coco190290

A Little Reminder

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Pairing(s): Xaden x reader

Warning(s): jealousy, smut, 18+, mdni, nsfw

Summary: Xaden has always been jealous and over protective of what's his... that has only amplified now that his wife is carrying precious cargo.

SR’s Note: So... I am not sure if you wanted this to have smut in it or not, so I may have *lightly* sprinkled some in there lol. I hope you enjoy this, and it is what you were wanting!

Tags: @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @whyucloudingmymind @bookofriverr @kitsunetori @velarisdusk @nctsawrus @lreadsstuff @paintedbyshadows @woollybread786 @cherry-hotline @obi-wansgirl @therevoloutionhasbegun @freakishfandomfiend @littleemissperfecttt @luvly-writer @fiahtheteaaddict @loveofmychips @w1ngsofwax @bodhidurrans @notnowkittenwhisker (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

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I thought about writing this into a spicy scene, but I am so out of practice that I didn't want to mess it up. x.riorson x reader

You hadn’t thought to bring it up. Not because you were hiding anything—but because it just... hadn’t mattered. It had been before becoming a rider. Before the Gauntlet. Before Threshing. Before Xaden Riorson had started looking at you like the world might crack in two if you didn’t make it through the next challenge.

You and Septon Izar had ended things cleanly, amicably, and left it at that. He’d been a friend before, and somehow, he still was—one of the few people who hadn’t flinched when you first started sitting with the marked ones. Honestly, his support during that time had meant more than you'd ever said aloud.

And honestly? Since Xaden? You hadn’t thought about Septon once. And maybe, maybe, you had mentioned it to Xaden. In passing. At most.

But judging by the sudden silence that swept through the dining hall—and the way Xaden’s head snapped toward you the second Septon opened his mouth—you definitely hadn’t mentioned that part.

"I think we only had sex twice," Septon said casually, sipping from his cup like he hadn’t just tossed a live drake into the center of the table. “And both times we were pretty drunk.”

You blinked.

What?

Your fork hovered above your plate as the table fell into a mixture of choked laughter and stunned silence. Garrick muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like oh shit. Nyra was already dragging her hands down her face. Bodhi looked delighted. Of course he did—this had his meddling written all over it.

You squinted up at Septon. “Man, that was so long ago, I barely remember.”

Xaden didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Not when you could feel the way his gaze landed on you—deadly calm, unreadable, and very, very still.

Someone coughed. Garrick kicked Bodhi under the table. Septon, gods bless his complete lack of self-preservation, raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not like it meant anything,” he added, glancing between you and Xaden with a shrug. “We were just—”

"Don’t," Xaden said, voice low and even, but it carried like a cold front.

The entire table froze.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, forcing a smile as you turned your attention down the table, “Nyra, I don’t think I’ve ever heard about your physical escapades. Please, if we’re airing things out, do share.”

There was a pause.

Then Nyra leaned back with a knowing small grin. “Which year?”

And just like that, the conversation shifted. Nyra launched into a truly unhinged story involving a third-year from Rider’s Quadrant, two years ago and a storage closet full of training gear.

Everyone moved on.

Except you.

Because while the rest of the table erupted into laughter, Bodhi caught your eye and gave you a subtle salute—good luck with that—and Xaden’s shadows curled around your calves in a slow, possessive climb.

You had really thought that would be it. Completely and utterly it. There was nothing there.

You and Septon were barely a footnote, a hiccup in your timeline. But clearly, someone at the table had missed that memo—and that someone was now walking three paces behind you, silent, shadows brushing the edge of your steps like a warning.

You turned the corner just past the gym hall, fully intending to head toward the dorms, but a hand caught your arm—not rough, but firm—and suddenly, you were being pulled into a recessed archway you hadn’t even noticed.

Xaden didn’t speak at first.

Just looked at you.

That onyx stare that made it feel like he was peeling back your skin to see what was underneath. His jaw was tight, shadows curling restlessly around his boots.

“You’re mad,” you said flatly.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m…” He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to force the word back in. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” you shot back, arms folding. “It was nothing, Xaden. It was before.”

His brow twitched. “I watched him look at you like he still wanted something.”

“He was talking to Bodhi!”

“He was talking to you.”

You stared at him, pulse thrumming harder than it should’ve been. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

His shadows surged, crawling up your spine like a storm about to break.

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

Your back hit the wall.

