#Storefront Glass Door

[windowdoorgroupus]

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[vetrilit]

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[securedoorsolution]

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[skywindowsaluminumproducts]

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[business4u]

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[modernglass]

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[windowsolutionsusa]

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Conclusion

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[taghardwareca]

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[pandapetals]

Last Christmas

Last Christmas, Logan wanted to confess how he felt about you but after a misunderstanding he decides against it. Logan kept his distance all year until you confront him this Christmas about it.

logan howlett x fem!reader - angst, fluff, misunderstandings, inspired by the song last christmas by wham!, logan brooding and self-loathing, i imagined X2 logan, confessions, no y/n used, no reader description, not proofread-i got lazy

divider credit: @issyh3ll

Logan had never cared for Christmas. The twinkling lights, the forced smiles, the cheesy carols that spilled out of storefronts—it all felt hollow, a sugar-coated excuse for people to act like the world wasn’t a mess the other 364 days of the year. He used to spend the holidays as far from the festivities as possible, holed up in a dive bar or lost in the woods where no one would try to drag him into their forced cheer.

But this year was different. This year, he had you.

It had crept up on him slowly over the past twelve months—how you’d wormed your way into his guarded heart with your laugh, your quiet kindness, and the way you never treated him like some gruff, damaged thing that needed fixing. Though Logan didn’t have the words to say what you meant to him, the idea of giving you a gift, something that spoke for him, had latched onto his brain and wouldn’t let go.

So he’d spent the better part of the year waiting for any hint of what you liked. He’d browsed through shops he would’ve never set foot in otherwise, scowling at gaudy jewelry and glossy trinkets that all felt... wrong. Too shallow. Too shiny. Too unlike you.

Then one night, it hit him—the answer had been around his neck all along. His dog tags.

To anyone else, they were just scraps of metal, scratched and worn from decades of hard living. But to him, they were the closest thing to permanence he’d ever had. They’d seen wars, far-flung corners of the earth, and darker days than he cared to count. They were a reminder of who he was. And giving them to you… it felt like handing over a piece of himself, the one part of him he thought might mean something.

So he’d wrapped them—if stuffing them into a small velvet box he’d gotten from the mall could count as wrapping—and now he was on his way to find you. His boots crunched against the thin layer of frost coating the school’s courtyard, his breath puffing out in small clouds in the biting December air. He felt… nervous. A rare, foreign sensation crawled beneath his skin and made his fingers itch to light a cigar, though he couldn’t exactly do that while carrying your gift.

When he reached the door to the greenhouse, he paused. You were inside, standing by a table of blooming poinsettias, talking with Ororo. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should interrupt, but the sound of your voice drew him closer. It always did.

“I don’t know what to do,” you said, your voice carrying a nervous laugh. Logan felt his chest tighten.

“You could just tell him,” Ororo replied gently, her words muffled slightly by the plants and the glass.

Logan frowned, leaning a fraction closer.

You sighed. “I don’t want to make it awkward. What if I’ve read it all wrong? What if he doesn’t feel the same way?”

The air seemed to grow colder. Feel the same way? His heart dropped like a stone, though he didn’t know why. Maybe it was the uncertainty in your voice. Maybe it was the way Ororo hummed like she was weighing her response, which meant she knew exactly who you were talking about.

“He might surprise you,” Ororo said after a moment.

You gave a short laugh. “I doubt that. I mean, Logan? Come on. He’s nice to me, but it’s not like that. He’s probably just… protective or something. You know how he is.”

Logan felt like the frost had seeped straight into his chest. He’d been frozen to the spot before, but now his body felt like stone. Solid and immovable.

Protective.

You didn’t see him that way. Of course, you didn’t. Why would you? He was rough around the edges and scarred inside and out. A decent friend at best. And while he thought he’d been so damn clever choosing the perfect time and way to tell you how he felt, you’d never even considered it.

His hand closed around the small velvet box in his pocket, his knuckles tightening until the corners of the box dug into his palm. What a stupid idea this had been. A soft scoff escaped him—quiet enough that you wouldn’t hear it, but loud enough to carry all the bitterness crawling up his throat.

Logan turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of your laughter ringing out behind him, the gift burning a hole in his pocket.

Later that evening, Logan lingered near the base of the staircase, his shoulders hunched as he leaned against the railing. The faint smell of pine and cinnamon filled the air, mixing with the warm crackle of the fire in the common room. The mansion was alive with holiday cheer—laughter, the rustle of wrapping paper, and the occasional clink of mugs filled with cocoa or spiked eggnog.

Logan hated it.

Well, he was bitter and it sure didn’t help his mood. He’d spent the better part of the night trying to keep his distance from you, but somehow, you always found him. Like a moth to flame—or maybe it was the other way around, because even now, he couldn’t help watching you from across the room, your laugh lighting up the corners of the mansion like the damn Christmas tree twinkling in the main hall.

He let out a soft, bitter snort under his breath and shook his head. You were doing it again—making his heartache when he should’ve been smart enough to steer clear.

The sound of your voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Are you just going to stand by the stairs the whole time?” you asked, amusement curling the edges of your words. You approached him with a bounce in your step, your hands tucked behind your back.

Logan straightened, crossing his arms over his chest like he was trying to make himself smaller. “What else am I supposed to do?”

You tilted your head, giving him a look that was equal parts teasing and concerned. “You could try… mingling? It’s Christmas, Logan. Have a drink, crack a joke, maybe smile once or twice. You know, festive stuff.”

“Festive stuff.” He huffed out a laugh and looked away, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Ain’t really my thing.”

Your lips pursed, but the soft smile beneath it remained. “Yeah, I figured. Still, you’ve been sulking all night. What’s up with you?”

Logan stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Nothing,” he muttered, a little too quickly. “Just not in the mood for all this holly-jolly crap.”

You didn’t look convinced, but you didn’t press him either. Instead, you gave a small shrug and leaned against the railing beside him, so close your shoulder brushed his arm. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep you company then. If you’re gonna be a grump, you might as well have someone to grump with.”

Logan side-eyed you, his lips twitching again despite the weight on his chest. “You’re too cheerful for that.”

“Cheerful’s good for you,” you quipped, nudging his arm gently. “Balances you out.”

Logan didn’t reply, but the smallest of smirks ghosted across his face, and you caught it before he could hide it.

The two of you stood there in companionable silence for a moment, the noise of the party fading into the background. Your presence was… calming, even if it made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t shake. You didn’t push him for answers or force him to join the party. You just stayed. And for a guy like Logan, that meant more than words ever could.

When you finally moved to stand in front of him, his brow furrowed. “What’re you—”

You pointed upward, and Logan followed your gaze. His stomach sank when he saw it: a sprig of mistletoe dangling above you, tied with a shiny red ribbon.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” he muttered, scowling. “We don’t have to do this. It’s a stupid tradition.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his gruffness. “Who says I mind?”

Logan blinked, the words catching him off guard. He stared at you for a long moment, searching your face for any sign you were joking. But you weren’t. There was no teasing smile, no hint of mockery. Just you, standing there with an expression so open, so patient, it made his heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

“…You’re serious?” he asked gruffly.

You gave him a small, encouraging smile. “It’s just a kiss, Logan. I’m not gonna bite.”

His pulse hammered in his ears as he hesitated, his instincts warring with the sharp, quiet longing gnawing at him all night. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you.

But you didn’t pull away.

Logan leaned in slowly, his heart pounding harder with each inch that closed between you. But when he got close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath against his skin, he shifted at the last second, pressing a kiss to your cheek instead. His lips lingered for a fraction of a second longer than they should have, and when he pulled back, his voice was low and rough.

“There. That’s good enough.”

You blinked in surprise, your hand coming up to touch the spot where his lips had brushed. Then you smiled—soft and genuine, the kind of smile that made his knees feel unsteady.

“Logan,” you huffed, your voice soft but insistent. “That’s not—”

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Logan cut in, his tone sharper than he intended. The words came out like a low growl, and the flash of hurt that crossed your face immediately made him regret it. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to look away, his hand instinctively dipping into his pocket to touch the small velvet box tucked there as if the feel of it would ground him. It didn’t.

