—— ᴊᴜɪᴄʏᴍɪʀ ’

ABOUT ME ♥

━━━━━━━━━ ✦Jhené Aiko - stranger✦ ━━━━━━━━━

- REQUESTS OPEN! -

(any fandom allowed. and i mean ANY)

✦ -ˋˏ ✒ (​JUICYMIR) ˎˊ- ✦

✦ About: Hey my loves, this is my "about me" and honestly..i dunno what exactly to put. Because this is my first time doing this i'm going to write fanfics and pretty much anything thats requested to me. dont be a fucking idiot and tell me to write sum shit about a lil kid, its lame and its 2026. I only take adult characters and honestly if u want rules u can scroll

╰ ➤ Birthday!!! - 03/14

𝐈'𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧' 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐈'𝐦 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧' 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫.

✦ 𝑰𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒚

| Pronous - Any that's comfortable with you.

| Orientation -: none!

| Gender: F!ab

𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 / 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞

✦ Boundaries

| My No's: Absolutely no Criticism for my work. If you don't like it, read another, or honestly scroll. NO minor character's unless they have a confirmed adult hood in the show/movie.

| Ask: If you're looking for certain one-shots or looking for a head-cannon (18+ or not) Feel free to ask, I wouldn't mind writing it.

| Yes: Anything but hate, because i promise you, hating me won't stop me from doing what millions are thinking.

╰ ➤

— Arthur Ashe

╰ ➤ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈~

(ill probably change information as this account progresses)

REQUESTS OPEN!

ANY requests are open. I love all the niche anime's and scenarios you can possibly make up in your heads. Why not make them come to life? I've made 3+ posts on the types of reader that you can match with any character you desire. I'm stumped with ideas so please don't be shy!

(Check out my profile if you want to see the type of readers i made to motivate you.)

(for my stories with both female and male emo reader) (NOT BIBICALLY ACCURATE EMO)

F! READER (her song)

DISCRIPTION:

She’s not “trying” to look like anything. The aesthetic just happens to match how she already moves through the world. She prefers dimmer spaces, softer lighting, corners of rooms where she can observe without being observed too much. Not because she’s afraid of people, but because she doesn’t feel the need to be constantly in the center of them. She notices everything anyway. Her style is expressive in a controlled way. (dark tones, layered clothes,) subtle details that feel intentional without being loud about it. It’s less about “looking emo” and more about feeling comfortable in a certain kind of mood. There’s always a sense of coherence to it, like her outward appearance matches her internal atmosphere. She’s emotionally aware, but not emotionally exposed to everyone. She feels things deeply, sometimes intensely, but she doesn’t immediately put those feelings into words. Instead, they come out in smaller ways. (music choices, silence, writing,) the way she reacts to certain topics, or how she goes quiet when something hits too close. Her humor is dry, sometimes sharp, often unexpected. She can be blunt without being cruel. There’s a kind of honesty in her that doesn’t try to soften everything for comfort’s sake. Emotionally, she’s not fragile. She’s contained. There’s a difference. She’s learned how to hold a lot without letting it spill everywhere. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel deeply; it means she’s selective about where those feelings go and who gets access to them. She’s not trying to be mysterious. She just doesn’t belong to everyone.

HER VIBES:

HER MUSC TASTE:

M! READER (his song)

DISCRIPTION:

He carries that same emo-coded energy, but it comes out more restrained and grounded in action than expression. He’s quiet in a way that feels intentional, not withdrawn. He doesn’t talk just to fill space, and when he does speak, it’s usually low, direct, and a little blunt. There’s not much wasted energy in how he communicates. He says what he means, or he says nothing at all. Emotionally, he’s contained. He feels things, but he doesn’t externalize them easily. Instead of talking through everything, he processes internally first. That doesn’t mean he’s disconnected, it js means he’s selective about expression. When something does come out, it’s usually in small moments rather than big emotional displays. His style leans into darker tones and simplicity. Not overly styled, but cohesive. Black hoodies, oversized tees, layered basics, headphones always nearby. It’s less about making a statement and more about feeling comfortable in his own space, even when he’s outside it. He doesn’t open up quickly, but he’s consistent once he does. He shows care through actions more than words. (remembering things, being present without making it a big deal,) checking in in small, understated ways.