His hand came to rest beside your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. His voice dropped lower, into that gravel-smooth edge that made your knees a little unstable.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to your mouth, “and I don’t like being surprised.”

Your heart tripped over itself.

And because your pride had a death wish, you arched a brow and said, “Well, maybe I do.”

That was apparently the final straw.

He kissed you like it was a declaration, like he had to remind you—remind himself—that he knew every part of you better than anyone ever had. His hands found your hips, grip just shy of rough, and your fingers curled in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto before the ground gave way.

“Tell me again,” he said against your lips, voice thick with something that wasn't just anger, “how it meant nothing.”

Your breath caught—because you couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you. The only thing that mattered.

“It didn’t,” you whispered, barely audible. “It didn’t mean anything.”

He lingered there, just for a second, his forehead brushing yours as if he was searching for the truth in your skin. And then, with no more warning than a flick of his shadows, he pulled back just enough to say, “Come with me.”

You followed him without thinking.

Past cadets loitering in the halls, past flickering sconces and low murmurs, up flights of stairs that you barely registered because your heart was thundering in your chest. Xaden didn’t look back once—but his shadows stayed close, curling possessively around your wrist like a tether, a silent mine whispered over and over again in the dark.

By the time you reached his room, your pulse was high in your throat.

He opened the door, stepped inside—and then, just as you were about to follow, his hand shot out.

And pulled you in.

Hard.

You stumbled, but only for a heartbeat—because he was already there, catching you, pinning you back against the closed door with a thud that echoed in the silence.

“You think I care that it happened before me?” he murmured, his mouth brushing along your jaw, your neck. “I don’t.”

You shivered.

“I care that you didn’t tell me,” he continued, his hand sliding to your waist, hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. “I care that he thought he could say your name like that. Look at you like that.”

“Xaden—”

“I’m not going to be polite about it,” he interrupted, voice a low rasp. “I’m not going to pretend I’m okay hearing another man talk about what’s mine like it’s some casual memory.”

His lips found the corner of your mouth again, softer this time. A contrast to the words that came next.

“You’re not his story to tell.”

Your breath hitched.

“You want to tell me it meant nothing?” he asked, gaze catching yours with such intensity it felt like a command. “Then let me show the world who you belong with.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him down.

Summary: At seventeen, Dean fell hard for the girl in his high school English class. He never got a chance to make a move before he was on the road again. When he bumps into her working the same case as himself, he wants to know how her apple pie life got flipped upside down…

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 1,200ish

Warnings: language

A/N: Enjoy!…

________________

Not because he wasn’t worthy of love—no, gods, he was. More than most. Fierce and loyal, intelligent and powerful. He moved like shadows and storms, spoke like a man carrying the weight of too many ghosts. He was intimidating, magnetic, and untouchable. And yet, somehow, your heart didn’t find him through fear, or longing, or loneliness. It found him because he saw you.

He didn’t meet you and try to fix you. He didn’t reach for you out of pity, or obligation, or convenience. Xaden chose you, again and again, quietly, fiercely—like war choosing a weapon. And when you gave him your heart, he held it like it was sacred.

“I didn’t fall in love with you because I needed someone,” you whisper one night, when it’s just the two of you lying beneath a sky split with stars and silence. His arm is wrapped around your waist, calloused fingers tracing idle lines against your ribs.

“I know,” he murmurs. His voice is low, graveled, reverent. “You fell in love with me despite everything.”

You smile into his chest, fingers brushing the scar that cuts across his skin—a story he once told you with more vulnerability than he shared with most. “I fell in love with you because you make me feel like I belong somewhere.”

His grip tightens just slightly, protective, grounding. “You do belong. With me.”

And it’s that simple.

No games. No proving. Just mutual, unwavering gravity. A love that doesn’t take, but gives. A love that feels like finally breathing in a place you didn’t know you’d been holding your breath.

You didn’t fall in love because you were lonely.

You fell in love because when Xaden Riorson looks at you—really looks at you—you feel like the only person in the world who’s ever truly been seen.

And gods help anyone who tries to take that from you.

⸻

You shift slightly against his chest, your fingers tracing the edge of his scars like you’re memorizing them—every line, every story. He doesn’t flinch. He never does with you.

“You’re not easy to love, you know,” you whisper, not to wound him, but because he needs to hear the truth sometimes. The real kind. The kind that doesn’t sugarcoat.

He huffs a laugh, low and rough. “No shit.”