You took a small step back, your frown deepening. “Okay,” you said quietly, your voice carefully neutral, but he could hear the edge of confusion in it, maybe even disappointment. It made his chest tighten all the more.

“That’s not what I meant,” Logan muttered, his throat tight. He couldn’t bring himself to meet your gaze, staring instead at the polished floorboards or the faint gleam of tinsel strung along the staircase. “It’s just… it’s a stupid tradition.” He gestured vaguely upward without looking, as though that explained everything.

Your eyes searched his face, trying to read him. “You didn’t seem to think it was stupid a second ago.”

Logan winced. Of course, you’d noticed. You could see straight through him. You always could. But the ache in his chest only burned hotter, louder, because no matter what he wanted, no matter how much he wanted to lean in and—

No.

You didn’t feel the same. Not the way he did.

“I don’t want to make this… weird,” he mumbled, the words feeling awkward and heavy in his mouth. He shifted his weight, his fingers still curled around the edges of the box in his pocket, his knuckles brushing the smooth velvet. “So let’s just forget it, alright?”

You studied him for a moment longer, your expression unreadable, before taking another small step back. That distance between you felt like a canyon, and Logan hated how cold the air seemed without you standing so close.

“…Alright,” you said finally, but your voice was quieter now, your smile dimmed at the edges. “If that’s what you want.”

Logan’s heart sank. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. Not even close. But he couldn’t say that. Couldn’t let himself say anything. Because what if you were standing here out of politeness, or because you thought it was a harmless, friendly gesture? What if you laughed or walked away if he told you the truth?

Still, the way you looked at him now made something twist painfully in his gut. You seemed… unsure. Cautious, even, as though you were starting to doubt yourself, and that was the last thing Logan wanted. But he was so tangled up in his own mess of feelings, that he didn’t know how to untangle it for you, let alone himself.

“Look, I didn’t mean—” he began, but you were already turning, folding your arms across your chest like you needed to shield yourself.

“It’s fine, Logan,” you interrupted, a bit too quickly. “I get it. Really. I shouldn’t have…” You trailed off, giving a small, uncertain laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Hearing those words from you felt like a punch to the gut. Logan opened his mouth to say something, anything, but his throat locked up, and he couldn’t force the words out. Instead, he just stood there, frozen, watching as you took another step back.

You hesitated as if you wanted to say something more. Your lips parted, but then you shook your head, offering him a soft, strained smile before murmuring, “Merry Christmas, Logan,” and slipping away.

The sound of your retreating footsteps echoed in his ears, growing fainter with each step, and Logan was left standing there, the faint smell of your shampoo lingering in the air and the velvet box burning like a brand in his pocket.

He let out a sharp breath, his shoulders sagging as he leaned back against the railing. The sting of your words—I shouldn’t have assumed—dug deep, and for the first time in a long time, Logan wasn’t sure who he was more upset with: you for misunderstanding, or himself for not setting it straight.

“Merry Christmas,” he muttered, the words bitter and hollow as they fell into the space you’d left behind.

⋆꙳•❅*‧ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Another year had slipped by, and Christmas loomed on the horizon like a storm cloud you didn’t want to face. The mansion had come alive with garlands of tinsel, glittering lights, and the faint smell of spiced cider wafting from the kitchen. Normally, you loved this season. But this year, you wished you could ignore it altogether.

Last Christmas had been…a mess. Awkward silences, unresolved emotions, and Logan—who’d pulled away until he felt like a stranger. You’d spent the better part of the year trying to make sense of what had gone wrong, but all you’d gotten from him was cold distance and the occasional gruff nod when you crossed paths.

Now, here you were again. Another Christmas. Another opportunity to plaster on a smile and pretend everything was fine. But the truth was, you weren’t sure you had it in you this time. This year hadn’t been kind to you—not by a long shot. A rough breakup, the stress of life at the mansion, and the lingering ache of last Christmas had left you feeling worn thin.

You sighed, staring at your reflection in the fogged-up window of your room. Outside, the mansion grounds were covered in a blanket of snow, the soft glow of holiday lights spilling across the frost like molten gold. It was beautiful. And yet, all you felt was tired.

Maybe you’d just skip it this year. Stay upstairs, hide out with a book or a blanket, and wait for the festivities to pass.

A sharp knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts. Before you could answer, Ororo’s voice drifted through the wood.

“Don’t even think about skipping this party,” she said, her tone lightly scolding but gentle enough to make you crack a small smile.

You opened the door to find her standing there, arms crossed, one brow raised in challenge.

“’Ro,” you began, sighing. “I don’t think—”

“Nope.” She cut you off with a shake of her head. “I don’t want to hear it. I know you’ve had a rough year, and I know you’re not in the mood, but you can’t hide away forever. Come downstairs. Just for a little while. If it’s awful, I promise I’ll sneak you back up here myself.”

Her smile was warm, but there was a glint of determination in her eyes that told you she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

You hesitated. “I don’t know, ‘Ro. I just—”

“You need this,” she said softly, placing a hand on your arm. “We all do. And who knows? Maybe it’ll be better than you think.”

Her words lingered, nudging at something deep inside you. Finally, you relented with a small sigh. “Fine. But if it sucks, you owe me cookies.”

Ororo’s laugh was light and airy as she looped her arm through yours. “Deal. Now, let’s go.”

The mansion’s common room was buzzing with life by the time you made your way downstairs. The tree stood tall in the corner, its ornaments glittering like tiny stars, while students and staff mingled, exchanging gifts and laughter. The air was warm and smelled of cocoa, cinnamon, and the faintest hint of evergreen.

It should’ve felt magical. It used to feel magical. But as you scanned the room, your gaze inevitably landed on Logan.

He was off to the side, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his usual scowl etched deep into his face. He looked almost comically out of place amidst the holiday cheer, like a grumpy bear surrounded by elves. And yet, even after everything, you felt that familiar tug in your chest.

Before you could think better of it, you found yourself heading toward the kitchen.

A few minutes later, you reappeared, a mug of steaming hot cocoa in hand. You crossed the room, weaving through the clusters of people until you reached Logan’s corner. He didn’t notice you at first—too busy staring into the middle distance like he was willing the party to end through sheer force of will.

“Hey,” you said softly, holding out the mug.

Logan glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “What’s this?”

“It’s called hot cocoa,” you said with a small smile. “I hear it’s good for sulking.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. Instead, he hesitated, his sharp eyes scanning your face like he was trying to figure out your angle. “I don’t need cheerin’ up,” he muttered gruffly, though he reached for the mug anyway.

“Good thing that’s not what I’m doing,” you replied, leaning lightly against the wall beside him. “I’m just here to keep you company. Can’t have you scaring off the kids with that face of yours.”

Logan snorted softly. He took a sip of the cocoa as the two of you stood there in silence, watching the party unfold. 

“You’ve been avoiding this, haven’t you?” you asked after a while, keeping your tone light.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared into the mug like it held all the answers he didn’t have. “Don’t see the point,” he finally said, his voice low.

You glanced at him, frowning. “The point of what?”

“All this,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the room with the mug. “Christmas. The lights. The... cheer.”

You tilted your head, studying him. There was something in his tone—something heavier than the usual grumpiness he wore like armor. 

“Well,” you said, nudging his arm gently with your elbow, “maybe the point is that it’s not about all that stuff. Maybe it’s just about… being here. With people who care about you.”

Logan shrugged, his usual scowl still in place, but his eyes flickered. Something unspoken moved across his face—an emotion you couldn’t quite place—but just as quickly, it was gone.

“I guess,” he muttered, the words gruff and reluctant.

You huffed a small laugh, crossing your arms as you leaned against the wall beside him. “C’mon, Logan. What’s got you in such a grumpy mood? You’ve been like this all year.”

You weren’t sure why you were pressing him—maybe it was because you missed being around him, or the strange pull in your chest whenever you looked at him. Whatever it was, it made you keep going, even when he shot you a look that practically screamed drop it.

“Thanks for the cocoa,” he said abruptly, his tone dismissive as he pushed away from the wall and headed toward the kitchen.

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden retreat. “Logan—” you called after him, but he didn’t stop.

For a moment, you debated letting him go. He was stubborn, after all, and prying anything out of him was like trying to chisel through solid rock. But something about the way his shoulders hunched, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back, made you follow him.

