both nervous and thrilled.  You admired him—you admired each other. 

[He always told you that you were the reason that he kept fighting inside of the Forest.  After you helped him fight back the Fallen at Zephyr Station and gifted him the Perfect Paradox, forged by broken parts and your Light, he’d admired your strength and will.  He swore he would live by your example.]

Saint has heard the stories of your victories, but he knows better.  Yes, you are the modern-day hero of the Last City, but you have seen so much more devastation in your short life than he ever saw in his centuries alive.

You didn’t realize it at first, but you grew close fast.  You bonded over bird watching (he taught you how to properly hold them and it was the most gratifying experience you’d had in a while) and story-telling (though Saint did most of the sharing.  It was always hard for you to share your experiences, even as you grew closer).  Occasionally, you two sparred together to either blow off steam or just get your blood flowing.

For a long time, you were attracted to the mystery of the man that hid behind his helm.  You were drawn to his comforting voice and the gentle touch of his massive hand on the small of your back.  But you were most drawn to his understanding and empathy.  He never asked you to tell the story of the Taken War, or the SIVA Crisis, or the Red War.

[He knew you would tell him when you were ready to relive those terrifying battles.]

You were the first one to admit that you loved him.  It was during the Festival of the Lost.  You and Saint were walking the streets of the Last City, bringing candy to the City’s children.  You blurted it out suddenly and when he didn’t respond right away, you ran.  You were beyond embarrassed and you felt like you’d just ruined the perfect relationship you two had.

You avoided him for as long as you could, but several days later, Saint found you when you’d returned to the Hanger after spending hours carrying out strike protocols or competing in Crucible matches.  

[He cornered you before you could run from him again; he took your hand tightly in his and spun you around so you would face.  And he did what you didn’t expect: he took off his helmet.  Your eyes were wide as you set your gaze upon his face for the first time.  His mouth lit up violet when he spoke to you. “I love you as well, возлюбленная.  Will you stop running from me?”]

After you start dating, Saint slowly starts draping you in his purple ribbons—“accolades,” he calls them.  They’re small gifts at first:  a short piece wrapped around your wrist.  And the longer you’re together, the more prominent those ribbons become on your armor.  And you wear them with pride.

[He takes your hand, which has his accolades wrapped around your palm and fingers, and brings it to the face of his helmet, as though he was kissing your knuckles.  You can’t see his eyes, but your heart flutters because you can imagine the look in his violet optics.  And he chuckles low and calls you his beloved when he sees the smile that grows on your lips.]

Behind closed doors, Saint is just as kind and just as gentlemanly as he is in public, but it’s different.  He knows that he has your undivided attention, and that you have his.  He uses this to his advantage to lavish you with compliments and flattery.  

He laughs when you get flustered by them, but Maker, you love that laugh.  Warm and hearty, just like him.  

Saint likes to show his devotion to you through action, and it’s always the little things that he does that make you fall in love with him all over again.  Did you tell him about a piece for a gun you’re building that you just can’t get your hands on?  Saint finds it for you.  You go to him, stressed out of your mind and feeling overwhelmed by the weight on your shoulders? He drops everything and takes you somewhere private where you can get it off your chest.

[Sometimes, there’s no words needed at all.  When you’re too overwhelmed to talk and on the verge of tears, he takes you into his arms and tucks your head under his neck.  He whispers to you that everything is going to be alright, and the tenderness of his voice makes you believe him.]

He likes to pick you up, too.  He enjoys sweeping you off your feet and hearing you laugh brightly as a result.  He’ll swing you in circles before setting you back down on your feet.  He’ll pick you up and carry you home, or into his ship for some privacy. 

When you’re tired after a long day of missions, you meet him in the Hanger.  He knows the look on your face before you even speak, he simply nods at you and you walk up the ramp into his ship and wait for him to join you.  

Speaking of his ship, Saint practically lives in it.  It’s large and surprisingly spacious, and well taken care of.  You practically live there with him; your home in the City becomes a storage space.