“But I never wanted easy,” you continue, lifting your head to meet his gaze in the dark. “I wanted real. And that’s what you are, Xaden. Raw and unrelenting and real.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes, like he’s not sure what to do with the gentleness you offer him. Like he’s still learning how to hold it without breaking it. But he tries. For you, he always tries.

“I didn’t think anyone could love me the way you do,” he admits quietly, like the words cost him something. “Not with everything I’ve done. Everything I still have to do.”

“I don’t love you in spite of those things,” you say, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “I love you because I know them. Because I know you. And you never make me feel like I have to earn your love in return.”

He sits up a little, just enough to press his forehead to yours. The stars spill silver light over his face, catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the quiet ache in his expression.

“You don’t have to earn anything, viessa.” His voice is barely a breath. “You already have all of me.”

And gods, when he says it like that—so certain, so sure—it settles in your bones like truth. You know he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you, not like you’re fragile, but like you’re everything.

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me, Riorson.”

He smiles. Not the smirk he gives the world, the one laced with sarcasm and charm and sharp edges. No, this one’s softer. Warmer. A smile only you ever get to see.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tucking you back against his chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” And as the wind rustles the trees beyond your campfire, and the distant breath of dragons echoes in the night, you know something with absolute clarity:

You didn’t fall in love with Xaden Riorson because you were looking for love. You fell because something in his soul called out to yours—and yours answered like it had been waiting for him all along.

⸻

Flashback: Second Year at Basgiath

It’s late.

The kind of late where the halls are empty, the lanterns flicker low, and the only sound is your breathing as you wrap your injured hand in a strip of cloth that’s already soaked through with blood. You should’ve gone to the med ward.

You should have.

But the sting of failure still burns deeper than the open wound—because you’d gone toe-to-toe with another rider in sparring, one of Weren’s squad, and lost focus. One slip. One misstep. One sharp blade through your palm. And you hadn’t wanted to be seen like this. Vulnerable. Angry. Bleeding.

So instead, you slipped away, sat alone in a darkened corridor tucked between the training rings and the barracks, and tried to fix it yourself.

“You’re shit at bandaging,” a deep voice drawls. You flinch. Your head snaps up just as Xaden Riorson steps out of the shadows, arms crossed, eyes unreadable—but focused entirely on you.

“Thanks for the input,” you mutter, biting back your embarrassment. “Didn’t realize you were lurking in every hallway now.” He steps closer, kneels down in front of you. “I wasn’t lurking. I was watching the sparring matches.” “Then you saw me lose.”

He shrugs, like that part’s irrelevant. “I saw you get distracted. There’s a difference.”

You blink at him, surprised. “You think I was distracted?” “I know you were.” His eyes drop to your hand. “Let me see it.”

You hesitate.

This is Xaden. The Xaden who everyone either fears or follows. Who walks around like he doesn’t owe anyone anything and dares them to challenge him. The one with the weight of a rebellion on his shoulders and a death sentence carved into his back.

But still, somehow… you trust him.

You extend your hand. He takes it carefully, without a word. His touch is gentle—gentler than you expect—and he pulls a clean cloth from his pocket, one you hadn’t noticed. Dips it into a nearby water barrel. Begins wiping away the blood.

“I’ve seen worse,” he says quietly. “But it’ll scar.” “Doesn’t matter.” “It does.” His thumb brushes the edge of your hand, steadying it. “Every scar matters.”

You glance up, and your eyes meet. And that’s when it happens. That moment you start to fall.

Not because he’s handsome—though he is. Not because he’s strong—though he’s that too. But because of the way he’s looking at you.

Like you’re not a soldier to command. Not a name on a roster. Not a piece of strategy. Like you’re a person. Someone worth noticing. Worth seeing.

He finishes the bandage with a final, practiced tug and knot, then holds your hand just a moment longer. “You fight harder than anyone I’ve seen,” he says. “Just don’t forget to fight for yourself, too.” You nod, a little stunned. “Thanks.”

He stands. Looks down at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “Next time, don’t hide. Come find me.” And then he’s gone.

You sit there in silence, staring at the place where he’d been kneeling, the warmth of his hands still lingering on your skin.

You hadn’t been looking for anyone. You hadn’t needed to be saved. But in that moment, you felt seen. And that—that—was the beginning. You didn’t realize it then, not fully. But that was the first time your heart whispered, him.

⸻

Y/N – A Few Weeks Later

You tried not to think about that night. You told yourself it meant nothing—just a moment of decency. A rare flash of kindness from the brooding, too-sharp-for-his-own-good squad leader who usually acted like the entire world was a burden on his shoulders. But it stuck with you.

