Since I hit 100 folls and 3000+ likes, I will be opening a request form !! thank you so much for the love and likes I really appreciate it. For celebrating this I want to open a request form so both you and I can talk and share our ideas together !
Let's read this first ~
ℛules
1 . ) I will make the fic around 5-7k words only for the request
2 . ) I will take 2 requests per week because now my schedule is very tight 🥲
3 . ) I will prioritise shorter fics first then the long one by the end of the month
4. ) For smut I will take a little long to write it since I'm still learning how to write smut sadly 😭
5 . ) please do not spam when I'm not finished with the fic
6 . ) you can also dm me for if you want notes you share
7 . ) I won't take any series ,, but will make drabbles ♡
That's all ♡♡
again, thank you for the love for my fic ♡
here's another add for fandom I will write ♡
Outer Banks . Wednesday . Jujutsu Kaisen . house of the dragons . A Knight Of the Seven Kingdom.
gwayne my pretty princess my skittish horse my frightened gazelle nobody's doing the medieval romantic knight renaissance painting serve like you are i love you
໒ Summary : What would their wish would be if they had the one wish willow on their hand to have the girl they want?
Including : Aerion Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon, Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower (all Modern AU) × f!reader
CW: Modern AU, Dark Romance, Supernatural Mind Control, Compulsion, Obsessive & Possessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Loss of Autonomy . Not supporting bear's action, Read at your own risk . "obsession" movie inspired.
A/N: reminding that this is just a fiction. everyone is crazy af in here
Aerion Brightflame
Aerion was never someone who accepted rejection.
As you turned your back on him in the dimly lit hallway behind the lecture halls, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He had pulled out all the stops—leaning against the wall, flashing his usual lethal smirk, casually offering you a ride in his sports car like it was the greatest privilege in the world.
And you? You had just adjusted your backpack, looked at him with complete indifference, and said, "No thanks, Aerion. I'm busy."
No hesitation. No blush. Just sheer, cold indifference as you walked past him, the soft click of your shoes echoing down the corridor.
Aerion stood frozen for a split second, his silver-blonde hair falling slightly over his eyes. His pride wasn't just wounded; it was utterly scorched. Watching your retreating back, something inside him snapped—a raw, dangerous frustration that burned away whatever patience he had left.
He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the One Wish Willow box. It was cool, heavy, and pulsing with a subtle, unnatural hum against his palm. He didn't care about the warnings or how ridiculous it seemed to use it right here in the middle of campus. He just knew he couldn't let you walk away from him again.
Taking two swift steps forward, his dark eyes locked onto your figure, Aerion held the branch tight in his grip and whispered bitterly into the cold air,
"I wish for her stop walking away. I don't care how—just make her look at only me. Make her body refuse to leave me behind."
He snapped the branch in two. The moment the last word left his lips, a sudden, heavy static filled the air.
Just ten paces ahead of him, your feet suddenly felt like lead. A strange, sharp chill ran down your spine, followed by a dizzying wave of warmth that flooded your chest. Your heart gave a violent, unnatural thud. Suddenly, the urge to keep walking completely vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, magnetic pull drawing your attention back behind you.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Your head felt heavy, filled with a sudden, intrusive image of Aerion—his eyes, his voice, his presence. The indifference you felt just five seconds ago was completely wiped clean, replaced by an intense, suffocating need to be near him.
Slowly, almost like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, you turned around.
Aerion was still standing there, holding something small in his hand before casually slipping it back into his pocket. A dark, triumphant smirk slowly spread across his lips as he saw you frozen, staring at him with wide, dazed eyes.
You took a slow step back toward him, your breath hitching as you looked up into his gaze. The words left your mouth before you could even process why you were saying them.
"...Aerion?"your voice trembled slightly, eyes glued to his. "Actually... changed my mind. Let's go home together."
Aerion took a slow step closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes burning with a dark, satisfied possession.
"I thought you'd never ask," he murmured softly, reaching out to gently take your hand.
Valarr Targaryen
Valarr was always the epitome of self-control.
As the quiet, dutiful heir, he was used to keeping his emotions perfectly checked. But standing near the campus courtyard under the afternoon drizzle, watching you politely reject him for the third time this week, his composure was threadbare.
He had brought you your favorite iced coffee, offered to help you carry your heavy books, and gently asked if he could drive you home.
And as usual, you offered him a small, distant smile—the kind reserved for polite strangers—and pushed the coffee back toward him. "Thank you, Valarr, but really... I can handle it myself. You don't need to keep doing this. I'll see you around."
You turned away, clutching your tote bag against your shoulder, your steps steady as you walked out into the rain toward the bus stop.
Valarr stood alone under the shelter, holding the cold cup of coffee. His chest constricted with a heavy, suffocating ache. He saw how warmly you laughed with your friends, how relaxed you were around everyone else, while with him, you always built an invisible, unbreakable wall.
I’m tired of being just a harmless background figure to her.
His hand dropped into his coat pocket, wrapping around the cold, carved edges of the Willow box he’d been carrying for days. He pulled it out just enough to hold it in his fist, his knuckles pale. Standing right there under the awning, watching your figure get further away, Valarr let his quiet desperation take over.
He lowered his head slightly and whispered sharply into the rain-chilled air,
". Make her need me. I wish to be the only warmth she seeks when everything feels cold."
The instant the wish left his lips, a sudden, unnatural shudder rippled through the courtyard air.
A few yards ahead, you froze.
The rain felt bitterly cold on your skin, but inside your chest, a strange, terrifying emptiness suddenly bloomed. A violent chill rushed up your spine, making your hands shake so badly you almost dropped your books. Your mind, which a second ago was thinking about your schedule, was suddenly flooded with a suffocating sense of helplessness—and an intense, magnetic urge to find Valarr.
Your feet stopped. The bus stop was just a few feet away, but every instinct in your body screamed that you couldn't leave. You needed him.
Slowly, as if guided by an unseen force, you turned back around.