You caught up with him in the kitchen, where he stood by the counter with his back to you. The soft glow of the overhead lights cast shadows across the angles of his face, and you could see the tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands gripped the edge of the counter like it was the only thing holding him steady.

“You know if I didn’t know any better,” you said, leaning against the doorframe, “I’d think you were trying to avoid me.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder, but he didn’t say anything, his expression guarded as always.

You sighed, stepping further into the room. “Okay, fine. You don’t want to talk about it. I get that. But at least tell me what’s wrong so I can stop guessing.”

“There’s nothing to guess,” he said gruffly, turning back to the counter. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quipped, crossing your arms. When he didn’t respond, you rolled your eyes. “Alright, let’s see…did Scott say something to piss you off again?”

“No.”

“Jean?”

“No.”

“Did someone steal your cigar stash?”

That one almost got a smirk out of him, but he bit it back, shaking his head. “Just drop it.”

You ignored him, leaning against the counter beside him. “Is it me?” you asked, softer this time.

His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, you thought you might’ve hit the mark. But then he shook his head again, more firmly this time. “No.”

The sharpness of his tone made you pull back, but only for a second. You chewed on your lip, glancing down at your hands. “Well, whatever it is, you’re not the only one having a shitty year,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

Logan frowned, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground. “Just… this year hasn’t exactly been kind to me either, y’know? Between everything with the team, my family drama, and breaking up with Matt… it’s been a lot.”

Logan froze, his grip on the counter tightening. He turned to face you fully, his brow furrowing. “You and that guy—Matt—you broke up?”

You looked up, surprised by the sharpness in his voice. “Uh, yeah. A while ago, actually. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher.

Something in his expression shifted, and for the first time all night, he looked… uneasy. His usual mask of indifference slipped just enough for you to see the flicker of something else beneath it—something raw and vulnerable.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Why do you care?” you asked lightly, trying to make it sound casual, but your heart thudded in your chest as the question hung in the air between you.

Logan opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then he closed it again, his jaw tightening. He turned back to the counter, gripping the edge like he needed to hold himself together. “I don’t,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice said otherwise.

Your brows knitted together, confusion prickling at the edges of your mind. He was acting strange—stranger than usual—and you couldn’t quite figure out why.

“Okay…” you said slowly, watching him carefully. “Well, for what it’s worth, breaking up with him sucked, but I’m trying, y’know? To move forward. To not let it ruin everything.”

Logan’s grip on the counter tightened again, the tension radiating off him in waves. He still wouldn’t look at you, and for some reason, that stung more than it should’ve.

“You should try it sometime,” you added softly, your tone half-joking but laced with sincerity.

He finally glanced at you then, his gaze sharp and searching. There was something in his eyes—something almost... vulnerable. But before you could figure out what it was, he looked away again, his walls slamming back into place.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered gruffly, pushing away from the counter.

Just like that, he was retreating again, leaving you standing in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of his unspoken emotions hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

You sighed, watching Logan retreat, his broad shoulders hunched as the weight of the world had settled there. Whatever was bothering him, it wasn’t just the holiday blues. It ran deeper than that, buried under layers of that tough, gruff exterior. Pressing him hadn’t gotten you anywhere, but letting it go? That wasn’t an option.

Without giving yourself time to second-guess, you grabbed the empty cocoa mug from the counter, set them aside, and followed him out into the main hall.

“Logan,” you called, your footsteps echoing softly against the hardwood floor as you caught up to him by the staircase.

He paused, one boot planted on the bottom step, his hand gripping the banister. He didn’t turn around at first; he just stood there, shoulders stiff, his head tilted slightly like he was bracing for whatever you were about to say.

You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “Are you really going to sulk your way through another Christmas?”

Logan exhaled a slow, measured breath and turned halfway to face you, his expression shadowed by the warm glow of the holiday lights strung along the banister. “Didn’t know you were keepin’ track of my Christmas habits,” he said dryly.

“Hard not to when you make it so obvious,” you countered, folding your arms. “C’mon, Logan. Just talk to me. What’s going on? Did I do something?”

That last question slipped out before you could stop it, your voice almost hesitant. It wasn’t the first time you’d wondered if this distance between you—this quiet storm of tension—was somehow your fault.

Logan’s brows pulled together, and for a moment, something softened in his expression. “No. It’s not you,” he said, his voice low and rough, but there was an edge of sincerity in it that made your chest tighten.

“Then what is it?” you pressed, taking another step closer. “Because you’ve been acting… different. Ever since—” You stopped yourself, unsure if you should bring up last Christmas, the awkward tension that had hung over the two of you ever since, and the fact that you’d spent the better part of the year trying to piece together what had gone wrong.

Logan looked away, his jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Drop it.”

“Logan—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice sharper now as he glanced at you. “I’m tellin’ you, it doesn’t matter. Leave it alone.”

Your lips parted to argue, but the way his eyes burned into yours stopped you in your tracks.

The air between you felt heavy, you weren’t sure what to say. But before you could find the words, Logan’s gaze shifted. His eyes flicked upward, and his entire body went still like he’d been turned to stone.

Frowning, you followed his line of sight—and that’s when you saw it.

The mistletoe.

It was hanging in the exact spot as last Christmas, tied with the same bright red ribbon, swaying ever so slightly with the movement of the air. You stared at it for a second, the memory of last year crashing back into you: the awkward pause, Logan’s gruff dismissal, and the sting of his words—“I’m not going to kiss you.”

Your gaze flicked back to Logan, who was still frozen in place, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on the mistletoe like it was mocking him.

“Looks like some traditions die hard,” you said, attempting a joke to lighten the tension, though your voice came out a bit shakier than you’d intended.

Logan’s eyes snapped to yours, and something shifted in his expression. Whatever walls he’d been holding up—whatever force had kept him restrained—cracked in an instant.

“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, so low you almost didn’t catch it.

Before you could ask what he meant, Logan stepped forward, his hand lifting to cup your face. His movements were rough, almost desperate, as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss hit you like a wave, crashing over every thought and doubt you’d had over the past year. For a split second, you froze, your heart hammering in your chest. But then your hands instinctively grabbed onto the front of his flannel shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him back just as desperately.

Logan groaned softly against your lips, the sound low and almost vulnerable, and it made your knees feel like jelly. His other hand settled on your waist, rough and warm even through the fabric of your sweater, and he kissed you like he was pouring every unspoken word he’d been holding back into you.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Logan let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “That wasn’t how I planned that.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers still gripping the soft fabric of his flannel shirt, your breaths mingling. His lips were still flushed from the kiss, his gaze softer now in a way that made your heart ache.

“Planned what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, but you couldn’t stop the slight tremor in it.

Logan hesitated, his hands lingering on your waist as though he didn’t want to let go. But then, with a deep breath, his fingers left your sides and fumbled into the pocket of his flannel. You frowned slightly, watching as his usually steady hands moved clumsily, almost nervously.

“Last Christmas,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, “I wanted to—I planned on giving you this.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a small, worn velvet box. It wasn’t flashy; the edges were slightly frayed, and it looked like it had been sitting in his pocket for months. But the sight of it was enough to make your breath catch.

His thumb brushed over the fabric of the box, his brow furrowed as if he was searching for the right words. “I, uh… I was gonna give this to you last year. And, uh…” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, his usual gruff demeanor faltering in the face of vulnerability.

Your gaze flicked between him and the box, your heart hammering in your chest. “Logan,” you said softly, “what’s in there?”

Finally, he opened it.

Inside sat a pair of dog tags—his dog tags. They were old and worn, and you’d seen Logan wear every day since you’d known him. But seeing them here, nestled in the box like some kind of treasure, made your stomach flip.

You stared at them, your mind racing to catch up.

“I was gonna give these to you,” Logan said quietly, his voice rough at the edges. “Thought… I don’t know. Thought it’d be a good way to tell you how I feel. Thought maybe you’d… I don’t know, wanna be my girl.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head at himself. “Damn, that sounds stupid.”

Your eyes shot up to his, wide and stunned. “Wait—you were going to ask me to be your girlfriend? Last Christmas?”