HIS VIBES:

HIS MUSIC TASTE:

(FOR MY STORIES WITH BOTH f! and m! FRAT READER)

F! READER: (her song)

DISCRIPTION:

she’s not trying to be the loudest person in the room… but she usually ends up close to it anyway. Not because she forces it, but because she’s naturally plugged into the chaos. Social, quick-witted, unfiltered when she’s comfortable, and way smarter than people expect under the jokes and confidence. She can be the one hyping people up, calling people out, or just sitting back with a drink watching everything unfold like it’s entertainment. She adapts fast, but she’s never fake about it. Her personality is loud in moments. (not constantly.) She’ll be chaotic one second, laughing too hard, teasing someone, dragging a friend, and then suddenly calm the next. Leaned back, observing everything with that half-smirk like she knows exactly what’s going on even when she’s quiet. She’s social, but not dependent. She chooses where she gives her energy. If she likes you, you’ll know because she’s involved She’s the type to say “let’s just go” and actually mean it. But she’s not just chaos. There’s emotional intelligence under it. She notices people more than she lets on. Who’s off that night. Who’s quieter than usual. Who’s pretending to be fine. She won’t always confront it directly, but she’ll adjust around it. It’s bold in action, casual in delivery.

HER MUSIC TASTE:

HER VIBE:

M! READER: (his song)

DISCRIPTION:

He’s more physically present than verbally expressive. You’ll notice him more by what he does than what he says. He leans, shifts, moves people out of the way without making it a thing. Opens doors without thinking about it. Fixes problems before they become conversations. He’s flirty, but not in an aggressive or performative way. More like light humor, quick back-and-forths, small comments that make conversations feel effortless. He doesn’t need to dominate attention; he just knows how to keep it when it’s there. He’s not the type to overcomplicate connections. If he’s interested, it’s usually shown through presence. (talking more, staying longer in conversations,) making small consistent efforts rather than big declarations. Socially, he’s selective with energy. He can engage easily when he chooses to, but he doesn’t rely on constant interaction to stay comfortable. He tends to move through environments with a kind of quiet confidence—aware, but not seeking attention.

MUSIC TASTE:

HIS VIBE: (hes blue)

slight description for both m! reader and f! reader.

F! READER: (The song she is)

DISCRIPTION:

She’s not the kind of “nerdy” that hides in corners or trips over her own words. She’s deliberate. Quiet in a way that makes people lean in, not tune out. The kind of girl who doesn’t speak just to fill space. When she does, it lands. There’s weight behind it. A soft “mmmn” when she’s thinking, when she’s reading, when she’s deciding if something (or someone) is worth her time. Her mind is always moving. not loudly, not chaotically, but constantly. She notices patterns people miss. The way someone phrases things. The inconsistency in a story. the deeper meaning in lyrics that most people just hum along to. She doesn’t need to prove she’s smart, she just is. And it shows in the way she questions things instead of accepting them. Her obsessions aren’t loud, but they run deep. When she loves something, she studies it. You’ll see it in the way she connects random things back to it, the way her eyes sharpen just slightly when it comes up. It’s not surface level interest. It’s layered, almost intimate. She doesn’t share all of it with everyone either. You have to earn that. She learns people the same way she learns everything else. slowly. carefully. noticing the small things. The shift in your tone. The habits you don’t realize you have. She remembers. Not in a creepy way, just… naturally. So when she does something for you, it feels almost unfair how specific it is. Like she saw something in you that you didn’t even know was visible. There’s a slight edge to her too. She can be teasing, but it’s subtle. Half-lidded eyes, a small smirk, a quiet “mmmn, really?” when you say something questionable. She doesn’t argue loudly, she just out-thinks you. And she knows it.

HER MUSIC TASTE:

HER VIBE: (shes blue)

M! READER: (The song he is)

DISCRIPTION:

He’s not the loud kind of presence...but he is one. The kind you don’t clock immediately, and then somehow you keep noticing him anyway. not because he’s trying, but because there’s something steady about him. Grounded. Like he’s already decided who he is and doesn’t feel the need to advertise it. He thinks before he speaks, but not in a hesitant way. More like he filters. He keeps what matters, drops what doesn’t. When he does talk, it’s simple, direct, sometimes a little dry. And then out of nowhere, he’ll say something that hits a little deeper than expected. Not poetic on purpose, just… real. He likes things that give him a sense of control or understanding. Not necessarily academic, not necessarily “nerdy," just things he can get good at. Could be music, mechanics, gaming, strategy, even people. He enjoys figuring things out. Not for praise, just for that quiet satisfaction of getting it. Of knowing he can handle something. He’ll catch the shift in your mood before you say anything, but he won’t immediately call it out. He gives space first. Watches. Decides if you want him to step in or not. He’s not the type to hover. but he’s there. always there. He’s not overly expressive with words. You won’t always get long confessions or dramatic moments. Instead, it shows in what he does. He remembers things. What you like, what you avoid, what stresses you out. He adjusts without making a big deal out of it. It’s subtle, almost easy to miss if you’re not paying attention.