Through the light rain, you saw Valarr standing under the awning, his dark eyes locked onto yours, steady and unblinking. The usual soft, hesitant look on his face was replaced by a deep, unwavering intensity.
Your breath hitched. You took a step back toward him, then another, your feet moving on their own until you were standing right in front of him again, completely drenched and trembling.
You looked up at him with wide, helpless eyes, clutching his jacket sleeve.
"...Valarr," your voice broke slightly, full of a sudden, desperate need you couldn't explain. "I... I don't want to go home alone. Please stay with me."
A slow, subtle smile touched Valarr's lips as he slipped his hands around yours, his grip firm, warm, and entirely unyielding.
"I'm right here," he murmured softly, pulling you under his umbrella. "I’m not going anywhere."
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace had been the perfect gentleman for as long as he could remember.
He was the guy who always remembered your coffee order, stayed up late to help you study, and walked you home just to make sure you were safe. But standing near the campus library under the fading evening light, his heart hit rock bottom.
He had just offered you his umbrella, stepping out into the drizzle himself so not a single drop of rain would hit you.
You stopped, looking at him with a gentle, pitying expression that hurt more than a slap to the face. You softly pushed the umbrella back toward his chest.
"Jace, stop... please," you said softly, giving him that frustrating, gentle smile. "You’re such a good friend, but I really don't want you wasting your time on me like this. I can walk alone."
A good friend.
You turned around, pulling your hood over your head as you walked out into the open courtyard, leaving him behind in the shade.
Jace stood frozen. His bright, warm smile completely vanished, replaced by a hollow, burning ache in his chest. He was tired of being the 'safe option'. He was sick of watching you walk away while he stayed behind like a foolish, loyal dog.
His fist tightened inside his coat pocket, his fingers pressing hard against the cool, smooth surface of the Willow box. He had swore he’d never use something like this—that he’d win your heart fair and square. But watching your silhouette disappear into the fog, his patience completely snapped.
Pulling the branch out just enough to feel its faint pulse, Jace stared intently at your back and whispered, his usual gentle voice turning low, sharp, and resolute.
"I’m done being just a friend. Make her turn back. I wish she feels as desperately, hopelessly attached to me as I am to her."
A heavy, electric pulse instantly shot through the damp air.
A few yards away, you took another step— and completely froze.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion crashed into your chest, making your breath catch in your throat. It felt like an invisible wire had snapped tight around your heart, tugging you violently backward. The cold rain didn't matter anymore. The schedule in your head completely evaporated. All you could feel was an intense, suffocating ache—a sudden, desperate fear of losing Jace.
Your eyes widened in confusion as tears welled up without warning. Why do I suddenly feel so terrified of leaving him?
You turned around so fast your wet sneakers squeaked on the pavement.
Jace was still standing under the awning, watching you. But the sweet, hesitant boy from two seconds ago was gone; his dark gaze was fixed on you with an intense, unwavering possessiveness.
You ran straight back through the rain, practically throwing yourself toward him. You grabbed the front of his jacket, looking up at him with wide, trembling eyes, your heart pounding wildly.
"Jace...Jace, I’m sorry," you choked out, clinging to him as if you'd drown if you let go. "Don't leave. Please... don't look at me like that. I don't want to be just friends anymore. Take me with you."
Jace dropped the umbrella onto the ground, bringing both hands up to frame your face, wrapping you tightly in his warmth as a dark, satisfied smile spread across his lips.
"I'm right here," he whispered against your forehead, his grip tightening so you could never pull away again. "I’ve got you now."
Gwayne Hightower
Gwayne was used to being the smooth-talker everyone wanted around. He had the charm, the sharp style, and the kind of easy confidence that usually made people bend to his will without him even trying.
Except for you.
You were standing near the steps outside the campus cafeteria, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Gwayne had walked up beside you, leaning in with his signature cocky smirk, tapping his fingers against the strap of your bag.
"Come on," he teased, tilting his head with an easy laugh. "You’ve been staring at your phone all afternoon. Let me take you out for dinner. I promise I’m way better company than whatever’s on that screen."
You didn't even smile. You just gently brushed his hand off your bag, giving him a weary, unimpressed look.
"Gwayne, please. I'm really not in the mood for your jokes today," you said plainly, stepping past him. "I'm going home."
No banter. No playful back-and-forth. Just a clean, effortless rejection that left him standing on the steps like a complete fool.
Gwayne’s smirk instantly melted away. His jaw set into a hard line as he watched you walk down the stairs toward the crowded courtyard. His ego was stinging, but beneath that pride was a darker, persistent frustration that had been brewing for months. He didn't want to just be the guy you brushed off with an annoyance in your eyes.
His hand darted into his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapping around the smooth, heavy surface of the Willow box he’d bought off an antique store for a joke.
Holding it tightly inside his pocket, his gaze pinned to your back, Gwayne dropped his casual facade completely. He leaned against the stone pillar and murmured under his breath, his voice laced with bitter intensity,
"Stop letting her run from me. I wish for her to realize she can’t get me out of her head, no matter how hard she tries."
A heavy, static charge rippled through the air the second the words left his mouth.
Down at the bottom of the stairs, your steps suddenly faltered.
A sharp, dizzying pulse hit the back of your brain, followed by a sudden rush of heat that made your breath catch in your throat. The frustration you felt a second ago vanished, completely replaced by an intense, overwhelming urge that made your knees feel weak. Your mind felt utterly consumed by Gwayne—his voice, his laugh, the way he looked at you.
You stopped dead in your tracks in the middle of the crowded walk.
Why was I walking away? The thought hit you with terrifying force. The idea of leaving him behind suddenly felt entirely wrong, almost unbearable.
Slowly, you spun around on your heel, looking back up the stairs.
Gwayne was still standing up there, his hands pulled out of his pockets, watching you with dark, burning eyes. Seeing you stop and turn around, a slow, dangerous smirk crept back onto his face—this time, far more triumphant.