He winced slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That was the plan.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Logan hesitated, his jaw tightening as he looked away, his thumb brushing absently over the edge of the box. “I heard you talkin’ to ‘Ro. Heard you say somethin’ about me just bein’ protective, that you didn’t feel that way about me.” His voice was quieter now, almost like he was ashamed of admitting it. “Figured I’d read it wrong. Figured maybe I was just foolin’ myself, thinkin’ you’d see me like that.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Logan,” you said softly, stepping closer, your hand instinctively reaching up to cup his cheek. He flinched slightly at the touch, but then leaned into it, his eyes closing briefly.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I was scared. I thought you didn’t see me like that. I didn’t know what to do.”

His eyes opened, and the way he looked at you—like he was hearing those words for the first time—made your chest ache.

The air between you felt heavy like the weight of a year’s worth of misunderstandings was finally beginning to lift. Without saying a word, you leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was slower, softer, but no less desperate. Your hands slid up to his face, pulling him closer as his arms wrapped around you, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear. When you finally broke apart, your forehead rested against his.

“I’m such an idiot,” Logan muttered, his voice laced with relief.

“You’re not an idiot,” you whispered, your lips curving into a small smile. “But you do have terrible timing.”

He chuckled softly at that, the sound rumbling low in his chest. Then, as if suddenly remembering, he held up the box again, his expression shifting into something almost shy. “So, uh… you still want these?”

You stared at him for a beat before laughing softly, your chest tightening warmly. “Of course I do.”

He let out a breath before his lips quirked into the faintest of smiles. Carefully, he took the dog tags from the box and stepped behind you, the metal cool in his hands as he reached around to clasp them around your neck.

“There,” he said gruffly, his voice softer now. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You glanced down at the tags, your fingers brushing over the engraved metal as your heart swelled. You turned to face him, your eyes shining. “You know this means you’re stuck with me now, right?”

“Guess I can live with that,” he replied, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though his voice held an unmistakable warmth.

You laughed, reaching up to tug him down into another kiss, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “Merry Christmas, Logan.”

He grinned against your lips, his hands settling on your waist. “Merry Christmas, darlin’.”

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au anthology

MDNI | Poly 141 x Fem Fat Reader | masterlist

Part 1: New Girl

You stare up at the sign reading ONE - FOUR - ONE in old English font. It’s an old building, all brick and stuffed in between several others. The windows have a thin, semi-opaque cover them to let in the light without allowing you to see inside.

You make your way to the front door, trying the handle and feeling stupid the moment you do. Your eyes connect with a small intercom beside you and you press it. There’s a small buzz, then silence.

A few beats go by, you debate pressing it again. You don’t want to be too insistent.

“Hello?” A voice comes through just before you reach up to press again.

“I, uh…” You stutter. Despite having many, many tattoos you somehow still feel like a poser every time you enter a new studio. “I have an appointment at one? With John?”

The man on the other side confirms your name before buzzing you in, the door letting out a loud click before you step inside. It both makes you more nervous and more relaxed - you can appreciate a closed storefront like that. Especially for something often as private as tattoos and piercings, but it still feels like you’re doing something wrong. Just a little bit.

The front room is lovely, though. The texture over the glass bathes the front room in a calm, iridescent light. There are a few waiting chairs, a low, black table piled high with books of flash. The front of the high counter is covered with posters and stickers from events going all the way back to the 90s.

The pretty man behind the counter repeats your name absently, obviously thinking about other things. Probably the half-finished design that sits abandoned on the iPad next to the appointment book he’s staring down at. You just nod in agreement.

“I’ll let John know you’re here.” He nods back, turning and pushing through a pair of saloon style doors to disappear down the hall. You take the time he’s gone to look around, flipping through yet another small book of designs on top of the counter. They’re good. Unique. Very gothic and interestingly detailed. Somehow both fine and bold simultaneously.

“Afternoon.” You jump, snapping the book shut and looking up to meet a pair of soft blue eyes and an easy smile. He looks you over briefly before extending his hand. “John Price.”

You murmur your name quietly, trying very hard to not stare at the incredible traditional work patched into a sleeve up his strong arm. Damn.

He leads you back to his work station - past a piercing studio and across from another room with the door shut and an IN SESSION sign on the door. The dull, buzzing sound of a tattoo machine drifts through.

“Now,” John says as he cuts down the extra paper around the stencil. “Just remember if you don’t like the placement we can move it. No problem.”

“Okay.” You nod, appreciative that he mentioned it. Sometimes these older men in the industry are gruff and have an attitude if you do anything less than treat them as if they are anything other than Absolutely Right and Perfect. Not that John came off that way. There’s a softness in his affect that relaxes your muscles and leaves you breathing easy.

“I know y’have several but I’m still going t’do a line and then see how you feel.” He murmurs, voice low.

It’s sweet, the way he’s walking you through it all despite the piece being small and you obviously having done with process several times. The sting of the needle is as expected and you murmur that it was fine before he really gets to work.

“Just let me know if y’need a break…” He mumbles, voice dipping even lower as he concentrates on his work. In any other situation that rumble would probably have you squirming in your seat. There’s a silence for a while before he speaks again, almost as if he forgot you were there. “This design have any significance?”

“I just wanted to get a new tattoo in my new hometown.” You snort - now at the point where most of your tattoos fall under the ‘because it’s cool’ category. “Probably stupid, seeing as I don’t have a job yet but… I don’t know. Feels like good luck.”

John grins. “Well then, thanks f’lettin’ me be your good luck charm.”

Your face heats at the rumble in his voice - glancing away nervously.

There’s another lapse of silence while he works, the only words exchanged are when he asks if you need a break and you decline. Eventually, toward the end you think, he asks another question. “What brought y’here then? If not a job?”

You would shrug, but you try to keep as still as possible while he works. “Just needed a change. Found an apartment easy enough - now I just need a way to make money.”

He hums in agreement. “What do you have experience in? Been around here a while - might be able to recommend somethin’.”

“Oh! Thank you!” You brighten up. “Receptionist work, mostly. Some admin assistant stuff.”

He pauses, cocking an eyebrow. “Y’know, we’re hirin’ right now.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “I don’t have, like, a resume with me.”

“You’ve got enough tattoos I’m assumin’ you know how the industry works. My apprentice is going to start actually tattooin’ soon, an’ I hate t’ have him still pickin up extra duties at the front.” He sits back, carefully smoothing saniderm onto your arm before turning and reaching for the ink-stained sketchbook behind him. “Tell y’what, you write down a few references for me and your number. If they’ve got good things t’ say we can do a trial period.”

You blink at him. He’s awful forward, and insistent, but you suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. A temp job is better than no job. “Alright…”

Just like that, you gained employment by way of making a stupid financial decision.

John’s an incredible boss. He pays fairly (generously, but you know better than to accidentally negotiate your pay down). He gives you plenty of hours and trains you well - with the help of his apprentice. He doesn’t get annoyed when you ask questions, seeming content with your determination to do your job to the best of your abilities. The shop goes by appointment only - no walk ins and potential customers have to call to book. John keeps things old fashioned like that. All pen and paper and cash transactions. An ATM sits in the waiting area. The most complicated part of your job is changing out the cash box in it, and that only take a few days to learn. Not that you mind, it’s sort of refreshing to not deal with some fuckass new and “improved” register and appointment system.

Turns out part of the reason they operate in such a way (other than preference) is because John is a big name in the tattoo world. You hadn’t realized until he pointed out a couple of your flash tattoos were from his best-selling book of designs.

“Wait, you’re famous!?” You gasp, staring wide eyed at the old binder of newspaper clippings and book sales. ‘My Mum Wasn’t Impressed At First - Now Even She Has One’ reads the title of one of the older clippings - yellowed with age. John lacks his signature beard in the photo. It almost looks wrong.

John chuckles, crossing his arms and leaning back in his rolling chair. “You could say that. You really didn’t know about our shop before you booked?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I just saw y’all get recommended on Reddit.”

He barks out a laugh at that. It’s a low, pleased sound that sends a shiver down your spine. His beard only emphasizes the apples of his cheeks as he smiles. Yeah, that’s the other thing, having a hot boss is kind of fire.

Plus, he’s not the only one. The whole studio is full of hunks.