HIS MUSIC TASTE:

HIS VIBE: (hes blue)

Slight description of the readers traits and fashion sense

Slight description: Y/N comes off as loud, flirty, dramatic, and a little “mean girl coded,” fully leaning into that glossy McBling, Victoria’s Secret/PINK aesthetic—rhinestones, velour, lip gloss always fresh, and an “I’m so hot” confidence that feels almost exaggerated on purpose. But that’s exactly it: it is on purpose. She treats life like a performance, carefully playing into the “bimbo” stereotype because it lets her control how people see her while they underestimate her. In reality, she’s socially sharp and emotionally intuitive, constantly reading people’s reactions, tone shifts, and body language. She craves attention, but not in a weak way; it’s selective, and once she decides she wants someone’s attention, it becomes a mix of curiosity, ego, and genuine interest. Her humor is teasing and a little biting, throwing out lines like “boo, you whore” or joking accusations of obsession instead of ever being straightforward, because she avoids real vulnerability by hiding behind flirtation and jokes. She’s also very physically expressive, always in people’s space—fixing hair, touching arms, leaning close. Beneath all of it, she’s more sensitive than she lets on, the type to go quiet instead of loud in her head when she’s actually hurt, overthinking things in private but never letting it show publicly

Y/N IS 18+ IN ALL STORIES!!

Y/NS MUSIC TASTE

Paring: Knight x reader

Summary: Princess Y/N and her loyal knight (Damián) secretly fall in love over the years. But to secure peace between two rival kingdoms, Y/N is forced into an arranged marriage with a foreign prince. Their affair remains hidden as the knight is ordered to protect her during the ceremony. On the wedding day, he stands in armor and watches the woman he loves marry someone else, silently breaking behind his helmet while Y/N hides her own heartbreak.

"Behind the knights helmet"

playlist I listened too

BIG Angst, no smut. backstory, betrayal, cheating, Forbidden love all fake scenarios!

You met Damián long before either of you understood what love was.

He was a scrawny trainee in the palace guard—barely fourteen, bruised from sparring, hair sticking to his forehead as he struggled to lift a wooden practice sword twice his size.

You were supposed to be in etiquette lessons that afternoon, learning the proper way to smile, sit, breathe. You snuck out instead, slipping through servants’ corridors until you reached the training yard.

You didn’t expect anyone to be there.

Especially not a boy who froze mid-swing the second he noticed you.

“Your Highness!” he squeaked, bowing so fast he nearly knocked himself unconscious with the wooden blade. “I didn’t— I wasn’t— I mean—”

You laughed. It was the first genuine laugh you’d had in weeks.

And Damián looked stunned, like he’d never heard anything like it.

“You don’t have to bow,” you told him.

His face flushed. “I do. It’s the rule.”

“Well…” You stepped closer, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

That was the beginning.

You visited the training yard more and more, always pretending it was coincidence. Damián never asked why, but his eyes always lit up in a way he tried to hide.

You brought him pastries. He showed you how to hold a training sword (very badly, according to him). You told him your dreams of exploring the world. He told you his dreams of becoming a knight.

You were a princess. He was nobody.

But together— you were just two kids finding comfort in each other.

Years passed. Damián grew taller, stronger, sharper. By seventeen, he had already survived two campaigns, returning each time with armor more battered and eyes more hardened than before.

After his third battle, he was knighted.

And then the queen made a decision that changed everything:

“Sir Damián will be assigned to Princess Y/N’s personal guard.”

The court buzzed with approval. Damián went silent.

When he escorted you to your chambers for the first time as your knight, he bowed deeply.

“I swear my blade, my loyalty, and my life to you, Princess,” he said. “Until my last breath.”

“Damián,” you whispered, heart catching, “I never wanted you to bow to me.”

He looked up, eyes aching. “I always have.”

From that moment on, you were inseparable—publicly only as princess and knight, privately as something far more dangerous.

Your love didn’t ignite in one moment.

It built over years of:

Him draping his cloak over your shoulders when you were cold.

You treating his wounds in secret after missions.

His eyes always finding you first in every room.

The way he stood a little closer to you than he should.

The way you said his name differently than anyone else did.

One night, after a diplomatic banquet, you slipped away from the overwhelming halls and found Damián waiting outside your door.

“Walk with me,” you said.

He hesitated only a moment before following.

You wandered the moonlit palace gardens, talking about nothing and everything. At some point, you tripped on a root, and he reached out to steady you.

But he didn’t pull away immediately.

His hand lingered at your waist. Yours curled around his wrist.

You both froze, breath mixing.

“Princess,” he whispered, voice strained. “If someone sees…”

“I don’t care.”

You felt him shudder.

“You should.”

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked.

His eyes darkened with an emotion he had spent years burying.

“No,” he breathed. “Never.”

That night, you kissed him for the first time—shy and trembling and far too soft for how fiercely you loved each other. But it was real. It was yours.

And from then on… the line between you and Damián disappeared entirely.