You practically sprinted back up a few steps toward him, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs, eyes wide as you looked up at him.
"Gwayne..." you breathed out, clutching the lapel of his jacket without even realizing it. "Wait... don't go yet. Can we... can we go somewhere together? Just the two of us?"
Gwayne wrapped an arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a low, satisfied chuckle.
"Now that," he whispered against your ear, his grip tightening possessively, "is much more like it."
Ormund hightower
Ormund was a man accustomed to authority.
He was refined, structured, and used to having people listen whenever he spoke. Yet, standing outside the law building’s lecture hall, all that polish meant absolute zero to you.
He had walked alongside you down the hallway, keeping a respectful distance while offering his help with a dark, composed tone. "I noticed you were struggling with the case study earlier. Let's get coffee—I can walk you through the arguments before tomorrow."
You didn't even slow down your pace. You just hugged your binder tighter against your chest, giving him a flat, distant look.
"I've already figured it out, Ormund," you replied evenly, not a single trace of emotion in your voice. "Thanks, but I don't need your help. Excuse me, my ride is here."
Without another word, you stepped around him and headed straight for the glass exit doors, leaving him standing alone under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Ormund didn't flinch, but his jaw clenched until the muscle ticked. The sheer dismissiveness in your tone hit him harder than any open insult. You treated him like an inconvenience—an unnecessary distraction.
His hand slipped smoothly into the pocket of his tailored coat, his long fingers closing around the intricate, heavy wood of the Willow branch he always kept on him. He didn't raise his voice or make a scene. Instead, he stood tall, his dark eyes tracking your movement through the glass doors with icy precision.
He took a slow, deliberate breath and whispered into the quiet hallway, his voice thick with unyielding authority:
"I'm done letting her act like she has a choice. Make her turn around. i wish she belongs by my side—and nowhere else."
The instant the command left his lips, an eerie, heavy pressure settled over the air.
Out on the front steps, just as your hand reached for the door handle of your ride, your body completely locked up.
A sudden, dizzying wave of heat rushed to your head, making your vision blur for a fraction of a second. A sharp, suffocating sense of panic spiked in your chest—not because of danger, but because of an terrifyingly strong realization that leaving Ormund was a grave mistake. Every instinct in your mind suddenly screamed that the only safe, correct place for you to be was right back next to him.
Your hand slid off the door handle.
Your heart thudded violently against your ribs as you pulled back, your feet moving in reverse as if compelled by an invisible command.
You turned back toward the glass doors and walked straight back inside.
Ormund was still standing in the center of the foyer, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets, watching your return with a cold, triumphant calmness.
You hurried over to him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you looked up into his eyes, completely unable to break eye contact.
"Ormund..." you murmured, your voice trembling as you reached out to grab his sleeve. "I... I made a mistake. Please don't let me leave. Take me with you."
Ormund leaned down slightly, his hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline with dark, possessive satisfaction.
"I knew you'd see reason," he whispered smoothly, his eyes burning with absolute victory. "Let's go."
𓏲 ✶ summary : you prefer scaling the high stone walls of Oldtown over riding dragons. Despite constant, gentle warnings from your devoted protector, Ser Gwayne Hightower, a rescue of a wounded bird leads to a tragic fall.
𓏲 pairing : Gwayne Hightower × f!reader
𓏲 word count : 2,2k
𓏲 warning: Accidental injury ✶ mild angst ✶ heavy fluff ✶ romance in the aftermath
𓏲 Author's note : Guys, I will be opening a request page when I reach 100 followers !! stay tuned!
The smell of damp stone and ancient moss always followed you back into the castle, no matter how many times Gwayne Hightower gently chided you about it. As the twin sister of Daeron Targaryen, one might think you’d inherit a love for the skies on dragonback, but instead, you preferred conquering the heights with your own two hands. Scaling the high walls, balconies, and towers of Oldtown was your ultimate escape.
"It’s a dangerous habit, princess," Gwayne would often say, his voice a soft, steady rumble as he carefully pulled a stray piece of green moss from your hair. "The stones are deceptive, especially when the coastal fog rolls in. One wrong footing, and..." He would shake his head, a fond but worried smile tugging at his lips. "Please, for my peace of mind, keep your feet on the ground."
You’d usually just offer him a reassuring smile, melting a little at how deeply he cared. But today, the universe decided to test your luck.
You were trapped in a stifling embroidery lesson, the repetitive poke of the needle driving you insane. Suddenly, a frantic, pained chirping cut through the quiet room. Looking out the arched window, you spotted a nest high up on the weathered stone ledge of the adjacent tower. A small bird was thrashing around, its wing bent at an unnatural angle, trapped between the ancient masonry.
Without a second thought, you ditched your needlework and slipped out into the courtyard.
The stones were still dark and glistening from the morning downpour, but you didn't care. Tucking your skirts, you found your familiar handholds and began to climb.
Down below in the training yard, the heavy clangs of steel on steel suddenly halted. A squire looked up, squinting against the gray sky, before his eyes went wide. He frantically tapped Gwayne on the shoulder.
"Ser! She's doing it again!"
Gwayne’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto your figure, already halfway up the treacherous, damp wall. The color instantly drained from his face. He lowered his practice sword, his composure cracking into pure panic as he rushed to the base of the tower.
"Princess, please!" Gwayne called up, his voice hushed but strained with desperate urgency. "Get down from there. The walls are soaking wet, it's far too dangerous!"
"I can't, Gwayne!" you yelled back, not daring to look down as your fingers searched for a dry grip. "There’s a bird up here! Its wing is broken, it’s going to die if I don't help it!"
"Let me get a ladder, or let one of the guards fetch it," he pleaded, his hands reaching up fruitlessly, as if he could stretch high enough to pull you to safety. "Just hold still. Don't move, princess, please..."
"Just a second! I almost have it!" You stretched your arm out, your fingertips just barely brushing the edge of the nest. You managed to gently scoop the fragile, shivering creature into your palm, securing it against your bodice. "See? I got—"
Sliiiiiip.