Saint loves to cuddle you.  He loves to see you relax as your curl up in his embrace.  He’s a huge softie, underneath all of that armor.

Saint loves to see you participate in Crucible.  Seeing you fight so bravely and confidently is like a reminder of why he admires you (and loves you).

Saint especially loves to watch you compete in Trials.  He’s a great motivator, that’s for sure, though he doesn’t make the matches easier for you just because you’re together.  You have to fight just as hard to win as everyone else does.  And when you go Flawless… Well, let’s just say there’s no more matches that night once you get back to the Tower.  He usually (subtly) asks Osiris to step in and oversee the games for the rest of the night.

[And you like showing off for him.  You two play off of each other, you love watching the other succeed in battle.]

When the Pyramids started to arrive and the inherent sense of fear that grips the pit of your stomach when you start to understand their meaning—that this is the Darkness, the enemy you’ve been training to fight for years—you’re afraid you’re not ready to face this.

[But you won’t face it alone.  Saint takes your hand and he promises you that no matter what, the two of you will see this to the end, together.]

Возлюбленная : beloved

[ I love me the big titan mans with his birbs and his accolades.  And I know what you’re thinking, “oh, but Saint and Osiris are in love!”  No, they’re not. I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t even care what Eris and the Drifter say now.  In the lore, Saint-14 and Osiris deeply respected each other and thought of each other as brothers.  They be family/very close friends, not lovers. ]

[ masterlist | perma tag list : @mail-me-a-snail @shins-wife @speed-boop @threevie @squadnos @daggerthegamer @reaped-winnower ]

[early-sxnsets]

You Take Me to The Stars

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390507/chapters/36027609

Chapter 4 of 4 of Room for The Two of Us (read chapter 1, chapter 2, and chapter 3 here, as well as their corresponding tumblr posts here, here, and here)

Word Count: 3584

Description: Christmas Eve dinner at the Pitch manor doesn't quite go as well as one would hope, but the night isn't completely set ablaze.

Tags (for this chapter): Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort

hey guys there’s a spotify playlist that i made that goes very specifically with a certain part of the fic! i would highly recommend reading the fic before listening to it (and to say, yes, baz is listening to the fist song on the playlist). besides that, i hope you enjoy the finishing wrap up of the fic! i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did

BAZ

         Snow’s obviously never dressed properly in his life, but he’s a killer in a sharp suit and brushed hair.

         Thankfully, he let me do that much to it. I offered him some gel and he looked at me like a madman, so I kissed the look off his face. He kissed me back, tasting like hot chocolate and the little peppermint marshmallows he kept sneaking earlier today.

         He tastes like the excitement of a falsely working heart skipping a beat.

         He tastes like the knowledge that my father is disappointed in me, but that doesn’t matter. It won’t matter in less than a year, at most, when I drag Snow off somewhere for us to hide from the currently brewing war. We’ll be happy there, and I won’t have to endure the comments about how it’s unnatural that I like men.

         I’m nothing close to natural with or without my queerness, but that’s not addressed.

         Bigotry is only fashionable when you’re able to be public about it, I suppose.

         But I won’t let it stop me; I won’t let it stop my beautiful mess of a boyfriend kiss me in the foyer, snowflakes dusting his hair after I nearly lost it at Nicodemus. I won’t let it stop my sneaking smile as he tells me that he’ll make proper use of my ridiculously large bed that always felt like a sea of untouched satin and silk. It’ll never stop the fact that I’m going to dress my star-shine explosion for the gods for dinner before taking his hand, kissing scarred knuckles and leading him to the table, fingers still keeping an iron-tight grip over his hand.

         Father’s icicle-sharp eyes follow our pressed palms and matching scents (Snow’s wearing my cologne; his call), stabbing their sharp ends into my chest as I keep a leveled gaze, lips curling into a half-smile. It’s fake. “Holding up the festivities for us? Oh, you truly didn’t have to.”