The peace negotiations had been dragging on for months, but you hadn’t worried...not really. Your kingdom was old and proud, and alliances were usually sealed with treaties, not bloodlines.

So when the summons came—your father requesting your presence in the Great Council Chamber—you didn’t think anything of it.

Damián followed you closely, as always. Silent, alert, the perfect knight.

But the moment you stepped into the chamber, your stomach dropped.

Your father wasn’t seated on his throne.

He was standing. Your mother beside him. And between them, placed gently on a velvet cushion…

A ring.

Not just any ring. Heavy. Gold. Bearing the crest of the enemy kingdom.

Your breath froze in your lungs.

Your mother’s expression softened with something like apology. “Y/N,” she said quietly, “there is… a decision that must be made for the sake of our people.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Your father cleared his throat, his voice steady but tired.

“The final condition for peace with the rival kingdom has been delivered.”

He gestured toward the ring.

“They ask for your hand.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt. For a moment, you genuinely wondered if you’d heard wrong.

“M–my… hand?” you whispered.

Your father nodded.

“Their prince is willing to marry into our bloodline. He claims it will symbolize unity and ensure permanent peace between our nations.”

Behind you, Damián stiffened sharply—the kind of reaction only someone who knew him could notice. It was the flinch of a man hit with an invisible blade.

Your mother stepped closer, voice trembling despite her attempt at calm. “It is the only term they will accept. Without this bond… the war will continue. Many more will die.”

“But why me?” Your voice cracked. “Why must it be me?”

Your father’s eyes glimmered with an old, weary guilt. “Because you are our daughter… and our greatest symbol.”

A pause. A longer silence. And then a quieter confession:

“And because we cannot afford to lose you on a battlefield.”

Something inside you broke at that. They weren’t doing this to punish you. They were doing it because they were afraid of losing you— just in a different way.

Still, the hurt blooming in your chest was unbearable.

“What if I don’t want this?” you whispered.

Your father met your eyes with a sorrow you had never seen on his face before.

“Then I will still ask you to do it.”

The room tilted slightly. You reached out to steady yourself on the back of a chair.

And then…

A breath behind you. Barely audible. But desperate.

“Your Majesty,” Damián suddenly said, voice respectful but trembling underneath. “If I may—”

Your father held up a hand. “Sir Damián, this matter concerns the royal family. Stand down.”

The command struck him like a blow. He fell silent, jaw clenched so tight you could see his muscles tremble beneath the skin.

You swallowed hard.

“So when is this supposed to happen?” you managed.

Your mother hesitated—just long enough to make your stomach drop again.

“The prince arrives in three weeks,” she said softly.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Too short. Far too short.

The walls felt closer. Your lungs struggled to expand. You needed air—now.

You bowed stiffly, somehow maintaining the etiquette drilled into you since childhood.

“Thank you… for informing me.”

When you turned, Damián was already there, opening the door for you, eyes shadowed, knuckles white around the handle.

He escorted you down the hall in suffocating silence—your footsteps soft on the polished floors, his armor brushing against your gown like a reminder of everything you were about to lose.

Halfway to your chambers, he broke.

“Princess,” he said sharply.

You froze.

He stepped in front of you, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles. His eyes were wild—fear, fury, heartbreak all twisting together in a way you had never seen from him.

“Tell me it isn’t happening,” he whispered. “Tell me you’re not marrying him.”

“Damián —”

“No,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Don’t say my name like that. Not like I’m already gone.”

Your throat tightened painfully. “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth,” he said. “That you don’t want this. That you don’t love him. That—”

He stopped himself, breath hitching.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice.

“I don’t love him. I never will.”

Damián closed his eyes like those words were both everything he needed and everything that destroyed him.

When he opened them again, his voice was nothing but a broken whisper.

“Then let me go to the king. Let me renounce my title. Let me take you somewhere safe. I’ll live as a farmer, a fugitive—anything. Just… don’t marry him.”

You reached for his hand and squeezed.

“Damián… if I defy this, it will start another war.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” you said softly. “Because my kingdom matters. And because you matter. If they accuse you of stealing me away, they will execute you.”

His breath stilled.

He looked at you like you had just stabbed him yourself.

And when he finally spoke, the words were barely audible:

“Then what happens to us?”

Your voice cracked.

“I don’t know.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Damián stepped forward and pulled you into him—arms tight, face buried in your hair, breathing like he was holding back a scream.

“If this is the cost of peace…” he whispered, voice shaking, “then peace is nothing but a cage.”

You closed your eyes.

Because he was right. And yet you were still trapped.

After what felt like hours, he finally loosened his hold.

Wordlessly, he led you back to your chambers.

And for the first time since he became your knight…

He didn’t say goodnight. He didn’t bow. He didn’t speak at all.

He just closed the door behind you.