Your boot lost its grip on a patch of wet, hidden moss. The sudden lack of friction sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your veins. You lunged with your other hand, but the wet stone offered no purchase.
The world turned upside down.
You heard Gwayne cry out your name, a sound of raw, unadulterated terror before the wind was completely knocked out of you. You hit a lower stone awning first, which painfully broke your momentum, before crashing hard onto the muddy ground of the courtyard.
When you finally blinked your eyes open, the bright afternoon light hurt. Your entire body felt like it had been run over by a carriage of heavy stones. You panicked for a split second, trying to wiggle your toes, fearing the worst but relief washed over you as a sharp, stinging pain shot up your legs. Broken, bruised, but thank the Gods, you could still feel them.
"Don't move... please, just rest."
The voice was incredibly soft, but it trembled violently. You turned your head slowly to see Gwayne sitting in a chair right beside your bed.
He looked a complete mess. His hair was disheveled, his armor was gone, and his eyes were bloodshot and heavily rimmed with red. The fierce, confident knight looked entirely undone.
"Gwayne..." you croaked, your throat dry.
Hearing your voice, a quiet, broken sob tore through his chest. He immediately leaned forward, burying his face in the edge of your mattress, his broad shoulders shaking as he wept silently. He didn't care about looking strong right now; the sheer terror of almost losing you had completely shattered him.
"You terrified me," he whispered into the sheets, his voice thick with tears. He slowly lifted his head, his hands reaching out to tightly, yet with absolute gentleness, cradle yours. "I was standing right there at the bottom... and I couldn't catch you."
"It's not your fault..."
"It feels like it," Gwayne murmured, a tear slipping down his cheek as he looked at you with an overwhelming warmth and sorrow. His thumb gently stroked the back of your hand. "When I saw you slip... I swear my heart stopped. I thought I had lost you. I can't bear the thought of a world without you, princess. I truly can't."
He squeezed your hand, pressing his forehead against your knuckles, his hot tears soaking into your skin as his voice dropped to a soft, fiercely protective whisper.
"Please... promise me. No more climbing. I don't think my heart could take it a second time."
You offered him a weak, apologetic smile, though even that small movement made your bruised ribs ache. "I promise, Gwayne. No more towers. At least... not when it rains."
He let out a watery, breathy laugh at your attempt to lighten the mood, though he didn't let go of your hand. Instead, he carefully brought your knuckles to his lips, kissing them with a reverence that made your heart skip a beat.
"Not even when the sun is rising, princess," he corrected softly, his thumb continuing its soothing strokes against your skin. "From now on, if anything is out of your reach, you tell me. I will climb the highest wall in Westeros if it means keeping your feet safely on the ground."
The bedroom door creaked open slightly, and a young maid peeked in, looking incredibly relieved to see you awake. In her hands, she held a small, hastily put-together wooden crate lined with soft cloth. Inside, a familiar bundle of feathers was resting quietly.
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness, Ser Gwayne," the maid murmured softly. "But the Grand Maester tended to the little bird. Its wing is bound, and he says it will recover nicely thanks to you."
Gwayne looked from the crate back to you, a tender, albeit slightly exasperated, expression softening his features. He gestured for the maid to place the box on the table near the window before she quietly bowed and left the room.
"You see?" Gwayne whispered, turning his attention back to you, his eyes shining with a warmth that completely enveloped you. "Your little friend is safe. But the price was far too high. You gave your twin a fright, too, Daeron practically had to be held back from storming the Sept to pray for you."
"Is he angry?" you asked softly, imagining your brother's frantic face.
"He's worried, just as I am," Gwayne murmured. He leaned in a little closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before locking back onto your eyes. The usual distance required between a knight and a princess seemed to completely vanish in the quiet safety of your chambers. "But right now, you only need to focus on healing."
He reached up with his free hand, his fingertips brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead with absolute gentleness.
"I'll stay right here," he promised, his voice dropping to a low, soothing hum. "For as long as you need me. Just rest, princess."
The weeks of bedrest finally came to an end. Thanks to the Grand Maester’s soothing poultices, your bruised ribs and battered legs had completely healed. Though Gwayne still watched your every move like a protective hawk, you were finally allowed to roam the castle grounds once more.
It was a breathtakingly clear morning in Oldtown. The coastal breeze carried the scent of salt and blooming sea-mallows through the open corridors. Perched happily on your shoulder was Pip, the little bird you had risked your life to save, now fully recovered and chirping softly against your neck.
As you stepped into the quiet, sun-drenched sanctuary of the high gardens, you spotted Gwayne. He wasn’t wearing his heavy steel armor today, only a fine, dark green doublet stitched with the golden tower of his house. The moment the soft thud of your slippers reached his ears, he turned around. The stern, guarded expression he usually wore for the rest of the world instantly vanished, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved only for you.
"Good morning, princess," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a wave of relief. His eyes did a quick, instinctive sweep from your head to your toes, ensuring there wasn't even a ghost of a limp left in your stride. "How do you fare today? No lingering aches?"
"I am perfectly well, Gwayne. Truly," you laughed softly, closing the distance between you.
Gwayne extended his hand, and without a second thought, you slid yours into his warm palm. He brought your knuckles to his lips for a gentle, customary kiss, before his gaze drifted up to the little bird on your shoulder.
"And it seems our little friend is quite eager for the skies as well," Gwayne noted, using a single, careful finger to stroke Pip’s feathers with absolute gentleness.
You nodded, knowing today was the day. Together, you walked over to the edge of the stone balcony that overlooked the whispering sea. You gently scooped Pip into both of your hands, raising him toward the open air. With a joyful, sharp chirp and a powerful beat of his mended wings, the little bird launched into the sky. He circled once above your heads, as if saying a final thank you before soaring high into the clouds.
A bright, triumphant smile lit up your face. But when you turned to share the moment with Gwayne, you realized he hadn't been watching the bird at all.