Kyle is easily the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Like, run for Miss Universe pretty. Big doe eyes with a little scar on his cheekbone - small golden hoops glitter from both his earlobes. They frame his face so well, creating a perfect diamond from them to his sparkling eyes to his pretty smile; curled and genuine with perfect teeth. He walks you through the booking process step by step, that first day, a warm hand on your back and the other tracing down the columns of the physical appointment book.

His work is as beautiful as he is. At least, the ones done on fake skin. John hasn’t let him tattoo anyone for real yet - but his practice sketches are immaculate. At least to a layman. Kyle himself never seems quite satisfied with them. He gets such vivid color, though.

“Tattooing darker skin is an art form in and of itself.” He murmurs as he works on a piece of very dark fake skin. “I want people like me t’ be able t’ get exactly what they want, with just as much color as they want.”

You nod along, sipping at your coffee from across the street that you’ve taken up stopping at every day before work. Kyle has so much passion for the industry. The look he gets in his eyes while talking about it or designing a new piece makes your heart flutter.

Simon, the other resident artist, you’re the least familiar with. You can’t quite decide how to feel about him, or decipher how he feels about you. John introduced you a couple days after you started, but all you got was a perfunctory nod and a ‘good luck’. You couldn’t help but feel starstruck, despite his blunt nature. Both thick arms covered in full, detailed sleeves. High quality, ornate black work. A man of stature - six feet and some change with a breadth that a barn would envy. Pretty, blonde hair cropped just short of turning to curls and dark eyes that bore through you to the very core.

Sometimes, when he comes to ask about his next appointment, you let yourself indulge in the fantasy that he stands close because he likes you. That his knee briefly knocks against yours because he wants to touch you - not that you’re crazy enough to believe it. Just crazy enough to be a tiny bit delusional for the fun of it.

You meet their resident piercer on the weekend. Apparently, he’d been away visiting family your first week.

He leans up over the counter, grinning at you from ear to ear. A well-built man only a few inches shorter than the others with a perfectly groomed mohawk. “Well, hello there. Aren’t you a bonnie little thing?”

You frown, hackles raising instinctually. “Uh, can I help you?”

“Och, they dinnae tell ye about me yet? I’m hurt.” He pouts, thick brows emphasizing the puppy like nature of his blue eyes.

“Let her be, Soap.” Kyle sighs heavily, walking to his area of the front with a fresh sketchbook.

“Soap?” You repeat.

“Aye. Cause apparently I need my mouth washed out.” He pokes his tongue out, only to reveal a silver piercing. He holds a hand over the counter. “Johnny MacTavish.”

Johnny is the most egregious man you have ever met - always touching you in one way or another when he checks in about appointments and so on. His Scottish brogue rings in your ears, every word loud and confident. A hand finds it’s way around your waist, a finger poking under the band of whatever bottoms you wear that day. At any other job, you would have considered it harassment and tore him a new one.

Johnny’s different, though. If you shrug him off he steps away, if you flinch he pulls back. Plus, he does it to everyone else just as much as you. More, if you’re honest. If Simon is within arms reach they’re touching. You noticed Johnny pushing a hand under his shirt at one point, grabbing at the soft layer over Simon’s abs. (A great view for you, frankly.) Hell, you saw him casually hold Kyle’s hand while they were talking over lunch. Even John isn’t immune to the clinging. You don’t think much of it. Body modding attracts all sorts of people. If Johnny’s just a touchy guy then he’s just touchy. Besides, you don’t mind that much when he slips an arm around your waist or hooks his chin on your shoulder to talk to you. Warm breath tracing the shell of your ear with a quiet ‘bonnie lass’ punctuating ever other sentence. A slight pinch to your hip before he trots away to set up his station.

You feel nauseous when your trial month ends. John sits you down across from him in the back office. A practical space with not much more in it than a desk, computer and the large safe. None of you spend much time back here outside of counting down the cash and dragging the trash bags through the back door to the dumpster.

“Think you’ve done really well, dove.” He grins. You try to ignore the way the pet name looks warmth in your lower belly. “You’ve picked up quickly, you’re good on the phone. Kyle’s been very happy about the extra time to practice.”

You let out the biggest, most relieved sigh of your life, shoulders slumping slightly.

“You don’t seem to mind Johnny, but if he gets to be too much let me or Simon know, yeah? He means well but he can be… well, you know.” John says absently as he reaches for something across the desk. “How are you feelin’?”

You nod. “I, uh, feel good. I like this position a lot. Everyone’s been very welcoming.”

John nods along. “Good, good. I see no reason to not hire you on full time. Here.”

You hold put your hands as John drops a small, silver key into them. Holy shit! You get your own key! Up until now they’d been buzzing you in, but they’re trusting you with your very own key!

John must see the excitement on your face because he chuckles and extends a hand. “Welcome aboard, kid.”

A/N: I was very wine drunk writing most of this and it has next to no editing but I hope you enjoyed it! I just want something I can write that’s episodic and not as serious/brain heavy as Fancy or Across the Way

[blue-lights-to-dreams]

Golden Light // H.S.

synopsis: you go on a blind date with Harry at your best friend's insistence and enjoy it much more than you expected.

wc: 3.9k

a/n: i hope you guys enjoy this! i haven't written fic in a hot minute, so let me know what you think! this will likely have a part 2 where the exciting stuff happens, but writing even this much took me forever so i wanted to share before the Christmas mentions became irrelevant, lol!

The streets of New York City are beautiful this time of year. Christmas lights twinkle in nearly every retail storefront, some even including a dusting of ripped-up cotton balls and other snow-like materials. Just ignore the grey sludge coating the streets.

You were never one for holiday cheer, and today was no exception. Despite thinking the same of every single day, you’ve had what you would consider the longest day of your life. Your first meeting ran late by just a few minutes, but even this was enough to push your calendar so far off that you needed to reschedule your final call with the client you’d been waiting almost a month to meet with.

There was nothing more in this world you wanted to do than curl up in bed with a bottle of wine and a silk eye mask. But, here you were, trudging down the streets of New York City in your slightly uncomfortable heels, trying to dodge puddles, slush, and other mysterious substances on the sidewalk, on your way to a blind date. Emma had set you up with a friend of her boyfriend’s, and she’d made you promise you’d give him a chance.

Your last relationship had ended with a bang after you went to his apartment to surprise him after getting out of work early one afternoon, only to find him in bed with a blonde girl you never did learn the name of. 

You could easily find a man to wake up to the next morning, but after years of running your own business, it wasn’t as simple as walking into a bar to meet Mr. Right. You’d dated enough men with little ambition; you needed someone who had drive– had success.

All you knew about your date for the night was his name was Harry, he was a record executive, and, according to Emma, he was hot.

The pit in your stomach only grew as you approached Bella Napoli. It didn’t help you’d spent the last six blocks trying to lift your dress and nearly-floor-length coat high enough to keep it out of the puddles.

The little blue location dot on your maps app glided closer to the restaurant with each step you took, nearly there - mist ghosted over your nose with each exhale, doing nothing to keep it warm in the frigid weather of the city, and you couldn’t wait to get inside.

Finally, you spotted the marquee sign affixed to the small brick building half a block up, signaling the end of your journey. The glass-front double doors opened easily under your hasty pull, eager to feel the heat of the brick building’s furnace.

“Good evening, ma’am,” the hostess greeted from behind her podium. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with long blonde hair and prominent cheekbones.

“Good evening, I have a reservation under (Y/L/N),” you brushed stray snowflakes off of your wool coat. Emma had ensured she would let Harry know the reservation would be under your name, and you hoped she hadn’t forgotten.

“Ah, yes, table for two? Right this way.” The young woman stepped from behind the podium and began heading toward the main dining area. You followed her as she snaked around the tables full of affluently dressed couples and businessmen in suits, reaching a small archway leading into a more dimly-lit section of the restaurant. 

She led you to a booth in the corner with velvet seats and matching curtains, held open by small hooks on either side - out of sight from most of the other patrons in the section, who didn’t seem to be paying any mind to you anyway. A small candle sat between two menus, adjacent to a traditional silverware layout and an empty highball glass on either side of the booth.

You slid onto the bench facing the room’s entrance as the hostess filled each glass with ice water. She nodded as you thanked her and informed her a man by the name of Harry should be arriving soon to join you. Just in case Emma had forgotten.