SIMON

         Everyone’s sat at the table, looking like they’re about to meet the bloody Queen. (Maybe they already know the Queen? I wouldn’t be surprised; this house is practically Buckingham Palace, without all the guards) (Maybe Baz is supposed to be the guard?) (Oh, now I have to get him a knockoff hat). Even though it’s the holidays, it’s a ghost town. He has extended family, obviously (probably), but for what’s usually a huge family dinner, it’s just Baz’s step-siblings, his dad, and his step-mum at an awfully dramatic set up, and they’re all dressed to all hell’s length.

         It’s clear that Baz fits in with the posh attitudes and stature of his family. Makes sense why he was fussing over what shoes I was wearing to dinner, despite the fact that I kept trying to tell him that “Baz, it’s indoors. Why do we need shoes?” But he got me in them anyway, telling me I look dashing.

         He thinks he can call me handsome and it fixes everything. I mean, it usually does, but that doesn’t matter. His regular compliments feel alien, especially given the fact that he’s so particularly soft when he does it that he calls me Simon properly, without a tone of sarcasm.

         It took some adjusting. That, and he likes kissing. A lot. And everywhere. If I’m even changing my shirt, he’ll find a way to kiss my shoulder before I put the new one on. Can vampires mark their territory? Or is that too much like a werewolf? If vampires can, then I’m going to assume that that is exactly what Baz is trying to do. I think. He tried snogging me in a corridor during one of our last days at Watford before break and I had to spell us invisible so a second year wouldn’t catch us with my hand up the front of his shirt.

         I like it, though. It feels awfully natural to have Baz on my lap, or his hand pressed against my hand.

         It feels more natural than most other things I do.

         Being here, even with his family’s eyes (or, mostly it’s his father’s) staring daggers into us as we sit side by side, close enough to keep our hands locked as dinner begins feels natural.

         It’s relatively quiet for the first bit. Foods pass around, Baz turns it down (I hold his hand tighter), and everyone eats in what seems to be their own private bubble. Some conversations pop up, like Father Christmas or classes at Watford and how they’re different from Baz’s parent’s day.

         Which, of course, provokes the conversation of the old days. Baz holds my hand tighter as his father begins to go on.

         “Back when I attended Watford, it was proper magic families, with proper power.” He looks at me, avoiding to look between us. Baz’s knuckles are a ghostly white as he squeezes the life out of mine. Mr. Grimm continues, glancing at Baz. “When I attended Watford, the boys would date girls, as they’re supposed to. And they’d marry in roughly as powerful families, with roughly the same amount of magic, give or take a little.” His voice seems to lower but doesn’t tremble in the slightest. “It’s all about keeping the bloodlines pure, isn’t it, Basilton?”

         I can feel his anger bubble up even before I dare sneak a glance at his face. It’s stone cold, as calculating as ever. Then he smiles that venomous smile of his. “The concept of purity is obsolete,” he says slowly, the stiff grin plastered across his face, “if there can’t be an allotment for happiness.”

         The air is starched rigid as his father shoots a look at our hands before looking back up at Baz’s face, a smile mimicking his with all the intent. “You’re a disappointment to the bloodline.”

         And that’s where Baz snaps.

BAZ

         I barely feel my own body as I untangle my hand from Snow’s, throwing the neatly set out napkin that previously took seat on my lap onto my empty plate as I stand, chair scraping aggressively against the floor. Good, I think as father cringes. I meant that.  “Excuse me, I’m going to my room. No need to follow, because either way, I’ll still be a disappointing faggot.” I shoot him a lasting grin before stomping off, heading off and slamming the door behind me.

SIMON

         I don’t follow him immediately. Partially out of fear, partially out of shock. It takes a few seconds and a few empty, unknowing glances to his family (are they really letting this happen?) before excusing myself nearly silently, pushing my chair in behind me before starting back towards where I saw Baz disappeared off to.

         In all honesty, I have absolutely no idea where I’m going in this house. It takes a good five minutes of looking for landmarks (a painting, a statue, something) to find even a familiar hallway, then another ten to find Baz’s room.

         Fortunately, it’s not locked, so I step in to try to find him. At first, I don’t see a sign of him until I notice that his bathroom light is on, flooding out from the crack underneath the door.