He was staring intently at you. His eyes were dark with an overwhelming, breathless affection.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked softly, a sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks.
Gwayne stepped closer, completely erasing the space between you until you could smell the faint, comforting scent of cedarwood and leather that always clung to him. He raised a hand, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingered on your cheekbone, caressing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath hitch.
"I was only thinking... how terribly empty this courtyard would be if I had lost you," Gwayne whispered, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. "Seeing you like this radiant, healthy, and whole... it is all I could ever ask for, princess."
You leaned your cheek into his palm, your hand coming up to rest over his wrist. "I told you, Gwayne. I'm not going anywhere."
"You promise?" he murmured, his eyes dropping down to your lips, his gaze growing heavy and intense.
"I promise."
Gwayne let out a low, shaky breath. The rigid boundaries between a knight of the realm and a royal princess, the fears of the court, the looming shadows of tomorrow—all of it seemed to melt away under the bright Oldtown sun. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned down.
When his lips finally met yours, it wasn't the kiss of a dutiful protector, but of a man who had stared into his worst nightmare and survived. The kiss was incredibly soft at first, a gentle, trembling question, before it deepened into something desperate and fiercely passionate. His other hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you flush against his chest, holding you as if he were anchoring you to the very earth.
Your hands tangled into his hair, pulling him closer as the world spun around you—not from a dangerous fall, but from the sheer, intoxicating warmth of his mouth against yours. He tasted of sweet wine and pure devotion.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. Both of your breaths came in short, ragged puffs. Gwayne’s eyes slowly opened, shining with a profound, quiet reverence. He gave you one more lingering, gentle peck on the lips before resting his hands on your waist.
"Well," Gwayne whispered, a breathless, genuinely happy chuckle escaping him as he looked down at your flushed face. "I suppose that settles it. I am entirely at your mercy, princess."
You smiled, wrapping your arms securely around his neck. "And where exactly are you taking your captive today, Ser Gwayne?"
"Nowhere near the walls," he teased softly, his thumbs sweeping soothing circles against your waist. "Just a quiet afternoon in the gardens. A blanket under the weirwood tree, some lemon cakes, and you, safely within my arms. How does that sound?"
"Perfect," you murmured, leaning your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
Gwayne kissed the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. "Then let us go, my princess. Your earthbound knight is ready."
True to his nonchalant word, Drew didn't send a text asking what you were wearing or giving you a heads-up when he was five minutes away. Instead, a clean, low-pitched rumble of a car engine echoed outside your apartment building exactly on the dot. You peeked through the blinds to find his dark SUV idling at the curb.
When you opened the passenger door and climbed in, Drew didn't look up immediately. He was dressed casually—a heavy black crewneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing the veins in his hands, and his usual low-profile cap. He smelled heavily of clean laundry and that sharp, addictive cedarwood cologne.
He shifted the car into drive, eyes fixed on the road, his expression completely blank. "You don't look completely terrible," he muttered lazily, spinning the steering wheel with one hand.
You let out a dry laugh, strapping your seatbelt. "Wow, Starkey. Keep the compliments coming. I might faint."
"Don't. I'm not carrying you," he replied, a tiny, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his lips giving him away.
He didn't take you to a fancy, high-end restaurant where Hollywood elites went to be seen. Instead, he drove twenty minutes out of the city to a dimly lit, slightly rundown 24-hour diner that looked like it belonged in a vintage film. The vinyl booths were cracked, the neon sign outside was flickering, and the jukebox in the corner was playing low jazz. It was private. Quiet.
For the first hour, the heavy, suffocating tension from the studio completely melted away. Away from the cameras, the scripts, and Jasper’s burning glares, Drew’s defensive walls lowered just enough to let you see the real him. But he didn't become a soft romantic; he remained frustratingly, charmingly nonchalant, leaning back against the vinyl booth with a half-eaten burger in front of him.
You ended up talking about the most ridiculously stupid things.
"I'm telling you, a raccoon could easily take down a domestic cat in a street fight," Drew argued solemnly, swirling a fry in a puddle of ketchup. His face was deadpan, completely serious.
"Are you insane?" you laughed, leaning your chin on your hand, completely captivated by how stupid the conversation was. "My aunt has a ragdoll cat that weighs fifteen pounds. It has claws, Drew. A raccoon is just a trash panda."
"Trash pandas have thumbs," Drew countered, his blue eyes gleaming with a lazy, amused light as he looked at you. "They can open latches. They have strategy. Your aunt's cat gets scared of the vacuum cleaner. It's a logistical nightmare for the cat."
"You are ridiculous," you giggled, hiding your flushing face behind your glass of iced water.
Drew didn't laugh out loud, but his eyes softened, tracking the way your shoulders shook. "You look better when you're laughing," he murmured casually, taking a sip of his black coffee. "On set, you look like you want to commit corporate espionage."
"That is because you make my job incredibly difficult," you shot back, kicking his boot gently under the table.
He didn't move his leg away. Instead, he left his heavy boot resting right against yours, a silent, warm contact that reminded you exactly why you were here. The slow, agonizing burn from the past week was still humming beneath the surface of your silly arguments about wildlife and studio coffee.
By midnight, the diner was completely empty, and the air had grown cold. Drew paid the bill with a careless flick of his wrist and led you back to the SUV.
The moment the car doors slammed shut, cutting off the ambient noise of the highway, the playful atmosphere vanished. The heavy, magnetic pull from the studio came roaring back into the small, enclosed space of the vehicle.
Drew started the engine but didn't put the car in gear. He just sat there, his left hand resting on the steering wheel, his right hand on the gear shift. The dashboard lights cast sharp, amber shadows across his jawline. He was completely still, staring straight ahead.
"Drew?" you whispered, the quietness of your voice suddenly feeling too loud.
Slowly, Drew turned his head. His nonchalant mask didn't slip, but his blue eyes had completely darkened, blown out with an intensity that made your chest tighten. He looked at you, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes.