The way he’d looked at you—really looked at you. Like you were more than a body built to fight and survive. Like you mattered beyond your stats and your signet.

And now, you feel it in every passing glance across the sparring mats. Every time your name is called and his gaze lingers. Every time he watches you—not critically, but like he’s measuring something.

You train harder. Fight better. Talk less. You try to shake him from your thoughts like a bad habit. Because you know what it means to get attached in this place. People die. Bonds break.

And Xaden Riorson? He’s not safe. He’s not simple. He’s not the kind of boy girls fall in love with and live to tell the story.

But still…

You hear his voice in your head when you fight—don’t forget to fight for yourself, too.

And every time he passes you in the hall and nods just barely in your direction, like you share some unspoken secret, you feel it again:

You didn’t mean to fall. But gods, it’s already too late.

⸻

Xaden – His Moment

He notices you before you ever notice him. Not in the way others do—he’s not watching your stats or the way your dragon circles above the watchtower like she owns the sky. He notices the way you move. The way you carry silence like armor and sharpen your words like blades.

He notices you when you choose not to speak, even when you could. When you stay after training to help clean up shattered weapons no one else bothers with. When you’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when he walks into a room. And then, the night of your injury, when you’re sitting there—bleeding and alone and refusing to go to the med ward—he sees something that punches straight through the steel cage he keeps around his heart.

You’re just like him.

Stubborn. Guarded. Wounded in places no one else sees. But you don’t ask for anything. Not attention. Not help. Not even recognition. And that’s what gets him. Because most people want something from him. Fear. Favor. Power. But you? You just want to stand on your own.

And after that night, he starts watching closer. He notices how you always take the hardest path just to prove you can. How you hide your exhaustion under layers of sarcasm. How your eyes burn with something wild and defiant—something that looks an awful lot like survival.

And for the first time in a long time, Xaden Riorson starts wondering if maybe… just maybe…

You’re his exception.

He doesn’t let himself feel it—not all at once. That would be dangerous. But it grows. In the way his breath hitches when you smile at someone else. In the way his tone softens when he says your name.

In the way his heart beats harder every time he sees you walk away—because some deep, desperate part of him already knows: he’ll chase you if you go.

⸻

Weeks Later

The tension between you and Xaden becomes a quiet thing. It hums in the spaces between words. In every brush of his shoulder when you pass in the hallway. In the way his eyes linger just a second too long during briefings, like he’s memorizing you without realizing it.

He doesn’t touch you—not really. But his presence always settles too close. Always one step from brushing your hand when you walk side by side, always one breath from something more.

And you feel it—gods, you feel it—in the pit of your stomach every time he says your name in that low, rough voice, or when he looks at you from across the sparring ring, jaw tight, gaze unreadable.

There’s a moment one night, when you’re walking back from a late patrol. The skies are cloudy, the path dim, and the air thick with coming rain. You’re both quiet, breathing the same air but pretending it doesn’t mean anything.

Then, without thinking, you reach for his arm when your foot slips on the gravel. His hand snaps out to catch you. Warm fingers wrap around your wrist—firm, steady, gentle. And for a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

You’re standing too close. You feel it in the air—charged, tense, hungry.

Xaden’s eyes drop to your lips. Just for a second. Your breath stutters.

But then… he lets go.

“We should keep moving,” he says quietly.

And you hate how much you miss his hand the second it’s gone.

⸻

The Collision

It happens during a storm. The rain lashes the training grounds, and most cadets have retreated inside. But you—you needed the chaos. You needed to feel something real. So you’re outside, soaked to the bone, fists flying in a sparring match that’s long past over.

Until Xaden finds you.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he snaps, striding into the rain like it’s nothing.

You throw another punch, ignoring the way your body aches. “What do you care?” “I care,” he growls, grabbing your arm mid-swing. “More than I should.”

You freeze. His grip is tight. Not hurting—but solid. Like he’s grounding you. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Skipping meals. Sleeping in the archives. What the hell are you doing, Y/N?”

“I’m surviving,” you hiss, yanking your arm free. “Same as you.” “No.” He steps closer. “I’m watching you disappear and pretending like it doesn’t gut me every time.”

His chest is rising and falling hard. So is yours. Rain drips from his hair. His jaw is clenched. His eyes are fire.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whisper. “Not when you keep pretending this—whatever this is—doesn’t exist.”