         Silently, I shut the door and make my way over, creaking open the bathroom entrance, and there he is. His jacket is unbuttoned, and he undid a couple more of the buttons on his shirt. His god-awful indoor shoes are thankfully abandoned as he just sprawls back in his ridiculously luxurious bathtub, earbuds in as he listens to god knows what. Whatever it is, it’s nearly deafening, even from here. Heavy base, blasting pump by pump in his ears. I see his head movements go along with it to it, eyes shut and mouth soundlessly following the words. It’s aggressive. He’s aggressive. His lips curl as he silently spits out long phrases, and when it’s just instrumental, his brow furrows as he nods to it. It’s reckless.

         He is reckless, and I love that. Even with sad smiles and worried tugs at my heart, I know inside me that it’s just Baz being his dramatic self.

         I walk over, sitting in the tub with my back to him before laying against his chest, taking his hands in mine and kissing them, loose presses of my lips against the knuckles that were earlier holding on for dear life. At first shoots his eyes open to watch me, then he relaxes against me, body shifting to accommodate my mass existing between him and the outside world. He accepts me into his own bubble.

         “Why’d you pick the bathtub?” I ask as he turns off his music, setting his phone aside. He takes the moment to push my hair back, lips ghosting over my forehead.

         “Because,” he begins, his voice dipping to a private murmur. “It’s the only place that I know you’re mad enough to look for me in, but nobody else would take the effort to find.”

         I smile, sinking into him. He’s the ocean, and I’m an anchor, drifting against his current, but sinking to the bottom. He holds me there, arms cradled against mine in a protective clutch. I can’t be swept away, so I just settle against him, letting the world surround us in its allowing embrace.

BAZ

         “Did you know,” Snow fills the air, head lolling back to perch against my shoulder. I steal a few kisses from his cheek. He smiles, continuing, “did you know that-that I thought about you constantly? For years, Baz. Years.”

         I chuckle against him, trying to refrain myself. It comes out anyway. “I would hope so; we’ve been sharing a room since we were 11, Snow.” He pinches my hand.

         “Stop being cheeky,” he whispers back, smiling. Good. Smile. “I meant… I guess… You know…” Snow exhales slowly; I watch his chest deflate as I rest a hand over his heart. “I followed you around and watched you sleep and… and… fuck, this is embarrassing, so don’t tell anyone, okay?”

         “Who do I have to tell?” I remind him, undoing his shirt buttons carefully and painstakingly slowly before pressing my fingertips to his skin. Warm; heart pulsing under his skin.

         He seems to watch my hand as it rests, his head turning to fill his face into my neck. He breathes in. “I may have thought of you while kissing Agatha sometimes,” he mumbles into me. I can feel him blush. “Used to think it was because I was thinking of you going off and doing some shit, or because I was worried about you stealing Agatha way, but I… I guess not? I don’t know. It’s stupid. I would chase after you and watch you sleep. Christ, Baz, I was a nutcase. I’m stupid.”

         My fingertips trace circles around his skin before sliding down a little to let my palm rest. “It’s not stupid at all. Do you know how often I thought of you, Simon?”

         He shakes his head once. Twice.

         “I spent the majority of fifth year hating myself and you because I felt like I could never have you. That’s why I essentially went off that year on you; I was hurt. I was angry at myself, I was upset because the world wouldn’t let me have you. You, Simon, are always at the forethoughts of my mind.” I stop, shifting us a little so I can look into his eyes. They’re perfectly him. “Have you ever really taken a look at the clear night sky and watched the stars?”

         Snow shakes his head again, listening intensely.

         I relax us back again, pulling him close, feeling all his working life pump against my empty body; I don’t mind it at all anymore. Snow has enough life for the two of us. “I used to; mum would tell me how she hung the moon for my father. Even after her death, I’d gaze up and count as many stars as I could before I’d drift off to sleep, dreaming of constellations. I always wanted to be a story in the sky; remembered for eternity. In my dreams, I’d reach up and pluck a star from the sky and keep it close, let it keep me warm. We’d be symbiotic, the star and I.” My lips press to Snow’s head, breathing him in for a second. My star. “You’re a supergiant, Simon. You burn brighter than anything I’ve ever seen, and you burn me from the outside in. I’m just the floating black matter, surrounding your phenomenal pull and I can’t back away, clinging to your existence.