And you heard it—

The soft sound of him exhaling sharply. Trying to stay silent. Trying not to break.

Trying… and failing.

Because you heard it:

A choked, quiet sob. Cut off so quickly you might’ve imagined it.

But you didn’t.

Damián walked away from your door with tears burning beneath his eyes like fire—knowing that every step he took was one more inch away from the life he wanted.

The life he would never have.

The three weeks pass. You two exchanging nothing but glances and quiet tension.

The palace felt unnaturally silent the night before your marriage, as if even the walls knew what tomorrow meant.

You sat at your window, staring out at the moonlit courtyard, fingers trembling around the edge of your cloak. Every shadow felt like a countdown. Every gust of wind whispered, It’s your last night.

A soft knock broke the quiet.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Damián stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind him with a shaky breath. He wasn’t in armor—just a simple linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp like he’d been trying to calm himself and failed.

His eyes found yours immediately.

And they looked ruined.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I know,” you whispered back.

But neither of you moved.

He crossed the room slowly, each step heavy like he was afraid you’d vanish before he reached you. When he finally stood in front of you, he lifted a hand toward your face, then hesitated—like touching you now might break whatever fragile strength he had left.

You leaned into his palm first.

That was all it took.

He pulled you into him with an aching urgency, arms wrapping around you like he was trying to pull you into his heartbeat. You sank into his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

You just held each other. Breathed each other in. Let the silence say everything words couldn’t.

Finally Damián's voice broke the quiet, low and raw:

“I kept hoping… someone would call the wedding off. That there’d be a message, a mistake, anything.” His breath trembled against your hair. “But there wasn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want this, Damián.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy, stormy, full of grief he was trying and failing to hold back.

“Then say the word,” he whispered. “Just one. Tell me to take you away. I don’t care where we go. I don’t care what happens. I’ll protect you. I’ll—”

You pressed a shaking hand over his heart.

“I can’t,” you choked out. “If I run, the kingdom suffers. And if you run, they’ll kill you.”

His jaw clenched like the words physically hurt him.

“Let them,” he whispered, voice cracking. “What life is left for me without you in it?”

You shook your head fiercely. “I want you alive, Damián. Even if it hurts. Even if it breaks me.”

Something in him finally collapsed.

He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you—desperate, trembling, like he was trying to memorize every angle, every breath, every soft sound you made. It wasn’t a kiss of passion.

It was a kiss of goodbye.

He kissed your cheeks where tears gathered. He kissed your forehead softly, reverently. He kissed you like you were a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

When his lips returned to yours, it was gentler. Slower. Almost painful in how careful he was with you.

The two of you ended up on your bed—not out of hunger, but because your legs gave out under the weight of everything. Damián laying behind you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

Your fingers laced with his. Your breaths matched naturally, like always.

He whispered to you the whole night in a voice meant only for you:

Promising he loved you. Promising he always would. Promising that even if he couldn’t have you… he would still choose you, every time.

Once, when he thought you were asleep, his voice broke:

“I wish I were a prince,” he said quietly. “Not for the crown. Not for the power. But because then… then I could marry you.”

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t turn. If you did, you might never stop crying.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled both of you under.

You slept pressed tightly together, his arms around you like he could protect you from the sunrise itself.

But dawn still came. And with it… your last moments as his.

The morning of your wedding begins with silence.

Not celebration, not excitement—just a strange, hollow quiet that feels too heavy for your lungs. Servants bustle around you, tightening laces, smoothing fabric, brushing jewels into your hair as if preparing a porcelain doll. Their hands move quickly, politely, efficiently… but not one of them looks you in the eyes long enough to see the truth.

You are dying inside.

Damián is elsewhere—in the hall, standing with the other knights, receiving last-minute orders to guard the ceremony. He will be positioned near the front aisle, they tell him. Close enough to protect the royal family.

Close enough to watch everything.

He nods, because he has to. Because knights do not speak. Because if he opens his mouth even once, he knows something inside him will snap, and he will say words that cannot be unsaid.

When they fit his helmet onto his head, he feels the metal press against the dried tracks of tears from the night before. He doesn’t dare wipe them. He doesn’t want to erase the last proof that he ever held you.

When you walk toward the grand doors of the cathedral, your father takes your arm.

His voice is soft. “You are doing something noble today, Y/N.”

You almost laugh—if you open your mouth, you might scream.

The doors open. Music swells. People rise.

The world sees a radiant princess.

But Damián sees the truth.

Even through the slits of his helmet, he notices everything: your trembling fingers gripping your bouquet too tightly, the way your shoulders stiffen with every step, the slight falter in your breath when your eyes meet his—just for a second, a second so short it could be imagined.

You look away first. You have to.

His heart fractures.

