Claws and Kisses
Summary: Logan doesn’t do softness—not where others can see. But in the quiet of your shared space, when the world isn’t looking, his rough hands find your skin with a tenderness that could ruin his reputation.
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The bar is loud, sticky with spilled beer and cheap whiskey, reeking of sweat and bad decisions. The kind of place where fists fly as easily as drinks, where the lighting is dim enough to keep secrets, and where Logan somehow feels right at home.
You don’t mind it—not really. The grittiness, the chaos. What you do mind, however, is the way some asshole across the room is looking at you like you’re a goddamn prize to be won.
Logan hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked at him. But you can feel the shift in the air. The silent, simmering storm that coils in his muscles, wound tight like a predator preparing to pounce.
His hand is already on you. It always is. Resting heavy on your thigh beneath the table, thumb stroking absent circles against your skin—possessive without even trying. But now, it tightens, fingers pressing in just enough to remind you, remind everyone, exactly who you belong to.
You press a hand to his arm, your touch barely enough to break through the storm cloud brewing behind his eyes.
Logan doesn’t take his gaze off his drink, doesn’t move a muscle beyond the slow, calculated twitch of his fingers against your leg. But his lips curl, something sharp and almost smug.
“Ain’t doin’ nothin’, sweetheart.”
His knuckles are white around the glass in his free hand, and you know, without even looking, that he’s two seconds away from shattering it.
You exhale, leaning into him slightly, like pressing closer might pull him back from the edge. But it’s too late. The guy—clearly unaware of the danger he’s just walked into—gets up from his table, drink in hand, and starts moving toward you.
Logan’s entire body goes still.
A cold, lethal kind of still. The kind that means someone is about to regret waking up this morning.
The guy stops next to you, flashing a smile that might’ve been charming under different circumstances.
“Didn’t mean to stare, sweetheart,” he says, his voice smooth, laced with a confidence that makes your stomach turn. He leans in slightly, gaze flicking toward Logan before settling back on you. “Just figured a pretty thing like you deserved a drink that wasn’t watered down with backwash.”
Before you can respond, before you can even blink, Logan shifts.
Not much. Just enough to tilt his head, finally meeting the guy’s gaze.
That’s the only word for it.
The look in Logan’s eyes is something ancient, something dangerous. A predator sizing up his prey.
The guy falters, his confidence wavering.
Logan’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks, but it cuts through the bar like a blade.
“Funny,” he drawls, low and slow, like he’s savoring every syllable.
The man blinks, confused. “What?”
Logan leans forward slightly, and you swear you feel the air change, charged and electric with something violent.
“You got about three seconds to walk away before I introduce it to the fuckin’ floor.”
A long, tense moment where the guy debates whether or not he’s about to get his ass handed to him.
Then, wisely, he mutters something under his breath and disappears into the crowd.
Logan watches him go, eyes still dark, still stormy, before finally exhaling.
“Happy?” he mutters, turning his attention back to you.
You shake your head. “You can’t just threaten everyone who looks at me, Logan.”
He scoffs, lifting his beer to his lips. “The hell I can’t.”
You purse your lips, torn between exasperation and something dangerously close to amusement. A part of you likes it—the possessiveness, the way he makes sure the world knows exactly who you belong to. It should probably bother you. It doesn’t.
Still, you nudge his side with your knee. “You’re impossible.”
Logan smirks. “And yet, here you are.”
The walk back to your shared apartment is quiet. Logan is warm beside you, his body radiating heat even as the night air bites at your skin. His arm is slung around your shoulders, casual, effortless, but there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps you pressed against his side.
Like he’s still simmering.
Like he still wants to put his claws through that guy’s throat.
Not until you’re inside, the door locked behind you, and Logan’s hands find your waist the second the lock clicks into place.
His grip is firm, pulling you flush against him, and his head dips, nose brushing along your jaw.
“Say it.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it sends a shiver down your spine.
It’s not a question. Not a request.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You know I am.”
Logan hums, dissatisfied. His lips graze your throat, teasing, but his grip tightens, pulling you even closer.
Your breath catches. “I’m yours.”
The words barely leave your lips before Logan’s mouth crashes into yours.
It’s heat and teeth and hunger, a kiss that steals the air from your lungs and sets your skin on fire. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, the small of your back—like he needs to feel every inch of you, needs to remind himself that you’re here, that you’re his.
You break away only when your lungs demand it, gasping as Logan presses his forehead against yours, breathing heavy.
His fingers skim up your sides, slow and deliberate, and his voice is quieter when he speaks again.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy, y’know that?”
You smile, breathless. “I know.”
Logan exhales, his grip loosening just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t ever really let go.
For everyone else, Logan is sharp edges and gritted teeth. He’s fists and growls and a reputation built on blood and bone. But for you?
He’s the way his hands hold you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. He’s the way his lips find yours again, softer this time, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you. He’s the way he breathes your name like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
And God help anyone who tries to take you from him.
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