         “Father told me that holding a star would hurt me, and Crowley, I burn when I hold you, but you’re a sickness that I never want to recover from. I close my eyes are there you are, my match in the dark. I open my eyes and you’re still there, blinding me with your UV rays. Each time you kiss me, you shoot me out into the oblivion of the universe and we dance among the swirling galaxies and the bursting supernovas of your aura. You take me to the stars, Snow, and I breathe in the bursting gas-flames of your life because that’s all I’ve ever wanted; a star in my hands.”

         He looks up at me like I’ve pulled him out of my pocket, leaving a burst of stardust behind me as he shoots up into my sky in a smile, kissing me and filling my inky-black hole of a life with his sunshine. He lingers, hands shooting into my hair to hold me in place as he kisses me sweetly.

         Eventually, he lets back, eyes exploring my face. “How long’ve you been working on that one?” he breathes, lips twitching into a grin. I grin back.

         “A little too long,” I whisper back, a hand resting against his hip. “Much longer that I’d care to admit.”

         He seals that with a kiss, shutting me up for a good while.

SIMON

         He’s so ridiculous.

         That’s what I love him for.

BAZ

         Snow presses an extra kiss against my cheek once he breaks apart, analyzing me. Studying me. I wonder if I’m his favorite book to read.

         “If all of this,” he waves over us briefly, “never happened, what do you think would’ve happened? Would you have told me?”

         “Do you want the honest answer?”

         “I don’t want anything but that.”

         “Well,” I say, shifting him in against me. “I would’ve probably taken it to the very end. You’d have a swing at me, crash that sword into my chest and then, then I’d finally tell you. I’d let it out at the very end, in a brilliant blaze of glory, and I’d kiss you with my last breath.”

         He snorts at me. Not the response I wanted, but maybe the response I needed.

         “What?”

         “Nothing.” He kisses my cheek, giggling just the slightest.

         “No, really, what is it?”

         “It’s just… so you. Make me suffer after killing you. Last bow, eh?”

         I grin. I suppose he’s right, it is very in-character of me. “It’s better than never telling you; it needs to be put out there. Life isn’t unlimited, and therefore our thoughts and feelings are limited, too. Human existence is finite. One day, neither of us will exist, and it’s pointless not to let it out before that happens.”

         His eyes bare a hole into my face, scorching it. I meet them.

SIMON

         I can’t help but watch him, heart tugging. He’s right. We’re only here so long, and maybe I’m here much shorter than he is. Maybe we’re both not here for so much longer. “Where do you want to be in three years?” I know my answer; anywhere. Alive somewhere. Alive and holding Baz’s hand.

         He blinks blankly, staring at me before cocking an eyebrow. Not the expected question, probably. He lowers it after a moment, looking over me. “I’m serious, Baz. I want to know.”

         Baz clears his throat, seeming to think. “Okay. Alright, I want to be in uni. I want a flat in London. I want a black cat to live there with me, preferably with a ridiculous name like “Muffins”. That flat should have high ceilings and a balcony, and room for a boyfriend to be there with me when he pleases. A golden boyfriend who responds to Snow.”

         I smile, biting my lip. “I just want to be alive,” I whisper. His eyes flash to mine and I see him flinch in the slightest. He knows what I mean.

         “Merlin, Snow, I didn’t mean that we were going so soon. Don't say that sort of shit we’ll be just--“

         “Baz,” I whisper, holding his face and grinning. “It’s not something we can avoid, so we enjoy it now. You said it yourself, we’re limited. So, just kiss me, okay? That’s good enough for me right now. It’s more than good enough; you’re more than good enough.”