The prince awaiting you looks kind. He smiles gently, unaware of the war happening inside you. He is not cruel. He is not the villain.

He is simply not Damián.

The priest begins speaking, but Damián doesn’t hear any of it. The words echo off the stone walls, meaningless. His entire body shakes inside his armor—small tremors he prays no one sees.

Every vow spoken feels like a sword driven into his ribs.

Your eyes stay lowered, not out of shyness, but because if you raise them… if you see him… you will break.

Damián bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. Blood fills his mouth. He prefers the sting. Physical pain is easier than this.

Then comes the moment that destroys him.

“Do you, Princess Y/N, take—”

Your breath catches.

Your voice barely works. “I… do.”

It sounds nothing like you. Not the voice that whispered promises in the dark. Not the voice that laughed against his chest. Not the voice that said his name like a prayer.

This voice is a stranger’s.

Damián's vision blurs.

He tells himself it’s sweat.

But he tastes the salt of tears slipping through the bottom of his helmet.

He is glad no one can see his face.

When the prince touches your hand, placing the wedding ring on your finger, Damián's knees nearly give out. He forces himself steady, digging his boots into the ground so hard the stone scrapes beneath them.

He remembers your last night together—the warmth of your hand in his, the way your fingers curled into his shirt, the way you whispered you wished you had been born ordinary… just so you could choose him.

He had held your hand then.

Now, he never will again.

“By the power vested—”

Damián looks down.

He cannot watch.

But he hears the kiss.

He hears the cheers.

He hears the crowd celebrate your union like some fairytale ending… while he stands forgotten, a shadow in the corner of the room, watching the only woman he has ever loved slip forever out of his reach.

Your eyes flicker toward him once—only once—after the kiss. You don’t dare look long. Your smile falters, just enough that Damián sees a crack in the mask you’re forced to wear.

He doesn’t move.

He can’t.

The new prince takes your hand, leading you down the aisle as husband and wife.

And Damián stands there, a knight sworn to silence, with tears he cannot wipe, a heart he cannot protect, and a love he must bury for the rest of his life.

⚙ SUIT REPAIR - Robert x cocky reader ⚙ Making out, cursing, restraint, etc.

You’re helping him into the newly rebuilt mech suit — adjusting straps, tightening bolts, touching his patience. He’s trying not to react, but his voice drops, and he gets gives up in the hottest way possible. slight 18+ (listening to - Secrets by nomyn & angelicca)

The workshop Roy let you borrow smelled faintly of metal polish and ozone from the Mecha Man suit. Tools were scattered across the long metal table, some half-assembled, others forgotten. Robert stood hunched over the torso piece, jaw tight, sleeves rolled up, blue light from the suit reflecting sharply across his face. There was no mistaking it: he was frustrated, and he hated being watched.

You perched on the edge of the table, legs swinging lazily, arms crossed. “You know,” you started, voice deliberately light, “for someone with a genius-level IQ and a legacy to uphold, you’re doing a terrible job with that arm piece.”

Robert didn’t turn. Didn't blink. Only his hands continued tightening screws, ignoring you. But you're observative. You saw it when the subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed him. He finally spoke, His hooded eyes focused on the suit, voice low, precise, clearly not wanting to deal with your BS at the moment.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

You took a moment to respond. As if the question was a test you needed to pass. “I mean..i could. But i don't want too” you said brightly, tilting your head. Your head angle facing his suit. “Not part of my skill set.” You express honestly, your gaze diverting to his face then back to the suit.

He let out a long exhale. Picking his head up from the suit, leaning it back as he began dragging a hand down his face like it was a losing battle. “You’re honestly insufferable.”

“And yet,” you teased, leaning back on your hands, your shirt riding up slightly, your lower belly being shown, letting the swing of your legs brush his lower side just slightly, “here you are, letting me stay.”

He froze, and the sharp tilt of his eyes toward you made your stomach tighten. That look. That look where his eyes speak. And they speak loud. But you've seen it before. The look that promised he was minutes away from snapping. But this time? You're gonna push a couple buttons. you were determined to push him there. Determined to make him crack.

That's when you hopped off the table, your hair bouncing slightly into place as you start closing the distance. “Need help?” you asked casually.

“I would prefer anyone but you.” His voice was low, casual. His eyes were locked on the screws and bolts in front of him, completely ignoring your presence ..not even a flicker toward you.

You pause for a moment, letting the silence hang between you. Watching him like this, focused yet tense, you can’t help but take in the subtle details: the sharp line of his jaw, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flex just slightly around the tools. Every motion is precise, controlled, and clearly, he’s not in the mood to be distracted nor messed with.

“Well I’m here, so might as well,” you reply casually. Voice smooth but teasing, letting a small smirk play on your lips.