"I've been thinking about doing something all night," Drew said, his voice a low, rough rumble that sent a violent shiver down your spine. "And if I don't do it right now, I'm going to ruin the shoot tomorrow."
Before you could even process his words, Drew reached across the console. His large hand slid into the back of your hair, his long fingers gripping your head with the exact same heavy, territorial pressure from the studio—but this time, it wasn't for show.
He pulled you forward, and his lips met yours.
The kiss wasn't gentle, and it wasn't sweet. It was a sudden, roaring explosion of a week's worth of suppressed hunger, denial, and frustration. You let out a soft gasp against his mouth, and Drew took advantage of it, his tongue sliding past your teeth, deep and demanding. Your hands instinctively flew to his chest, gripping the thick fabric of his sweater as he pulled you closer, almost dragging your body across the center console.
Drew groaned low in his throat, a rough, desperate sound that made your knees go weak. His nonchalant facade completely shattered. He was hungry, sloppy, and absolutely relentless, kissing you like he wanted to consume you whole.
His lips left your mouth, leaving them swollen and burning, but he didn't stop. He dragged his lips down your jawline, his breathing ragged and heavy against your skin.
"Drew—" you breathed, your head tilting back involuntarily as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your neck.
He went completely feral. Drew buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips hot and wet as he sucked and bit at your skin, leaving a string of messy, uninhibited kisses. His thumb pressed firmly against your jaw, holding you exposed to him, his chest heaving against yours. The sheer, unbridled desperation in the way his mouth moved against your throat made your mind go completely blank. You were drowning in him, completely consumed by the wildfire.
FLASH.
A sudden, blinding burst of white light pierced through the tinted passenger window, exploding inside the dark cabin of the SUV.
The sudden glare violently shattered the heat of the moment. You flinched hard, a gasp tearing from your throat as you ripped yourself out of Drew’s grip. Drew’s head snapped up, his eyes wild, dark, and predatory as he glared through the window.
Through the glass, just a few feet away, a paparazzi member was frantically stepping back, a massive camera in his hands. He had clearly tracked Drew’s car to the remote diner and had been creeping up on the vehicle in the dark. The camera flash had accidentally gone off through the side window—catching Drew completely buried in your neck, his hand tangled in your hair, his mouth open against your skin in a messy, hungered kiss.
"Fuck!" Drew hissed, his voice dropping into a terrifying, guttural growl.
Panic seized your throat. Your hands shook violently as you pulled your jacket over your neck, your heart hammering so loud it roared in your ears. "Drew... oh my god, he took a photo. He saw us."
Drew’s nonchalant demeanor was completely incinerated. He looked absolutely lethal. For a second, you thought he was going to throw the door open and tear the photographer apart with his bare hands. His knuckles were white, his jaw clenching so hard you could hear his teeth grind.
"Stay down," Drew ordered sharply, his voice tight as he slammed the car into reverse.
He hit the gas, the tires screeching against the asphalt as he whipped the SUV around, cutting off the paparazzi who was already running back to his own car to upload the footage. Drew didn't try to chase him; his main priority was getting you out of there. He tore onto the highway, the speedometer climbing rapidly as he navigated through the dark lanes, his face set in a terrifying, rigid mask of pure fury.
"Drew, what are we going to do?" your voice cracked, a cold sweat breaking out on your skin. "That photo... it’s not like the TikTok. It’s... it’s undeniable."
Drew kept one hand tightly on the wheel, while his other hand reached over, finally closing over yours on the console. He didn't squeeze it gently—his grip was tight, grounding, and intense.
"Let them talk," Drew growled out, his voice rough, though his eyes briefly cut to you, checking on your trembling frame. "I told you yesterday, didn't I? If we didn't deny it, people were going to think you're mine."
He pulled the car up to your apartment building, the silence between you now charged with an erratic, frightening energy.
By the time you unlocked your apartment door and sat on your bed, your phone was already vibrating itself off the nightstand. You didn't even have to open TikTok or Instagram to know what was happening. The internet had officially exploded.
The top trending topic worldwide was a blurry but crystal-clear, high-definition photo of Hollywood’s leading man, Drew Starkey, completely losing his mind against his young director’s neck in the back of an SUV. The caption circulating across every major tabloid read:
"New: Drew Starkey caught in a passionate make-out session with his director outside a diner! KISS is REAL #DrewStarkey #Spotted #FYP
The comment section was in a literal meltdown. “Look at his hand in her hair! He is literally devouring her!” one comment with 10k likes read.
You buried your face in your hands, your neck still burning from the ghost of his lips, realizing that tomorrow morning on set wasn't just going to be a cold war—it was going to be an absolute, uncontrollable media circus.
If you thought the studio was chaotic on day one, the atmosphere the next morning was a literal zoo.
Before your car could even pull up to the studio gates, you could see the barricades. News vans, local reporters, and dozens of paparazzi were swarming the entrance like vultures. Flashbulbs exploded against your windshield the second you stepped out, security guards shoving people back just to create a narrow pathway for you to walk through.
"Director! Look over here! Is the movie just a front for your relationship?"
"Did Drew Starkey get the role because of your personal history?"
You kept your head down, your oversized collar flipped up to completely hide the faint, purplish bruise blushing against the side of your neck. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, your skin cold with panic until the heavy studio doors finally slammed shut behind you, cutting off the deafening noise.
Inside, the silence was worse.
Today wasn't a shooting day; it was the official promotional photoshoot for the movie posters and magazine covers. The studio was blinded by massive, industrial white umbrella lights, and rows of clothing racks lined the walls. Nobody was working. Every single crew member, wardrobe stylist, and makeup artist froze, their eyes instantly locking onto you.
"Great. The star of the show has arrived."
Jasper stepped out from the lighting booth. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and his posture incredibly stiff. He walked up to you, dropping a stack of printed tabloid papers onto your desk with a harsh smack. Right on top was the high-definition photo from last night—Drew’s hand tangled in your hair, his mouth buried desperately in your neck.