The menu was short but obviously well-curated. The wine list was almost twice the length of the food menu - just how you liked it. You skimmed the offerings, deciding on a merlot of the second-highest price point. Your anxiety still made itself known in the way your stomach was twisting. You checked the time. It was 5:58 pm - still two minutes early. You hoped the wine would drown the butterflies (or maybe moths) in your stomach.

Your eyes returned to the restaurant’s food offerings but were again drawn upwards as another person sauntered into the secluded section of the restaurant. His pale grey, half-unbuttoned silk shirt settled just under the gold cross necklace grazing the indent between his pecs. A blazer of a much darker grey draped his shoulders, matching the straight-legged trousers just long enough to only allow the front of his patent-leather black loafers to peek out from under them. 

The air suddenly felt heavy, like you couldn’t get a breath in. Who is the lucky lady he’s here with tonight? Your eyes darted around the section, trying to find his date, but coming up empty. 

Shit, is this Harry?

Your fears are confirmed as you realize the hostess had entered the room a bit ahead of him and was leading him to your booth. The poor girl looked entirely flustered.

“Here you are, sir. Your waitress will be over shortly to grab your drink orders,” she squeaked, turning on her heels and scurrying away as quickly as possible.

You smiled at him as you shuffled out of the booth and rose to your feet, trying to seem much more confident than you were. You reached about the height of his shoulder in your heels.

“You must be (Y/N),” he spoke with a slight smile, glancing at your attire before returning his eyes to meet yours.

“That would be me. And you must be Harry.” You smiled back at him, subconsciously smoothing out the part of the dress resting on your hips.

Harry took a step toward you with arms extended, pulling you into an easy hug, His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders and yours around his waist. He smelled like an intoxicating mix of vanilla, patchouli, and musk. Expensive. Even just brushing your fingers across his suit jacket as he pulled away, the feel of the fibers suggested it had also not been cheap.

“You look stunning. I love the color of your dress,” he complimented, pulling back slightly with his hand hovering over your waist. “It looks great on you.”

“Thank you, it was actually a gift from my mother.” Compliment-taking was not your forte.

“Well, she has great taste. Shall we?” He motioned toward the set table, waiting for you to take your seat before sliding into the bench on the opposite side. “Have you been here before?”

“I haven’t, but I’ve heard great things. Have you?” His ring-clad fingers picked up the beverage menu in front of him as you spoke.

“I have, it’s one of my favorites.” That must have been why he suggested it.

“Is the Merlot any good? That’s what I was thinking of ordering, but I’m open to suggestions.” You played with the seam of your dress under the table absentmindedly.

“Now that, I haven’t had. I’m more of a white wine guy myself. I’m a fan of the Riesling.”

“Really? My first guess would have been whiskey, honestly.” There exists a pattern in these kinds of men - they always drank some very expensive whiskey they needed to tell you all about, as if it didn’t taste like smoke-flavored lighter fluid.

“I tend to prefer a sweeter taste,” his eyebrows twitched as he raised the glass of water to his lips. You nodded before the two of you fell into a comfortable silence, taking time to browse the food menu.

It wasn’t very extensive, with a few choices to pick from each protein category. You settled on a grilled chicken tagliatelle with a cream sauce, hoping it would pair well with the wine.

“Hi, my name is Danielle and I’ll be taking care of you this evening,” a voice burst your bubble of concentration, “have we decided on what we’d like to drink?”

You recited your wine order first, with Harry following shortly after. The waitress jotted down your selections in her notepad before exiting the room with a promise to be back to take your food orders shortly.

“So, Emma said you work in marketing?” he spoke slowly. His accent was thick, only further drawing you into the conversation.

“PR, actually,” you replied, “I have my own firm, with a few employees. I love it.”

“That’s amazing,” he sounded sincere. “How long have you been in PR?”

“Almost a decade, but I’ve had the firm for a little over 3 years. At first, it was just myself operating out of my apartment, but we’ve been able to build up some clientele and move to an actual office space. Emma said you work for Atlas Sound, right?” you shifted the conversation away from yourself, curious about what exactly came with being a record executive.

“That’s right. I’m mostly in charge of production but I help out with some of the publishing aspects as well.”

“Ah, so no talent scouting? I was hoping this could be my big break…” you mused, narrowing your eyes at him. Harry chuckled, flashing the smile you’d found yourself dead set on seeing more of. 

“No, no, unfortunately, that’s not me, but I may know some people who could help. Let me guess, rap?”

You almost choked on the water you’d just taken a sip of, but managed to swallow it before the laugh burst from your throat. It caught you off guard - Harry honestly didn’t look like he would even know what rap is. A silly notion, given his career, but true anyway.

“You have a beautiful laugh,” Harry stated sincerely, and your heart just about stopped. 

Before you got the chance to respond, a full wine glass was placed in front of each of you. You hadn’t even noticed the waitress had come back. “Here are those drinks. Did we decide on what we’d like to eat? I can make some suggestions if you’re not sure what to get…”

It appeared as if she’d forgotten you were even in the room with the way she was staring directly at Harry. You couldn’t blame the girl - you’d been staring too - but she could definitely tell the two of you were on a date, so she could have at least been a little more subtle.

Harry smiled politely (and briefly) at her before turning his attention back to you to confirm you were ready to order. You both relayed your choices to the waitress, and you appreciated that Harry did not seem like he was interested in entertaining her advances.

“Anyways, where were we…” he smiled again, and your heart lurched.

Conversation flowed smoothly between the two of you, aided by the wine in your glasses. You found yourself getting less and less nervous about him not being the right fit, but more and more nervous you were somehow making a fool of yourself. 

The story of how one of your interns accidentally jammed the copier so badly you had to buy a completely new unit made Harry laugh loudly. It was one of many stories you had from your job that were definitely funnier in retrospect than they were as they happened. You were aware you’d talked a lot so far, but you couldn’t help it. The way Harry spoke was attractive, but the way he listened was even better. He seemed genuinely interested in the stories you told, maintaining eye contact, nodding in the right spots, and asking thoughtful follow-up questions. It had been a while since you’d had a date genuinely listen to you, and it was refreshing. 

He asked more about your job, and you found yourself telling him how as much as you like being “in charge” and able to have control over your firm, sometimes it was incredibly stressful, especially in emergencies. He could see the stress that followed you home every day seep back into your expression, despite you trying your best not to let it show.

His ring-clad hand slid across the table, fingers gently entwining with yours and giving them a quick squeeze.

“You know, I think you’re brave for taking that risk. You should be proud of what you’ve built.” The eye contact he made with you as he spoke was intense, with sincerity behind his words. His hand was warm, contrasting the cool feeling of the metal rings, and you subconsciously squeezed it back in an attempt to keep it where it was. Luckily, your hands stayed intertwined for another couple of minutes as you expressed your appreciation for his kindness and shifted the conversation back to his job until your food was in front of you.

The meals were delicious, just as Harry had promised. He’d ordered a mushroom risotto that looked delicious, and your pasta tasted perfect with the wine you’d chosen. Good job, self.

Soon, you found your plate nearly empty and your body warm from the alcohol. Your thoughts felt slightly fuzzy, and you caught yourself staring a little too long at the rings on Harry’s right hand, as well as the fingers adorning them. The muscles flexed as he moved his hands while speaking, and you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away. You knew how his hand felt in yours, but how would it feel touching your cheek, against your back, gripping your - 

“Did you save room for dessert? The tiramisu is incredible.” Harry’s voice broke your train of thought, and you quickly averted your eyes back to his. What seemed like a slight smirk played on his face, but you couldn’t tell if it was because he’d noticed the staring, or if the alcohol was just affecting him as well. You prayed for the latter.

“That sounds great, but I can probably only take a few bites. Would you want to share a piece?” you suggested, much too full for an entire dessert to yourself.

“I’d love to.” Harry absentmindedly tapped his fingers against the table in a rhythm you couldn’t place, not helping your attempts not to stare. “So, tell me more about that yoga class?”

The conversation flowed again, with Harry ordering dessert when the waitress stopped by. Of course, you were just as interested in his words as he was in yours, hanging on his every accented sentence. He was a captivating storyteller and his facial expressions were no different - you loved how his eyes lit up at the good parts and narrowed at the bad in the story. The slight scruff on his face complimented the way his mouth moved as it formed words, drawing you closer. How would they feel against your own lips, you wondered? 

