I Have The Writer's Block Disease

i have the writer's block disease 😔

for Building Up Tension purposes i have to keep myself from not finishing my chan fic first bcz there has to be a build up before i publish the most gut wrenching bang chan fic on mark zuckberg's internet. people have to know user spiderhanzzz as the girl who writes funny nerdy skz fics AND THEN i will drop ur worst nightmare

SCREAMING CRYING GIGGLING KICKING MY FEET IN PUBLIC USER ALLFORHEE THIS IS ALL UR FAULT 💢💢

"𝐖𝐇𝐎'𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑?" (BLURB) | HAN JISUNG

୨୧ pairing — idol!han x stylist!fem!reader

୨୧ synopsis — being a hairdresser and stylist at jyp, you didn't expect to become han jisung's girlfriend. but with it, you now have yourself your personal wig to test out your hairstyles on. and han being your loving boyfriend, of course he won't say no. but when the members start noticing the different hairstyles at practices, they start to get suspicious.

୨୧ genre — fluff, strangers to lovers, forbidden romance

୨୧ warnings — secret relationship, stylist x idol, no mentions of y/n, hurt/comfort, han being a LITTLE insecure

୨୧ word count — 1678 words, not really proofread

୨୧ author’s note — first skz fic and new layout! this fic is dedicated to my favorite mootie; aika, aka @spiderhanzzz and to all my han girlies out there!!!!! i hope i did him justice hihi! inspired by brooklyn 99 6x06—where rosa shows up with a new hairstyle everyday of the investigation!!! this was so fun to write and i hope you all enjoy ;)

becoming han's girlfriend was something out of the ordinary.

you remember the days of interning for jyp's hairdressers and stylists, standing in the back and taking note of the different procedures that were done. you'd follow the main stylists around different shifts, from the female idols to the male idols.

you'd help by assisting the main stylists by giving them the scissors they needed, do a quick minimart run to buy some hairspray or hair ties that ran out, and maybe at some point bringing the used towels into the laundry.

as you followed around and practiced more, from an intern to a regularly paid hairdresser at jyp, you had progressed your skills in styling and cutting hair proudly.

you started doing your own shifts, starting off with groups like itzy and twice, before you decided to try out handling the boy groups.

fate had its own plans when you were assigned to style the hit group; stray kids.

meeting bangchan, known as chris, you'd learn to fall in love with styling them. but your heart would learn to fall in love with none other than their rapper and producer, han.

han would always start conversations with you while styling his hair, which you would happily reply to.

you knew falling in love with him was petty, when your only interactions were when you had to style his hair. yes, you may or may not have bumped into him once or twice in the hallways as you were on the way to style the next group, but a relationship? you were surprised yourself when he confessed he felt a spark between the two of you.

that's what started the courtship between the two of you. a spark. you knew it was forbidden. you knew it couldn't happen. what would the media say if it got out? "scandalous relationship between stray kids' HAN and random stylist!" oh you could see the headlines.

so when you started coming over to style han's hair more and more often, you had hoped that the other members wouldn't get suspicious of han's constant nagging of you being the one to style his hair.

to the point even you yourself would ask him if he could come over and let you try out a new hairstyle you've been learning. he'd asked you to be his girlfriend soon after. with it, you both had to learn to be more careful with the moves you took, as some of the dressing rooms had other stylists stationed to deal with other members. one wrong move and you'd be fired.

the first member to notice han's not-so discreet changes was none other than changbin. obviously they'd both practice together for shows to perfect their rapping technique, changbin begun to notice the different hairstyles.

to the point when han showed up with tiny little braids in his curly hair, was when he decided to ask.

"hannie-ya! your hair, that's interesting..." as he points at the little braids all over his hair.

han's surprised look signified something else, but his response just made it more suspicious; "oh- this? yeah, i'm trying out some things since my stylist came in late..."

"stylist? it's just practice? what would you need a stylist for?" changbin inquires, still curious.