“I’m done pretending.” He takes your face in his hands—tentative at first, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t.

He kisses you like he’s been holding back for years. It’s fierce. Desperate. Messy with rain and the ache of every moment you almost kissed and didn’t. And when you finally break apart, both of you breathless and shaking, he rests his forehead against yours.

synopsis. you’re no longer useful to the winchesters notes. 1.1k words, angst, fluff— comments & rbs appreciated.

“it’s honestly ridiculous.” sam smiles, nodding. you know he’s not exactly listening but there’s more pressing matters. like the fact that dean is going home with yet another woman. it’s like no matter what you do, there’s no winning.

The "You're Mine" Kiss

It’s not subtle. Never with Xaden. He doesn’t ask; he declares. These kisses usually come when someone’s pushed his buttons, stirring that fierce, protective side of him—or when he’s feeling the slightest flicker of jealousy. Whether it’s a lingering glance from someone else, a whispered comment he doesn’t like, or your casual flirtation with danger, his reaction is immediate.

Xaden’s hand curls around the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair, while his thumb presses lightly against your pulse. It’s deliberate, as if he’s savoring the way your heartbeat quickens under his touch. His other hand finds your waist, holding you firm, anchoring you to him.

When his lips crash against yours, it’s not a question—it’s an answer. There’s nothing tentative about the way he kisses you. It’s fierce, unapologetic, and possessive, the kind of kiss that takes and keeps, like he’s trying to carve his name into your very soul. His tongue brushes against yours in a commanding and relentless way, until the world fades into the heat of his touch and the fire of his kiss.

When he finally pulls away, your lips are swollen, your breath uneven, and yet he still doesn’t move back, his forehead resting against yours. His dark eyes lock onto yours, smoldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, roughened by the kiss, as he mutters against your lips, "Don’t forget it."

The Silent Apology Kiss

Xaden doesn’t stumble over apologies. He is honest—sometimes brutally so—and he rarely sugarcoats his words. It’s just who he is. But that honesty cuts both ways, and when his temper gets the better of him, the feeling of his regret is visible in the aftermath.

He doesn’t apologize right away. Instead, he clutches his fists tight enough that his knuckles turn white, jaw set in frustration, and leaves the room to cool off. It’s not anger at you—it’s at himself.

Later, when the quiet stretches too long and the sharp edges of the fight haven’t dulled, he finds you. You’re sitting alone, arms wrapped around yourself, the anger still coiled between you like a living thing. Xaden pauses in the doorway for a moment, as though gathering the resolve to step closer.

When he does, he doesn’t say a word. He crosses the room with quiet stubbornness, his shadow stretching long across the floor. Without hesitation, he kneels in front of you, his dark eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded, willing you to see his apology. His hand moves to your chin, tilting your face toward him with a touch so gentle it almost breaks you.

Then his lips press to your forehead—warm, steady, and conscious. The kiss lingers, longer than normal, like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words. You feel his breath against your skin, the slight tremor in his exhale, and the unspoken apology that hums in the quiet between you.

When he pulls back, staring into your eyes, his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw. “I shouldn’t have snapped,” he finally mutters.

But you both know the words aren’t necessary. The kiss already said it all.

The Teasing Peck

These are the kisses that catch you off guard, the ones that leave your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. It’s usually when you’re rambling, your mind spiraling in a dozen directions while you pace the room, oblivious to his gaze. Xaden leans lazily against a doorframe, arms crossed, his infuriatingly smug grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

He doesn’t interrupt—yet. He’s watching you, his eyes following the gestures of your hands as you emphasize your points, but you’re too focused to notice the way his thoughts wander. He’s imagining you in ways he probably shouldn’t: sprawled beneath him, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed as you—

“Xaden, are you even listening to me?” you snap, finally noticing the far-off gleam in his eyes.

He doesn’t answer. He just steps forward, closing the space between you with ease. His hand grabs yours, the roughness of his fingers distracting you for a split second before he dips down and presses the quickest of kisses to your lips.

It’s fleeting—barely more than a brush—but the warmth lingers, and before you can even process it, he’s pulling back. You’re frozen mid-sentence, the words catching in your throat as you gape at him, completely derailed.

His smirk deepens, satisfaction rolling off him in waves. His eyes glitter with amusement as he says, “I am now.”

Then he steps back, leaving you standing there while he saunters away like he hasn’t just turned your entire train of thought into a pile of rubble.