         “I’m not—we need to figure out something, Snow. You’re not going to—“

         “Human existence is finite,” I echo, eyes darting around his face. He needs to listen. He needs to know. “If we don't make it, or even if it’s just me who doesn't make it out of this year alone, that’s fine with me, because we’re here right now.” Listen to me, Baz. We’re not in some fantasy world where everything will be all daisies. This will all end one day, and maybe too fast. Listen to me, Baz. Please.

BAZ

         He’s acting like I don’t know. That I haven’t woken up every morning since our first morning as “us” thinking about how limited we are. That I don’t trace my fingers around his moles, making constellations on a ticking time-bomb as I stand in the blast-radius.

         He’s acting like I might step away later to avoid the radiation.

         I don’t want to.

         No, it isn't that I don't want to; I can’t.

         No matter how much he might want me away then, I’ll be superglued to his side. I’ve got him on a fucking leash (not literally; we’re not really that kinky yet) (and I can’t imagine that Snow would be the one on the leash) (now’s not the time for that). I’m with him until it all goes up in blaze, whether it’s glorious or not.

         And I tell him that.

         And he stares at me with his big Simon-Snow-Eyes.

         And he kisses me with that beautiful Simon-Snow-Mouth.

         And he holds me with his strong Simon-Snow-Arms.

         And I just hold him, trying to calm myself against him. He’s here, I’m here. We’re here for now, and when he pulls away, I make a quick getaway to his moles, trying to get lost again, trying to get drunk off of him alone, but he holds me back, looking into my eyes. He’s trying to get through, and I’m trying to get out.

         But I let him in, because he’s always allowed into me.

         “Can we at least act like happy boyfriends right now?” I crack; I shatter.

         He’s right there, though, with the glue. “Okay, yes. I’m sorry, yes. We… we... Yeah.” He shifts against me, fingers trailing back to my hair. That’s always where he goes. “We’ll talk about something else. We’ll—“

         “We’ll fake it?” That was a tad meaner than I meant, but it’s the truth.

         He looks like I’ve stabbed him, his face dropping the slightest. He knows I’m right. “No.” No?

         “No?”

         “No. I won’t fake what I’m actually happy about.”

         I lick my bottom lip. “And what is that, Snow?”

         “When you confuse me,” he says softly, “I used to hate when you’d confuse me. I didn’t know what to do, and it just made me angry, but I’m happy that I can figure it out now.”

         Merlin, Snow. I bite my lip, stopping a smile. I never wanted to smile this much. I’m going to get back at you for that one day.

         One day, I’m going to make you smile so much that it’ll hurt.

         “I’m happy that you let me touch your hair.”

         My heart strings are pulling, Snow. Please.

         “I’m happy that you kiss that spot on my neck. I’ve figured it’s a mole by now, and I quite like it.”

         “Snow…”

         “I’m so happy, Baz. I’m happier than I could have ever imagined—“

         “Simon,” I breathe. He shuts up. “You don’t have to…”

         “I want to. I want you to know, Baz. I want you to know every word, because nothing else matters to me anymore. It’s because we’re limited. I don’t care about anything else anymore. I’ll jump off a fucking cliff if you told me to because you’re all that matters anymore in this fucked up world. I know you want us to be optimistic, but I want us to just exist. I’m so much happier just existing, Baz, so please. Just let us exist.”

         I’ll give him this. I’ll give him his world. “I…”

         He smiles, kissing my sentence short. “Look, I know I’m shit at talking, and you’re shit at listening, but I’m trying.”

         My lips turn up against his, keeping there. He’s right. “You’re right, for once. You are shit at talking.” We kiss again. It’s a sweet peck. “I’m happy about that.” Peck. Peck. “I suppose I’m also happy that we’re existing, love.”

         He closes his eyes. Peck. Then one sticks, staying as I hold his shoulders.

         He falls back for air, eyes meeting mine. “Love?”

         I grin. My cheeks ache. “Love,” I breathe, going back to him for more.

[pendragonfics]

Retail Christmas Hell

Paring: Heimdall/Reader

Tags: female reader, but with gender neutral pronouns, supermarket AU, Christmas shopping, Christmas Eve, swearing, fluff. 