"you know... curly hair is harder to manage!" he laughs, trying to brush off the topic.

changbin pats him on the back, knowing there was something more—but not wanting to interfere, "alright hannie, let's get to practice."

han let out a sigh, but even he knew he was slowly walking onto some thin ice. thankfully, changbin didn't tell the rest of the members of his suspicions.

but as time went on, the other members started picking up on his hair. his usual held back practice hair would turn into curls, braids, and even little space buns at one point.

by now, everyone knew of his constant changes of his hair. they knew each other well enough that they didn't need their hair styled if it was for a practice.

chan knew he had to confront him at some point, worried han was spending money on stylists he didn't need.

so during breaks in between practice chan approached him, a stern look on his face. "hannie, we need to talk about your finances."

han, obviously shocked at the question, responded with a quick "i'm an idol, what do you mean my finances?"

chan furrowed his brows, sighing. "han jisung, i'm serious. i don't want you running around the place spending useless money on stylists you don't need! if it was for fashion or clothing i would understand, but you have to understand that you don't need to go to a stylist everyday."

"i'm not spending useless money, hyung! so what i want my hair styled everyday?" han tried to defend.

"the thing is, you've been coming to practices late! you may not realize it and i may accept your tardiness once or twice, but it's getting too repetitive. what is it han? you have a secret girlfriend or something?!"

the entire practice room went quiet at chan's last statement. everyone else perked up and tried to focus on han's response. when han didn't respond and just hung his head low, everyone knew chan was right.

"hannie-ah, why didn't you tell us? we're your brothers." chan asked, trying to comfort him.

but before han could respond changbin cut with a "yah! i knew it! i knew you had a secret girlfriend! so who is she? is she a stylist or something?"

changbin's last sentence made him lower his head even further, lifting up the hood of his hoodie, only to hide his face in it.

"hyung? you have a girlfriend?" jeongin cluelessly asked.

seungmin gasps before he cuts in; "he does! wait, is it that one hair stylist you keep asking for every time we need to perform?"

all of them look to seungmin; "which hair stylist?" chan asked.

before han had a chance to respond, he pushed through the members crowding him as he ran out of the practice room. he opened his phone to find your contact pinned, and pressed call.

"jisungie? hello? what's wrong?" hearing your voice come out of his speaker made him calm down. your voice was like the light at the end of the tunnel.

"baby, i messed up. the members know." he confessed.

"know what?" you ask, confused. "about us?"

"yeah... i'm so scared they're going to find out, like what if they fire me... what if they fire you?" he questions to himself.

"sungie, stay where you are, okay? i'll find you. you need to calm down. what practice room are you at today?"

he sighs, "the usual, but i'm outside."

"i'm on my way." the line beeps as the call ends, as han grasps his phone hoping you'd come faster.

his eyes close as he tries to take deep breaths, hoping the awful scenarios he imagined would happen not come true. he then feels a soft hand on his shoulder, and as his eyes open, he engulfs the figure in a hug before he could even notice who it was.

"hannie? are you okay?" you ask him, hair clad in a claw clip after rushing from another appointment.

he stutters out a; "mianhae—mianhae—mianhae, i know you're mad at me, it's okay, i'll just have to live on the streets when they fire me and open a hair salon with you—"

he gasps as you cradle his tender face in your hands, shaking his head in disappointment. "what do you mean? han, now that your members know, we don't have to hide around anymore."

"i know that baby, but what would our label say? what if they find out?"

"that's not for your pretty head to worry about right now, for now we can enjoy the fact that you can be honest with your members. no more hiding around, no more late excuses to practices. come clean baby, it's okay." you comfort him.

han looks up at you, "you sure?" before you nod. he embraces you in another hug, before standing up and grabbing your hand, dragging you into the practice room.

everyone looks towards the doors that just opened, seungmin hurriedly standing up and cutting the silence with a; "hyung i'm so sorry i didn't mean to..."

that's when they see the two of you. han takes a deep breath before he starts speaking, as you clench his hand, signaling it's okay.

"guys... this is my hair stylist. my girlfriend." han confesses, looking into your eyes for assurance. everybody waves an annyeong to you, which you wave back. you were still in your stylist attire, an apron clad around your waist with different bits and bobs.