You could hear the words he was saying, but you weren’t fully listening as he continued telling you about the time he got a little too drunk at a friend’s birthday party and ended up volunteering to give a speech he had in no way prepared for. It was a great story, very funny, but your mind was otherwise preoccupied. Wine always made you… flirty.

Soon, the tiramisu was in front of you. This, too, looked delicious - Harry was right again.

“Would you like the first bite?” He offered, picking up one of the small forks laid out on the plate and scooping a bite of the dessert onto it.

“Well, ladies first I suppose,” you joked. You parted your mouth slightly as you leaned forward, waiting for him to place the fork on your tongue. What you weren’t expecting was for his other hand to reach out and lightly grasp your jaw, thumb on your chin to hold your mouth farther open. A choked gasp escaped your lips at the same time the sweet cake hit your tongue, but you could barely taste it, too distracted by the skin contact. Again, his eyes didn’t leave yours as he allowed your mouth to close and pulled his hand away from your face.

“Well? How is it?” he asked, with a definite smirk this time. 

You tried to compose yourself before answering, swallowing the dessert and the lump that had formed in your throat. “It’s good… really good.” Your voice came out breathier than you intended, and you blinked heavily a couple of times, trying to kickstart the part of your brain that could think of anything except what you’d like to do with the gorgeous man sitting in front of you.

Harry took his own bite next, letting his eyes flutter shut as his mouth closed around the fork. His long eyelashes rested atop his strong cheekbones, the same ones you almost had to physically stop yourself from reaching over to brush your fingertips over. His lips were a stunning, dark shade of red, still slightly wet from the wine he’d been enjoying.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the bite, slightly brushing against the collar of his shirt. Seafoam green eyes made contact with yours as he opened them again, and a small smile graced his face as he realized you’d been watching him intently.

“You’re right, it is really good.” Your heart raced under the fervency of his gaze. He was staring into you like he wanted to read the thoughts echoing in your brain. “Would you like another bite?”

“Sure, but I can feed myself this one if you like,” you attempted to lighten the intense mood that had befallen your booth so you might actually be able to catch your breath,

“That won’t be necessary, I was quite enjoying myself,” Harry mused, refusing to break eye contact until you did. He scooped another bite onto the fork, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear before resuming his grip on your jaw and returning the fork to your lips. He felt your jaw flex as you chewed and swallowed the bite, but didn’t take his hand off of your face. Instead, he brought his thumb back to your lips and brushed below them gently, careful not to smudge your lipstick. 

He brought his thumb back to his mouth and slowly closed his lips around the pad of it, a half-smile tugging at his lips at your bewildered expression. “Sorry, you had a little something there. I figured I’d get it for you.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath instead of attempting to utter a response.

He took another bite himself before offering you another, which you obliged with little hesitation.

“You know, Harry, you need to be careful feeding me like this or I’ll get used to it.” Another feeble attempt to ease the tension and stop acting like a flustered teenager.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he murmured, voice sincere and slow, laced with something that sent a shiver down your spine, “if it means I keep getting to see your cheeks flush.”

He’d noticed how your body was responding to him, whether or not you tried to hide it. Your face burned again, sinking further into the booth behind you in slight embarrassment.

“Well, it doesn’t help that I’m on a date with an attractive man who’s feeding me tiramisu. I think that’s every woman’s dream.”

“So it’s working?” His face glowed in the candlelight, a smirk on his face but a subtle vulnerability behind his eyes.

You knew what he was implying, but wanted to regain some of the power you’d lost by being so flustered. “Maybe.”

“That’s not good enough for me. I need a yes.” He needed confirmation that you were on the same page.

“And what exactly am I saying yes to?” A sip of wine ran down your throat as you awaited his response.

“To letting me walk you home after this,” Harry stated bluntly, scanning your face for your reaction. You couldn’t help the way your face flushed, but you held your composure, leaning back casually against the booth behind you as you pretended to mull it over. You already knew what you wanted.

“Alright, Harry,” you smirked, bringing the wine glass to your lips once more, “let’s see where the night takes us.”

- - - - - - - - - - 

“God, it’s freezing out here,” you groaned, dodging patches of ice. You were nearly home, your apartment building visible up the street.

Harry had grabbed your hand under the guise of keeping it warm a few minutes ago, something you were grateful for now as you gripped it tightly, trying to navigate the snow-covered ground in heels with little traction. He’d offered to call an Uber, but you wanted some more time with him without a driver listening in on your conversation.

As you approached the building, your imagination ran with thoughts of getting him upstairs, into your apartment, into your living room… 

Before you could get too far, you were at the front door. Your free hand patted over the pockets of your jacket to ensure that you had your keys and found them in your left pocket.

“I had a great time with you tonight, Y/N,” Harry turned to face you, not letting go of your hand. “I’d love to do this again, sometime, if you’d be interested.”

A slight flush now graced his face, glancing at the ground as he awaited your response.

“I had a lovely time. I’d love to see you again,” you confirmed quickly, not letting him worry for too long.

He was beaming now, allowing you to admire his prominent dimples. Your heart skipped a beat and you couldn’t help but smile right back at the sight.

“There’s that beautiful smile again,” he quipped. His free hand reached for your jaw, cradling it again as you both continued to grin at each other for a few moments. A silence fell upon you again, and Harry’s eyes searched yours for a second before flickering to your lips, which had slowly returned to a resting state. As he moved his gaze back up, your eyes gleamed with the reflections of Christmas lights and were swimming with the need for more contact with him. He inhaled slowly, nervously, before exhaling sharply. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded quickly, gripping his collar to pull him closer before his mouth met yours. Electricity sparked between the two of you, his luscious lips colliding with yours over and over again, like he couldn’t get enough of you. The kiss started slow, but quickly became deeper, more desperate, as he gripped your waist tightly and pulled you close to him. Your hands searched for solace, moving from his collar to his cheeks before lightly running through the hair at the back of his neck.

He tore his lips away from yours but didn’t stray far, pressing his forehead against yours as you both tried to catch your breath. You could see both of your small pants in the air as they fogged due to the cold. A small smile played on each of your lips, and you just knew your lipstick was half-gone because you could definitely see some of it on Harry.

“You know,” you pulled away, straightening your stance confidently, “I have a bottle of wine upstairs if you’d like to help me drink it.”

Harry grinned. “I would love to.”

[vetrilit]

Inviting Elegance: The Allure of Storefront Glass Doors

The storefront of any business serves as the first impression to potential customers. It's the face of your establishment, and its design can greatly influence foot traffic and sales. When it comes to creating an inviting and elegant storefront, one design element that has stood the test of time is the storefront glass door. In this in-depth exploration, we'll delve into the allure of storefront glass doors, their numerous benefits, and how they can transform your business into an elegant and welcoming space.

The Timeless Appeal of Storefront Glass Doors

1. Transparency: Storefront glass doors offer an unobstructed view of your business's interior, enticing passersby to take a closer look.

2. Natural Light: These doors allow abundant natural light to flood your space, creating a bright and inviting atmosphere that appeals to customers.

3. Aesthetic Versatility: Storefront glass doors come in various styles, including sliding, swinging, and revolving options, making them suitable for different architectural designs.

4. Customization: You can personalize storefront glass doors with etched or frosted designs, logos, and graphics, adding a unique touch to your business's facade.

Types of Storefront Glass Doors

1. Clear Glass Doors:

These doors provide a full view of the interior and exterior and are ideal for businesses that want to showcase their products or services.

2. Frosted or Etched Glass Doors:

Frosted or etched glass offers privacy while still allowing light to filter through. They are commonly used for offices, spas, and boutiques.

3. Frameless Glass Doors:

Frameless glass doors create a modern and seamless look, making them popular among contemporary businesses.

4. Sliding Glass Doors:

Sliding glass doors are space-efficient and ideal for businesses with limited storefront space.

5. Automatic Glass Doors:

Automatic glass doors offer convenience and accessibility, making them an excellent choice for high-traffic areas.

Benefits of Storefront Glass Doors

1. Curb Appeal:

Storefront glass doors instantly enhance the curb appeal of your business, making it more attractive to potential customers.