Summary: Reader works at the local grocery store. Her manager, Thor Odinson, hires a handful of security guards to make sure his workers are safe in the silly season chaos.

Word Count: 1,803

Posting Date:  2016-12-16

Current Date: 2017-05-31

Christmastime was a month of furious soccer mothers, kids stealing candies, vengeful elderly people who were known usually to be sweet and comely, and generally, lines that went out the door as far as the eye could see. To be honest, it never phased you, seeing as the more people who came through your register, kept you busy and on your feet, the faster time went and the closer it was until knock off.

Odinson's Food Market was known for its fresh produce and friendly smiles, but when you had to put up with screaming babies and the bossing around of customers who wanted bags packed a certain way, the last thing you were thinking of, to be frank, was smiling at the assholes who left their food shopping to the last minute and were in a rush like there was no tomorrow.

You weren't sure how the store was handling it; Tony who stacked the shelves said they were too busy to breathe as the people would practically wipe the canned food and things into their carts as soon as he stacked it. Your manager, Thor was always on his feet trying to sort out altercations and mixups with prices and hormonal adults arguing over the last watermelon on sale. Even Clint, who ran the little deli in the side of the store said he was in over his head with orders for hams and turkeys and such.

In short, Christmastime was retail hell. 

But, it was money, and you needed just that to get out of the hell at home to rent an apartment as far away as you could from your terrible family as you could, and maybe, just maybe go to higher education so those who came after you in your bloodline weren't doomed to repeat history. This dream was that which kept your fake smile on, hands without cramps, and tolerance to the shoddy customers higher than that of a saint. 

So far, the end of November and the better half of December had been a madhouse, with everyone coming in and grabbing their long life items, stocking up on decorations and fairy lights for their trees, on their holiday foods. Now, nearing the day itself, it seemed to be busier twofold than you'd ever seen it in your time here at Odinson's Food Market. Lines were larger. Ambience louder. The faraway echo of a howling child nearing in the pram, pushed by the nuclear family about to go nuclear if they did't buy the right sort of Parmesan. 

It was a Tuesday when Thor Odinson decided, that he would use his father's funds to do something more than advertise for the little store with. It was a Tuesday when he hired five security guards from the privately owned company called ASGARSHIELD. As someone who only went to school because your parents were sick of having kids around their feet at home, you weren't really from a background where you'd seen many security guards. Maybe the ones in the bank who scowled over their shades indoors to make sure you didn't make a heist while they were on guard, or even the policemen, sure, but never these people.

Nat, Phil, Heimdall, Sam and Maria started that day, standing at the entrance to the store to ward off evil with their professional glares, to break up quarrels before they began. Nat and Maria never talked, always staying in their spot, watching out with near superhuman vision. Phil was all business until he made friends with one of the other cashiers, Steve, yammering on about their mutual love for an old time-y comic character when (if) it got slow enough to talk. Sam stuck around inside, stalking the known shoplifters like a falcon, picking them up on stuffing lollies down their pants in the act. And Heimdall, the quiet, intrusive Heimdall, would watch the entrance at the end of your register. 

It took another Tuesday and a half for Heimdall to break his calm, collected shell; you noticed this well with your cashier eyes. When your friends had asked what 'cashier eyes' were, they'd laughed; that you had super-vision or something while on duty, noticing things about people or situations as to avoid major fallout and such. But with this very real, very handy super power of yours, you saw Heimdall watching you, as he always did for the last month, except, he was smiling. Just a little; not enough to show his teeth, but enough to know he had the muscles in his body to do so. 

"You alright, sir?" you ask him, leaning over the register booth to see him better. With five minutes without a customer, you were free to relieve yourself of the stresses of standing up for nine hours a day and those customers that backchat. "Look a little off in your head there."

Heimdall nodded. "Just been watching you, that's all." He frowns, gesturing to the family who had gone on their way. "How can you stand it, talking to people all day?"