"so, she's your stylist? you gotta hook me up dude!" hyunjin teased him, which earned him a slap on the back from han. you laughed at the gesture, showing his protectiveness for you.

"she's my stylist, stay away!" he'd whine, hiding you behind him.

"so he's been getting his hair styled for free?!" felix asked you, which you nodded. "man we suck... we should all get stylist girlfriends."

"i have my cats... i think we're okay yongbok." minho chuckles as he puts his arm around him.

chan smiles at the interactions happening, seungmin and jeongin appalled by your presence, felix and minho arguing about whether or not they should follow han's footsteps into getting a stylist girlfriend, and changbin and hyunjin teasing han for getting someone like you.

you didn't mind the chaos, seeing chan smile at you signaling you've been welcomed into their little family.

looking at han's red face, trying to keep his composure, you quickly peck his cheek to make sure he's okay. he looked at you with a nervous smile, but you know everything's going to be fine. as long as he's by your side.

"yah! i knew it! oh ever since those little braids in your hair, i just knew it hannie-ah!" changbin laughs, han blushing at his words.

yeah. you've got han, and he's got you.

taglist; @riekiss @sesameoil721 @desistay @spiderhanzzz (crossed out = i can't tag you)

back to my masterlist?

© 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐇𝐄𝐄, est. 2024 | do not plagiarize, modify, translate, or repost my works on any platforms.

helloww plz help me choose my next fic!!! :3

i need to say something

"I'M FUCKING SPIDERMAN, BABY" — han jisung.

who would've guessed that the guy you've been texting on tinder is spiderman?

word count: 2.7k

pairings: spiderman!han x journalist intern!reader

genres: humor, fluff, slight angst, comfort, kind of fake dating???

warnings: swearing, drinking, han is referred to as peter, reader and han are both uni students, mentions of vomit and violence, mild injuries, lowkey blackmailing if u squint, no use of y/n & gender neutral reader, han calls reader "pretty" once, usage of "baby" and "sweetie" too

playlist: les childish gambino, dare gorillaz, novacane frank ocean, i bet you look good on the dancefloor arctic monkeys, making the bed olivia rodrigo

a/n: my first fic raaahh!!! >:3 so so excited for u 2 read all these crazy ideas swirling inside my head

“...whoever provides the information on Spider-Man’s real identity will receive a cash prize of $1,000 US dollars…”

Your gaze bores to the glow of your old crappy TV. You haven’t had the time nor funds to purchase a new one, given that your only employment at the moment is a journalistic internship. It’s a good agency, the same one reporting on screen right now, and you acknowledge how hard you had worked to get the position. Nevertheless, you wish you prioritized financial gain over prestige, because now you’re stuck in your run-down apartment in New York, investigating the biggest issues for no money at all.

So you guess it’s not that big of a deal that you have no leads on who the hell Spider-Man is. If any higher-ups scold you, you could just hit them with those snarky remarks you’ve kept in the back of your mind all this time. How do you expect incentive from me if you’re not even paying me? I’m writing all your scripts because everyone else is a damn deadbeat! Maybe then they’ll start appreciating you.

You released a heavy sigh. All this nonsense is giving you a permanent headache, and it doesn’t help that you spend most of your free time scrolling mindlessly on your phone, which lights up with a new text notification the moment you start thinking about it. Perhaps you’ve spent so much time on your phone it’s becoming a part of your brain?

Peter Han: hahah tbh im pretty busy this week, but i’ll let u know for sure :)

A light shade of embarrassment tints your face when you catch yourself smiling at the text message. Usually Peter— the cute guy you’ve been texting on Tinder— never uses any emoticons. In fact, he’s been acting pretty uninterested and dry with you, which wouldn’t bother you as much if it weren’t for the fact that you desperately need a date to your friend’s birthday party next week.

Despite your humiliatingly destitute lifestyle, you pride yourself for your unmatched abilities to blend into any crowd. So like any other New Yorker, you decided to surround yourself with upper class Manhattan socialites. They like you; they don’t need to know about your financial status.