"The producers have been calling me since 4:00 AM," Jasper said, his voice dropping into a harsh, bitter whisper so the crew wouldn't hear. "They're ecstatic about the free publicity, but the network is losing its mind over the professionalism aspect. And me? I’m just trying to figure out how you could be so reckless."
"Jasper, it was an accident, the paparazzi followed us—" you started, your voice trembling.
"An accident?" Jasper let out a dry, hollow laugh, stepping closer. "He was devouring you in a parking lot, You’re completely blind when it comes to him. Look at your neck! You can’t even hide it!"
"That's enough, Jasper."
A low, dangerous drawl cut through the room.
You turned sharply. Drew was standing by the wardrobe partition. He was already styled for the photoshoot, wearing a sharp, tailored slate-grey suit that made him look impossibly broad and intimidating. His hair was slicked back perfectly, his expression completely blank, completely lempeng. He didn't look panicked, he didn't look guilty, and he definitely didn't look like a man whose career was on the line.
He sauntered over, his heavy dress shoes clicking against the concrete floor. He held a fresh cup of iced coffee in one hand, his posture entirely relaxed as he stopped right beside you, intentionally crowding Jasper out of your space.
"We have a schedule to keep," Drew said casually, taking a slow sip of his coffee, his blue eyes locking onto Jasper with a cold, unbothered stare. "If you're done lecturing my director, I'd like to get these promos over with."
Jasper’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He looked at Drew, then at you, realizing you weren't going to push Drew away. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you," Jasper muttered, turning on his heel and storming off to the back of the set.
Drew didn't even watch him leave. Instead, he lazily turned his head down to look at you. His nonchalant mask was firmly in place, but as his eyes dropped to the collar of your shirt—noticing how hard you were trying to hide the mark he left last night—a slow, incredibly smug smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Morning, Director," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave so only you could hear the rough, teasing warmth underneath. "Nice collar."
"Shut up, Drew," you hissed, your face instantly burning a furious crimson. "You caused this. Look outside! The studio is completely surrounded!"
Drew shrugged, entirely indifferent. "They're just taking pictures. Let them look."
"Alright! Drew, to the center! Actress, to his left! Let's get the main theatrical poster shots!" the promo photographer called out, breaking the heavy tension.
Drew lazily tossed his coffee cup into a trash can and strolled onto the white seamless backdrop. The studio lights flashed rapidly—click, click, click—as Drew seamlessly slipped into his character. He was a professional; he knew exactly how to smirk for the camera, how to lean his shoulder back, how to look like the charming, untouchable rom-com lead the world loved.
But because of the media frenzy, the photographer was getting greedy.
"No, no, the chemistry is too standard! I need more raw tension!" the photographer yelled, frustrated, looking over at you. "Director! Can you come over here and show them the blocking? The producers want the poster to look modern, intense. Like... like that photo from last night! Show him how you want him to hold her!"
The entire studio went dead silent again. A few wardrobe girls gasped quietly. The photographer didn't mean it maliciously; he was just a businessman wanting to capitalize on the biggest viral topic in the world.
Your breath caught in your throat. You looked at the backdrop. The lead actress looked slightly awkward, while Drew just stood there, his hands in his suit pockets, his expression completely unreadable as his dark blue eyes tracked you walking slowly onto the set.
"Just... just change the hand placement," you stammered, your voice lacking its usual directorial authority as you stepped onto the white paper, feeling the heat of the massive studio lights. You approached Drew, your hands shaking slightly as you reached out to adjust his suit jacket. "Drew, put your arm around her waist, but keep your posture stiff, like you're fighting the attraction..."
You were so focused on trying to look professional that you didn't notice Drew moving.
Before your hands could leave his lapel, Drew’s arm shot out. His large hand didn't grab the actress. Instead, his fingers slid firmly around your waist, his grip heavy and vice-like as he violently yanked you forward, crashing your chest directly against his tailored suit jacket.
A loud gasp tore from your mouth. The studio went completely breathless.
"Drew—what are you doing?!" you whispered in a panicked rush, your hands trapping against his broad chest, your eyes wide as you looked up at his face.
Drew didn't look at the crew, and he didn't look at Jasper, who was staring from the monitors with an expression of pure horror. Drew just looked down at you, his nonchalant demeanor completely melting into that dark, hungry intensity from the back of the SUV last night. He tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you so close your thighs were brushing against his.
"Like this, Director?" Drew whispered, his breath hot against your face, his voice a low, rough rumble that sent a massive jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"Drew, stop, everyone is watching, the photographer—"
"I don't care," Drew murmured lempengly, his thumb tracing a heavy, deliberate circle against your hip, holding you captive in front of everyone. He tilted his head down slightly, his eyes dropping to your swollen lips before rising to meet your panicked gaze with absolute, unyielding victory. "Let them watch. I'm tired of pretending I don't want to do this every time you look at me."
FLASH
The photographer, completely caught up in the raw, real-life drama unfolding in front of his lens, instinctively hit the shutter button. The studio flash exploded in a blinding white sheet of light, capturing the young director trapped flush against her leading man's chest, her face bright red with panic, and Drew Starkey looking down at her with an expression so fiercely possessive, it was bound to break the internet all over again.
The aftermath of the photoshoot was a turning point. The image the photographer "accidentally" captured never made it to the network producers; Drew had his security team seize the memory card before anyone could upload it. But the message had been sent. The lines were no longer blurred—they were completely erased.
For the next three days, Drew went back to his maddeningly nonchalant self. He delivered his lines perfectly, drank his iced coffee, and left the set precisely on time. But the hidden touches grew heavier. A lingering brush of his knuckles against your hip when walking past your chair; his boots resting firmly against yours under the editing table; the quiet, suffocating weight of his blue eyes tracking your every movement.
By Thursday night, the studio was finally wrapped for the weekend. You were sitting in your empty office, rubbing the back of your neck where the bruise had finally faded into a faint, shadow-like mark.
Buzz.