The "I’m Proud of You" Kiss

Xaden’s praise is rare, which makes these moments all the more significant. He’s not the type to toss around compliments lightly—they’re earned, and when he gives them, you know they’re sincere. It’s after you’ve done something he didn’t expect—holding your ground in a heated argument, outmaneuvering him in a sparring match, or catching him off guard by being a step ahead of his usually unshakable intuition.

He won’t show his admiration immediately when there are other eyes watching or more pressing matters at hand. That’s not his style, particularly when serious things are going down. But once the adrenaline fades and it’s just the two of you, that’s when you see it.

The moment comes quietly. His hands finding your waist with a confidence that feels like second nature. His touch is familiar yet tender, like all he wants in that moment is to hold you, to ground himself in you. His gaze softens, the hard edges of his usual intensity melting into something gentler, more vulnerable.

“You amaze me, you know that?” he says, his voice intimate, meant only for you.

There’s no smirk this time, no teasing gleam in his eyes—just quiet reverence as his lips find yours. The kiss is slow, unhurried, and meaningful, carrying none of the urgency or fire you might expect from him after a meeting. Instead, it’s full of something deeper, something that speaks volumes more than words ever could.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, as though to keep you in the moment. It’s not about heat or desire; it’s about acknowledgment, admiration, and the way he sees you as someone who continually surprises him, challenges him, and is there for him.

When he pulls back, he lets out a soft exhale, as though saying the words aloud was as much for him as it was for you. The corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile, his thumb brushing over your side as he adds, “I love you.”

The Protective Kiss

These kisses come when fear shadows his features—something you rarely see. Xaden seems unshakable, the rock in any storm, but when it’s you, when it’s your life that’s been on the line, that unyielding façade cracks.

It might be after a battle, when the adrenaline is still coursing through his veins and the memory of you being too close to danger burns fresh in his mind. Or maybe it’s in the quiet aftermath of a dangerous mission, when the reality of what could have happened finally catches up with him.

His hands are on you before you can even speak, his grip hard, almost bruising, as they settle on your arms. His dark eyes sweep over you, searching for any sign of injury, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap. It’s as if he’s trying to convince himself that you’re really here, whole and unbroken, standing in front of him.

He doesn’t say a word—he can’t, not yet. Instead, he leans in, his lips finding yours with a desperation that borders on frantic. The kiss is desperate, unrelenting, like he’s trying to breathe you in, to memorize the feel of you against him. There’s nothing soft or measured about it; it’s raw, primal, and filled with the kind of fear that only comes from almost losing the one thing that matters most.

His hands slide down to your waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as though he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

His voice, when it comes, is low and hoarse, laced with an edge of anger that’s born entirely of fear. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, the words both a command and a plea.

You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens even further as he pulls you into his chest, holding you close like he needs to feel your heartbeat to steady his own. And in that moment, you realize just how much power you hold over him—and how much he’d risk to keep you safe.

The Slow-Burn Kiss

This kiss doesn’t start with lips; it starts with a look. A glance that’s lingered far too long, one of those smoldering gazes that sets your pulse racing and makes the room feel suddenly too warm. Xaden’s been giving you that look all day—subtle, deliberate, the kind that curls low in your stomach and leaves you wondering if he’s toying with you or if he’s just biding his time.

It’s not just the look, either. It’s the small touches: his hand brushing yours as he hands you something, his fingertips ghosting over your lower back as he passes by, the way his thumb lingers a fraction too long when he presses it to your cheek. And yet, somehow, he’s avoided your lips. He’s kissed your forehead in the early morning light, his lips soft and fleeting, and later, he brought your hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. But your lips? Not once.

It’s a game, you realize—a maddeningly obvious one. He’s drawing it out, savoring your growing impatience with the kind of quiet control that only makes you want him more.

When he finally moves, it’s with an intended slowness that feels like it’s meant to unnerve you. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming, and the space between you vanishes until he’s right there. His hand comes up, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw, his touch impossibly soft.

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But his lips brush against yours so lightly it feels more like a question than an answer, a whisper of what’s to come. It’s intentional—teasing, torturous—like he’s testing your patience, drawing out the moment until it stretches impossibly thin.

And then, finally, when you tilt your head and close the gap, he lets you have it. His lips press to yours, a kiss that’s all-consuming without ever feeling rushed. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the world around you fades until there’s nothing left but him—the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his breath, and the unspoken promise that this moment is entirely yours.