2. Increased Visibility:

Clear glass doors allow customers to see your merchandise or services from the street, encouraging them to enter.

3. Energy Efficiency:

Modern glass doors are designed to be energy-efficient, helping you save on heating and cooling costs.

4. Security:

Tempered or laminated glass used in storefront doors is tough and shatter-resistant, enhancing the security of your premises.

5. Custom Branding:

You can incorporate your brand's logo and design elements into the glass, reinforcing your brand identity.

Creative Uses of Storefront Glass Doors

1. Display Windows:

Pairing storefront glass doors with display windows allows you to showcase your products and attract the attention of passersby.

2. Restaurant Patios:

Restaurants can use sliding or folding glass doors to create an open and airy ambiance while providing outdoor seating.

3. Boutique Entrances:

Boutiques often use frosted or etched glass doors to maintain a sense of privacy while creating an elegant entryway.

4. Medical Offices:

Medical offices can use glass doors with a frosted band for privacy in reception areas while maintaining an open feel.

5. Art Galleries:

Art galleries benefit from clear glass doors to allow natural light to illuminate the artwork, creating an aesthetically pleasing environment.

Maintenance and Care Tips

1. Regular Cleaning:

Frequent cleaning with a mild glass cleaner keeps your storefront glass doors looking pristine.

2. Seal Maintenance:

Check and maintain the seals around the door to prevent drafts and ensure energy efficiency.

3. Hardware Inspection:

Regularly inspect door hardware like handles and hinges to ensure smooth operation.

4. Professional Repairs:

If your glass door sustains damage, consult professionals for repairs to maintain its integrity.

Conclusion

Storefront glass doors are not just entryways; they are a canvas for creativity and an opportunity to create an elegant and inviting facade for your business. Their transparency, versatility, and customization options make them an enduring choice for businesses of all types.

When considering storefront glass doors for your business, think about your brand identity, the message you want to convey, and the type of ambiance you wish to create. Whether your business is a retail store, restaurant, boutique, or office, storefront glass doors can elevate your space, making it more appealing to customers and enhancing its overall aesthetic.

So, if you're looking to make a lasting impression and invite elegance into your business, consider the timeless allure of storefront glass doors. They are more than just entrances; they are an essential part of your business's identity and an investment in its success. Embrace the transparency and sophistication of storefront glass doors, and watch as they transform your business into a welcoming and elegant space.

[securedoorsolution]

Residential Interior Glass Doors and Emergency Roller Door Repair in Canterbury

Secure Door Solution, a trusted name in Canterbury, offers a diverse compass of door options, including residential interior glass doors and emergency roller door repair services. Let's explore how these solutions elevate homes and businesses, accompanied by the resilience of residential steel doors.

[skywindowsaluminumproducts]

Aluminum storefront door

Upgrade your storefront with our sleek and modern clear anodized double doors, featuring midrails for added strength and style. Embrace elegance, transparency, and durability, setting your business apart!Clear Anodized Finish: The clear anodized coating not only enhances the doors' appearance but also provides corrosion resistance and easy maintenance.Reinforced with Midrails: Experience enhanced structural integrity and security with strategically placed midrails, ensuring lasting performance and peace of mind.

[itacats]

Butcher Shop Connection

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: A quiet butcher named Simon finds his routine shaken by a regular customer whose shy demeanor masks a darker secret. Drawn to their kindness, Simon discovers troubling truths about their life, including a dangerous and abusive partner.

As tension builds, Simon is thrust into a harrowing situation where his loyalty and courage are tested. Lines blur between protector and avenger, as a late-night call for help leads to a violent reckoning.

The story weaves themes of resilience, healing, and the lengths one will go to safeguard someone they care about, culminating in a final confrontation that promises justice—and a chance at a new beginning.

A/N: Welcome to my newest installment, a story that dives deep into resilience, love, and the fight for safety and freedom. This series is both an emotional journey and a thrilling ride, weaving moments of quiet vulnerability with intense, heart-pounding confrontations.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Part 1 - Butcher's Charm

The door swings open with a soft creak, the cheerful chime of the bell overhead ringing out like a friendly greeting. It’s the kind of sound that makes you feel seen, welcomed, part of a world warmer than your own. The butcher shop smells as it always does: a heady blend of freshly cut meats, earthy herbs, and the subtle, comforting tang of smoked sausages hanging in the display. It’s a place that feels alive—bustling yet intimate, orderly yet full of charm.

Your gaze sweeps over the familiar surroundings, the polished glass counters gleaming under the golden afternoon light streaming in through the wide storefront window. Behind the counter stands Simon, his figure both unassuming and magnetic. He’s wearing his usual dark apron, the fabric smeared with streaks of blood and marinade, his sleeves rolled up just enough to expose the edges of tattoos that peek out like secrets.

The sight of him brings a smile to your lips. It always does.

“Hey there! The usual?” Simon asks as you approach the counter. His voice is deep, smooth, and unhurried, carrying a warmth that seems to settle the frayed edges of your mind. His eyes catch yours, and the corners of his lips lift in a shy smile that hints at a deeper, quieter affection he seems almost afraid to show.

“Yeah, the usual,” you reply, trying to keep your voice casual. But the flutter in your stomach betrays you, as it does every time.

Simon moves with practiced ease, pulling the knife from his station and making clean, precise cuts into the slab of meat on the cutting board. It’s mesmerizing to watch him work. Each movement is a dance of skill and confidence, his hands steady and deliberate. Those hands—they tell a story. The scars scattered across his knuckles and fingers speak of mistakes learned from, the faded tattoos of a life lived in vibrant bursts, the slight tremor in his right wrist of long hours and hard-earned experience.

He glances up at you as he wraps your order, his expression soft and attentive. "Anything else today?" he asks, the question lingering like an invitation.

You shake your head, trying not to linger too long on the way he looks at you, as if you’re the only person in the world. “No, this is great. Thanks, Simon.”

He hands you the package, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment—a fleeting touch that leaves your pulse racing. You catch the way his gaze lingers, like he’s searching for something, but before either of you can speak again, the bell rings, and another customer walks in.

As you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder. He’s still watching you, his shy smile now tinged with a quiet longing that makes your chest tighten.

Simon’s days are long, filled with the constant rhythm of knives slicing through flesh and bone, the hum of the cooler, the occasional clatter of metal trays. He loves his work, but it’s repetitive, a steady drumbeat in a life that once felt more unpredictable.

And then you walked in.

He remembers the first time he saw you, how your laughter bubbled over as you joked with him about the weather. You were bright, a spark in the monotony, and though he’d stumbled over his words that day, he’s gotten better at hiding how flustered you make him feel. Each time you visit, he finds himself lingering over your conversations, replaying the way you say his name or how your eyes light up when he teases you with a dry joke.

But Simon’s never been one to take risks when it comes to his heart. He’s spent years guarding it, locking away his past—the late nights in dive bars, the fights that left his hands bloodied and his spirit bruised. He’s a man remade, quieter now, content to find peace in his craft and the simple pleasures of routine.

And yet, here you are, stirring something in him that feels like both a risk and a refuge.

You leave the shop with your neatly wrapped package in hand, but your thoughts are still with Simon. There’s something about him—the way he’s steady but not stagnant, reserved but not cold—that pulls you back, week after week.

Over the months, you’ve pieced together fragments of his story. The tattoos on his forearms, faded and slightly smudged, hint at a wilder youth. The small scar on his cheek, which he once told you was from an accident in his first week as a butcher. The way he talks about his grandmother’s recipes, his voice softening with nostalgia, makes you wonder what kind of family shaped him into the man he is now.

And then there’s the way he looks at you. It’s a look that makes you feel seen in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying, as though he’s peeling back the layers of who you are and seeing the raw, vulnerable core.

You wish you had the courage to let him in. But courage is hard to muster when your life is split between the warmth of moments like these and the icy grip of what waits for you at home.

As you climb into your car and start the engine, you glance back toward the shop. Through the window, you see Simon helping another customer, his hands moving with the same practiced precision. For a moment, you allow yourself to imagine what it would be like to linger in that warmth a little longer, to let him know the parts of you that you’ve kept hidden.

But for now, the thought is enough.

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!