Your phone vibrated against the desk. You picked it up, expecting another frantic email from PR. Instead, it was a text from a number you hadn't saved, but knew by heart.
Drew S: Pack a bag. Two days. I’m outside.
You blinked at the screen, your heart doing a sudden, violent thud. You grabbed your purse, walked to the window, and parted the blinds. Down on the street, parked illegally in the yellow zone, was his sleek dark SUV. Drew was leaning against the driver’s side door, his hands tucked into his pockets, his baseball cap pulled low. He looked completely lempeng, completely unbothered by the fact that two paparazzi cars were parked just half a block away, waiting for him to move.
You took a deep breath, packed your laptop, and walked down.
The moment you stepped out of the building, the camera shutters started clicking from across the street. You instinctively lowered your head, rushing toward the passenger side. Drew didn't even look at the photographers. He casually opened the door for you, waited until you climbed in, and then walked around to the driver's seat, shifting the car into gear with an effortless flick of his wrist.
"Where are we going?" you asked, your voice tight with anxiety as you watched the paparazzi cars immediately pull out to follow you. "Drew, they’re behind us. They’re going to follow us wherever we go."
Drew lazily glanced at the rearview mirror, his expression entirely indifferent as he stepped on the gas, heading straight toward the highway leading out of the city.
"Let them follow," he said casually, his voice a low, steady rumble.
"Drew, I'm serious," you stressed, turning in your seat to face him. "If we get caught at a hotel or a restaurant again, the network is going to freak out. The PR team—"
"I told my manager to stand down today," Drew interrupted, his tone completely nonchalant, yet carrying a heavy, unyielding weight. He briefly cut his eyes to you, his gaze dark and intense under the brim of his cap. "I'm not doing the secret drives anymore. I'm not doing the back-alley coffee runs. We're going to my cabin in Ojai. An actual, real date. And if they take a picture of me holding your hand, then they take a picture."
Your breath trapped in your throat. You stared at his sharp profile, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Are you saying... you want to go public?"
"Yeah," Drew murmured, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he rested his elbow on the window frame. "I'm tired of Jasper thinking he has a say, and I'm tired of pretending I'm just your leading man. I'm going to take you to dinner, I'm going to walk down the street with you, and if the internet loses its mind, let it. I don't really care. You okay with that, Director?"
The sheer, nonchalant bravery in his voice completely melted the last of your resistance. The slow burn had consumer you entirely, and looking at him now, you realized you didn't want to hide anymore either.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, leaning your head back against the headrest. "Yeah. I'm okay with that."
Drew didn't say anything sweet, and he didn't reach over to kiss you. But his left hand slid off the steering wheel, his large fingers casually tangled with yours over the center console, his grip tight, solid, and incredibly possessive as he drove into the night.
The weekend in the mountains was everything the studio wasn't. It was quiet, warm, and entirely yours. Drew kept his word—he took you to a small, local diner on Friday night, holding your hand across the wooden table without a single care about who was looking.
By Sunday afternoon, you were sitting on the wooden porch of his cabin, wrapped in that same oversized grey hoodie you had borrowed on day one. The golden hour sun was setting over the valley, casting a warm, amber glow across the deck.
Drew was leaning against the porch railing a few feet away, completely in his element. He was wearing a faded white t-shirt, his hair slightly messy from the mountain wind, holding a ceramic mug of black coffee. He wasn't looking at a script, and he wasn't posing. He was just looking out at the view, his expression relaxed, lempeng, and devastatingly handsome.
Without thinking, you pulled out your phone, lifted the camera, and snapped a candid photo.
The lighting was perfect. It caught him in profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the lazy tilt of his head, and the shadow of his long eyelashes against his cheek. It was intimate, quiet, and beautiful.
You looked at the photo on your screen, a sudden rush of bold confidence hitting your chest. You opened Instagram. You had never posted anything personal since the production started, keeping your feed strictly professional with clapperboards and behind-the-scenes set designs.
You uploaded the candid photo of Drew to your main feed. No flashy tags, no long explanations, and no location markers. Just a simple, soft-launch caption:
"Healing for a weekend. ☕🌲"
Within three minutes of hitting 'Post', your phone began to violently vibrate in your palm, the screen lighting up with hundreds, then thousands of notifications per second.
The internet went into an absolute, cataclysmic meltdown. It was the ultimate confirmation. The top comment, pinned with 1k likes within twenty minutes, read: “OH MY GOD, IT’S OFFICIAL. they're dating!! it's literally Drew!"
"What's making that noise?"
Drew’s low, lazy voice broke the quiet. You looked up from your screen, your face burning a bright crimson as you caught him staring at you, his eyebrow slightly arched in curiosity.
"Nothing," you stammered, quickly locking your phone and hiding it behind your back. "Just... production updates."
Drew didn't buy it. He casually strolled over, his heavy boots thudding softly against the wood until he was standing directly over your chair. He reached down, his large hand effortlessly snatching the phone from your grip. He unlocked it, his blue eyes scanning the thousands of comments flooding your Instagram post.
You braced yourself, suddenly panicked that you had pushed him too far, that his nonchalant nature would find it too loud.
Instead, Drew just stared at the photo of himself on your feed. The corners of his mouth slowly twitched upward into a genuine, incredibly smug smirk. He didn't look mad; he looked deeply, intensely satisfied.
He tossed the phone back onto your lap, then bent down, his broad chest crowding your space as he leaned his hands on the armrests of your chair. He tilted his head, his blue eyes locking onto your blushing face with a slow, agonizing heat.
"Healing, huh?" Drew whispered, his voice dropping into that rough, heavy rumble that always turned your knees to jelly. "Bold move, Director. But if you're going to tell the world I'm yours..."
He reached up, his long fingers sliding into your hair behind your ear, his thumb firmly tilting your chin up to meet his lips.
"...you better prepare for everything," he murmured lempengly, before leaning down and kissing you thoroughly under the fading golden sun, completely erasing the rest of the world outside
— —
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