With that, you sweep your hair over one shoulder and step closer, brushing just slightly against his arm as you move. The space between you shrinks. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the subtle tension in his muscles. Your fingers hover over the Mecha arm, not because you know what you’re doing, but because you want to see how long it takes for him to lose his composure.

At first, he doesn’t react. His eyes remain fixed on the bolts, his jaw tight. But when your fingers fumble with the arm, holding it uneven, nudging a piece just slightly off, irritation finally creeps into his expression. The faint twitch of his brow, the subtle clench of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils ...it all tells you he’s aware, and he’s not happy.

You lean a little closer, deliberately closing the distance, letting your arm brush his as you continue “adjusting” the mech piece. You can feel his energy shift; it’s almost electric, the way his focus fractures between the screws and you.

The two of you are engaged in a silent battle. Robert twists bolts with precise efficiency, muttering nothing, while you hold the arm uneven on purpose, deliberately testing his patience. Every tiny misalignment, every subtle shift from you, feels like a spark. Neither of you speaks, yet tension coils between your movements like a spring wound too tight.

Robert is determined to maintain his composure. He won’t react. Not until…

The door swings open. Blonde Blazer steps in, cheerful and oblivious to the tension you’re stoking. The sudden interruption makes your reflexes jerk. A sharp flinch, and the arm pops out of place entirely.

Robert freezes mid-motion. His eyes snap to the displaced arm, jaw tightening in frustration. You bite back a grin, heart racing, adrenaline making the tiny triumph pulse through you. That was it. You’ve officially gotten under his skin.

Slowly and deliberately, he turned toward you once Blonde Blazer left. You two were too close. So close that his chest brushed yours and you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You do this on purpose,” he said quietly. Eyes Low. Dangerous. “Every time you’re near me, you push every button I have. Every. Single. One.” He spoke. His voice low and threatening. Your breathe hitching. His face close as you scan his features.

“Maybe I like buttons,” you said quietly your gaze not on him. But you smirk to yourself, teasingly tilting your chin up. Your eyes looking at him through your pretty lashes. “Maybe I like seeing you get upset.”

His eyes narrowed, jaw flexing in frustration. The way you're looking at him is addicting. “You’re fucking impossible.” He spoke harshly yet low. His face only getting closer.

“Am I?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or maybe you just cant keep up." You reply, giving him a challenging look.

His hand shot out before you could react, pinning your wrist to the edge of the table. Not enough to hurt, but enough to command. You froze under his touch, pulse spiking.

“You’re reckless,” he muttered. “Do you even realize what you’re doing?”

“Maybe not” you whispered, your eyes focused on his shirt. His top two buttons unbuttoned. “But you could teach me.”

He let out a short, sharp chuckle to himself. His head shaking in disapproval. “You’re unbelievable.”

“look at you.” you said softly, Your voice wavers, betraying you as u try and make a point.

Robert’s hand shifted, and so did his eyes. They both start guiding your other hand to hold the torso panel steady. “Hold it.” His fingers brushed yours in the process. Intentional or not, it sent a shiver straight through you. He stepped closer, him behind you, his hands over yours to guide you over the suit. The air short, yet so close. Your body barely fit between him and the table. His breath was warm against your ear. He liked it. The way you reacted to him, even the tiniest shift in your posture, sent a rush through him he couldn’t quite control. He could feel the heat of you pressed close, hear the quickening of your breath, and it made his pulse spike just enough to be dangerous. Still, he kept his composure ..jaw tight, voice steady. Like a wall you couldn’t easily push past.

“You’re always distracting me, y’know that?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, warm breath brushing the back of your neck. Every word carried a subtle weight, a promise of something unspoken, and the closeness made your skin tingle.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the words linger against you. “I know you like it, Robert,” you breathed back, teasing, your voice soft but daring.

Your body was bent slightly forward, one hand pressed to the desk, the other brushing against the cold metal of the Mecha Suit. He was close behind you, one hand pinning yours firmly against the smooth surface, the other guiding, steadying the chest panel. The heat of his chest against your back, the pressure of his hands, and the subtle brush of his lips to your ear made your heart hammer in your chest.

Every movement was charged with lust. The casual task of repairing the suit had turned into a silent battle of control, teasing, and tension neither of you could ignore.

He didn't growl, but his voice sounded deep and restrained. The sound vibrating through his chest. “And if I do?” he muttered, hand letting go of yours in the process. Thumb brushing your jaw.

You tilted your head just enough to let him see your smirk. “Then prove it.”

Robert’s eyes lowered, and the air between you thickened instantly. One hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. The other hand lingered dangerously on the table, near your pinned wrist. You could feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Coiled, dominant, frustrated. All aimed at you.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said again, voice rough, dropping the formalities. “Every look, every word, every touch. You want me to do this.”

“And you’re falling for it,” you said softly, letting the words tease him like a flame licking his patience.