But with great power comes great responsibility, and with great social life comes great expectations. Last week it was a certain Kate Spade wallet with the intentions to match with the whole group of girls, and the week before it was table manners at a European restaurant (how in the hell were you supposed to know which fork to use for a crème brûlée?) This week, though, they gave you the most impossible task of all: get a date.

And you would. Truly, you would. It’s not like you’re particularly unattractive or unlikeable or anything like that. It’s just that you haven’t dipped your toes into the dating pool since university started, and you’re too far gone now. Your peers are fluent in these unspoken rules of dating and you don’t even really know what a situationship is.

Thus why you’re acting a little bit too desperate with Peter.

As you draft a response to him— is it better to use two or three y’s in hey?— your train of thoughts are interrupted by a loud thud on your balcony, followed by a shadow of vibrant colours. Your couch is situated safely so you can see right out the window, but angled in a way that someone outside wouldn’t be able to see you inside. You found this hack on social media on a particularly paranoid rush of nerves and thanked whoever that person was every single night.

Hesitating for a minute, you consider your options: a) attempt to fight off whoever is in your building, b) run out and alert security, or b) pretend like you didn’t hear anything and pray you don’t see your own face on TV tomorrow instead of Spider-Man’s.

If you were acting rational you would have chosen the last option. After all, it’s New York— if there’s anything prevalent here, it’s crime. But you are just so fucking bored. 

So you grab a baseball bat and swing open the window. 

“Get the hell off my balcony, dude!”

To your surprise, you stand face to face with a pair of dangling Converse All-Stars (really dirty ones, too). In your spur of confusion you come to the conclusion that whoever is sitting above your flat has the ugliest red socks you’ve ever seen in your life.

“What the fuck, man?” The person exclaims. “You bruised my knee!”

“That sounds about right for messing with my place, no?” You say, stepping out onto the balcony to get a good look at the stranger.

Just when you think you couldn’t get more disoriented, you realize the man you’re looking up to is not a stranger at all. It’s none other than Peter Han, in a full on Spider-Man suit.

“Peter…?”

The stranger, AKA Peter, breathes out a nervous laugh, raking his hand through his messy hair. Cute, you think.

“I think you mistook me for someone else. I’m not Peter.”

“Okay…” You say dubiously. “Why are you wearing a Spider-Man suit then?”

“I’m a… uh… cosplayer?”

When his eyes meet yours, the truth sings: he’s been caught. Peter Han is Spider-Man.

He’s terrified, you can tell. You don’t blame him— you would be too in his position. But it’s not just the fact that you know now; it’s also the mischievous glint twinkling in your eyes. Just what the hell are you thinking about that could be so amusing right now?

“W-what’s that look for?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. Maniacal laughter bursts out of you like you’ve been possessed by the spirit of a circus clown, and you have to hold on to the balcony railing to stop yourself from falling over. “Oh, Peter, you naive little fool.”

Peter’s brows furrow in confusion. You mentally curse yourself for admiring how handsome he looks when he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m on the case to find out Spider-Man’s identity. Well, your identity, I guess.”

“You did not tell me that.”

“Yes, I did.” You cross your arms over your chest, shooting him a judgemental look. “You’d know that if you paid any attention to what I have to say.”

“Look, listen…” Peter braces his lean arms on the side of the window to lower himself on your balcony. Standing face to face, you note that he’s not as tall as you thought. “I know I haven’t been the warmest person to you, but I would literally get on my knees and beg for you to please not tell anyone about this.”

You hum in amusement, taking a step closer to him and raising your chin with undoubted sanguine. Like this, you’re almost the same height as him. “As tempting as that sounds, I’d rather have you doing something else for me.”

Peter chuckles in disbelief, eyes wandering to the sky as if to ask God what have I done to deserve this absolute nonsense? His palms rest upon your shoulders when he looks you dead in the eye and says, “You are not blackmailing me, sweetie.”

“That’s a lot of confidence for someone who has very blackmail-able secrets.”

“That’s not even a word!”

“Whatever.” You peel away his hands from your shoulders, straightening your posture and pulling your shoulders back. Peter faces you with a puzzled gaze as you offer him your hand, clearing your throat and stating, “Peter Han, I would like to make a deal with you.”