You crack a smile at that, "Well, how can you stand it, standing there, watching people all day?" you ask back, staring into his dark eyes. "I've been doing this job for years now, it just sort of grows on you, and, well, after the first dozen angry customers, you try to make sure that the next person whose mood is down can be perked up a little bit." You glance to your side, and noticing a customer pushing their trolley into your bay, you give him a nod, and start the never-ending job once again. 

It was the Tuesday before Christmas, which, coincidentally, was the day before. It was the day from hell, and apart from your hair looking like literal crap, so was your mood, even though it was the same fake smile for every person who wanted things bagged a certain way. Maybe it was because the air conditioner slash heat was working overtime too and broke, or the fact that even Steve, the angel from above was having trouble with these literal demons buying four hundred dollars of empty carbs in their carts, but before you knew it, the icing on the cake was being laid out. 

He had bars in his brows and lips, and looked like he came from good breeding for every part of his DNA except for the manners that were as black as his soul and clothing. There was nothing nice about this guy; perhaps the only nice thing would be that he couldn't stay there bossing you around, calling you names. 

"I need those bottles double bagged, I've got a way to walk, you bitch," he hissed, barely glancing up from his Blackberry. Who even had a Blackberry, this was the modern ages, not 2006. "Fuck - not like that -," he tossed his phone into a pocket in his heavy greatcoat, and leaned over like the register bay was nothing between the pair of you. For a moment, your heart stopped, thinking he was going to throttle you, because well, he looked like he was high on something, and not just his ego. At once, he began to rip the bags from the rack, throwing them haphazardly into others. 

You glanced to Heimdall, but it seemed like he got the message before you sent it. At once, the man was upon the guy, pushing him back into his side of the register, where all the other customers were supposed to stand, and stay.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Heimdall intoned, voice monotonous like he was a secret service agent. 

At once, the punk guy stretched to full height, and cocked his head like he was ready to fight anyone and anything that stood in his way. "I'm just leaving. I need my stuff for Christmas, and I'll be off." He gritted. 

You stood there, stock still, heart racing like a little mouse caught in the crossfire of a cat and dog. Heimdall noticed you, or maybe he just knew everything that happened inside the places he was protecting, and crossed his arms. "I will not hesitate to remind you, sir, this establishment does not serve those who treat those working are slaves." His voice was not small, but booming, loud enough to be heard over the hubbub of the store. "You can take your business elsewhere."

The guy make a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a hiss, and marched off, mumbling something about 'the wrath of the Von Doom family' and something very rude, and unable to be mentioned again in polite conversation. 

The rest of the line of people who had witnessed the outburst had been humbled by the rudeness the guy displayed, and the dominance that the tall security guard had shown. Not another person was ill-spoken to you that night, but you guessed it had something to do with the fact that Heimdall had stationed himself beside the register like he was a secret service man protecting a president's child or something.

By the time the shift ended - your coworkers loved to let you go first, they knew you had a lot on your plate - you couldn't help but not leave until you had some answers. Heimdall was just collecting his backpack, shades atop his forehead even though it was ten o'clock at night. "I - I want to say thanks for what you did, early," you managed to get out, biting your lip. "He's always been a bit of a prick - I mean, not a nice guy to me every other time he comes through."

"You're very welcome, _______." Heimdall nodded, pulling the other strap of his backpack on. "I could tell. He's not a nice guy."

You bob your head, but it's then you realise. With Christmas being tomorrow, and your few days off until New Years Eve, you won't be seeing him again, perhaps ever. He's been so nice to you, always looking out, keeping an eye on you. A spark of courage is mustered, and you burst out, "Um, I'm not sure if you like pizza, and seeing most pizza stores are closed over the holidays, but I'd like to go out there, er, with you, to say thanks. Properly." You blurt. 

It couldn't have been any more botched, the poor guy could see through that in an instant -

"I love pizza," he smiles, and grabbing a notepad from his pocket, pens down digits in ink. "Here's my number. I look forward to seeing you again, _______."

You were sure that Tony and Thor were cheering over by the front desk. Even more sure that Clint from the deli had overheard, as there was a huge whistle, and sure enough, there he was, with two thumbs up high above his head.