“I am not…” he started, but his words trailed off as he leaned closer. His lips brushed yours. Not kissing, not yet ..just enough to make you gasp. His nose grazed yours. His jaw flexed against yours. Breath shallow, eyes half-lidded. Yet on you.

“You don’t listen, do you?” he whispered, voice thick with frustration and something hotter. “And I bet you don't even realize what you’re doing to me.”

You swallowed hard. All the confidence u had before slowly fading.

He lowered his head ontop of your shoulder, trying to regain control, then groaned. Low, breathy, something he tried to keep buried. The way he pressed against you, chest brushing yours, made it impossible to think.

Then, with deliberate care, he turned u around and lifted you onto the edge of the table, your legs wrapping slightly around him. The torso panel was forgotten for now. Hands on your hips, he leaned down, lips touching yours. The world narrowed until it was just you and him. The cold metal, the hum of the suit, the heat radiating between your bodies.

His hand trailed from your waist to the back of your neck, holding you close enough that his presence dominated every nerve ending. Light, teasing, demanding ..and your hands instinctively held him, feeling the tension in his shoulders, the controlled power beneath his calm exterior.

He pulled back just slightly, the space between you charged with heat. A thin string of saliva lingered between your lips, glinting in the dim light of the workshop. His eyes were dark, a mix of irritation and something dangerously close to lust, darting from your lips to your face as if trying to read your every thought.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” he muttered, voice low, rough, almost lost to the hum of the suit around you.

Your lips, plump and slightly parted, caught his gaze. The subtle shift of his body betrayed him. The tension in his stance, the tightening of his pants. Even the slightest movement was impossible to hide.

“Let me,” you whispered, breathy, teasing, heart hammering in your chest. Every inch of you was aware of him, the heat radiating off his body, the weight of his gaze pressing against you.

His lips crashed back onto yours, urgent and claiming, like he’d been holding it in for far too long. Every second of restraint, every sharp word unspoken, spilled into the kiss. His groan vibrated against your mouth, low and rough, full of frustration and need, a sound that made your heart skip.

His hands roamed deliberately over your body, pressing you closer as if letting go would make you vanish. Every brush of his fingers was measured and possessive, and every movement spoke volumes about the tension neither of you had admitted.

Then his lips trailed down to your neck, searching, teasing, finding that perfect spot. You couldn’t help the small, breathy noise that escaped, a mixture of surprise and delight, a sound that made him pause just long enough to smirk against your skin.

He lingered there, alternating between soft kisses and gentle nips, pressing and sucking just enough to make you shiver, leaving a few fleeting marks that he softened immediately with his lips again. Each motion built you higher, a crescendo of sensation and frustration, leaving you practically trembling against him.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to hover over you, noses brushing, breaths mingling. His chest rose and fell with the force of his restraint, eyes dark, heavy, and fixed on yours.

“You’re reckless,” he murmured, voice low and intoxicating. “Infuriating. And completely mine… for the moment.”

Your chest heaved, pulse racing, breath tangled with his. The suit on the table remained unfinished, tools forgotten. The workshop seemed impossibly small, impossibly close, and impossibly dangerous.

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” he muttered, fingers still lightly pressing against your waist, his lips brushing your ear. leaving soft kisses. “Every time I think I’ve got control, you-”

You leaned back just slightly, putting his kisses on hold, teasing him once more.

"Are you serious?" His jaw tightened, nostrils flaring, and for a second, you swore you saw actual smoke rise from his ears. “I could drop this suit right now and-”

Before he could finish, a loud clanging echoed from the back of the workshop. Tools tumbled to the floor. Both of you froze. You turned your head and saw… the mech’s arm you’d been “helping” with was now hanging crookedly, practically pointing at the ceiling.

“Oh no,” you whispered, a laugh catching in your throat.

Robert groaned, running a hand down his face. “great.”

“I… may have slightly shifted it?” you admitted, unable to hold back a giggle.

He blinked at you, expression caught somewhere between expected and annoyance. Then, impossibly, the corners of his mouth twitched. He let out a long, exasperated sigh, dragging you just enough closer that your foreheads touched.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, but there was humor in his voice now. “Completely reckless, completely infuriating… and somehow...you have me like this.”

You grinned, brushing a strand of hair off your forehead, Your hands reaching his hair. “Guess I win?”

Robert shook his head, letting out a dramatic groan. “If by ‘win’ you mean nearly destroy my suit while making me lose my mind… then, yes. Congratulations.”

You laughed, and for a brief second, the workshop wasn’t tense or charged. It was just the two of you, ridiculous and alive, surrounded by half-fixed metal, sparks, and chaos.

Then Robert narrowed his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Next time, I get to choose who distracts me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Good luck with that, genius.”