He doesn’t move. “And that is…?”

“Date me.” Seeing his face contort into an even deeper state of befuddlement, you follow up with elaboration. “One date to a party next week, and just a few meet-ups and texts to prove that our relationship is going strong. In return, I’ll pretend this whole exchange never happened.”

You’re both silent for what feels like hours, eyes fighting a silent mental battle, until Peter’s rough palms finally envelop your own. You’re aware of how crazy and delusional you sound, but you swear he pulls you in just a little bit closer.

“Deal.”

It’s your third year in the city, and you’re still not fully familiarized with the parties. Contrary to your expectations of drunk sweaty bodies dancing up on each other, your friends’ definition of parties consists of low warm lighting embracing their glittered luxury brand dresses as they swirl their fancy little martinis and cosmopolitans. You appreciate it, really, since you don’t have to use up your voice every other night just to shout over the deafening electronic music. However it’s much harder to appreciate the pressure it puts on you to behave a certain way— dance like nobody’s watching, but be aware that they are.

As you slowly walk to approach your friends (rule #32: no running in public spaces, you’ll look like an idiot) you feel a large hand brush softly against your waist. You turn to face your date for the night, warmth creeping up your cheeks as you take in his appearance. The only suit he’s wearing now is an all-black tuxedo with no tie, the first three buttons of his shirt opened. His black hair is brushed down smoothly, pieces of it falling just right to frame his glowing face.

“You clean up well,” you remark, circling your arm in his as you guide him towards the bar where your friends are sitting.

“I could say the same to you, pretty.” With the sleek black shoes he’s wearing, he’s a few inches taller. Slightly looking down on you, he gives you a subtle wink.

God, he’s such a heartthrob.

Your friends round up to give you hugs and kisses to welcome your presence, ever so politely. One of them acknowledges Peter’s companionship. “You must be the date.”

“That I am.” Peter returns the approach, showing off his adorably heart-shaped smile. “Peter Han, pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of the night runs as it does in your dreams the night before. By the time you had arrived, your friends were already buzzed enough to pay no mind to the way the leather is peeling off your only pair of formal shoes nor to the typo on your fake branded bag. Just the way it’s supposed to be.

Peter doesn’t leave your side the entire night, only lifting his arm around your waist to grab more drinks for the both of you. Occasionally you catch him absentmindedly rubbing your back, and occasionally you catch yourself wondering how someone who spends so much of his life fighting can be this gentle.

During a small bathroom break, one of your friends pulls you aside and whispers, “He looks at you like you hung the stars, you know.”

If you weren’t so swept up in the feeling of finally belonging under the subtle incandescence of a high-end bar in Manhattan, you would have noticed the way Peter’s eyes darken when he read a notification off his phone, or the way his lips press into a tight line when he gazes at you, laughing your heart away amongst your friends.

So you’re nothing short of confounded when he wraps his arms around your waist and leans down to mumble, “Baby, I have to go, there’s a work emergency. I’ll catch you later, alright?”

Your friends bid him farewell and you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, immediately turning away when you feel his body tense. When he walks out the door, you keep your eyes focused on how his soft hair loses its shimmer as he walks out into the night.

And you try to enjoy the warm liquid pouring down your throat for the fifth time tonight, savoring the way you can almost taste a bit of yourself pull away from reality each time, knowing at least one of the people around you will walk away tonight asking, “don’t you think that Peter is a bit cold?”

You sit on the edge of your balcony, something you never do unless you’re going through an existential crisis or drunk off your ass. Tonight it’s both. As usual, the distant sirens and exclamations of curses wrap a tight band around your head. You’re dizzy; either from the alcohol or situation or both.

The ocean of fluorescent lights from the streets of Queens drift your mind to recall just how you ended up here. Three years ago, you were a fresh high school graduate with a million opportunities in front of you. Now you’re broke and rely too much on the validation of your non-broke friends to fulfill the void inside you. The thought of eventually having nobody but yourself after you graduate makes you wanna vomit on a passerby’s head.

“Hey, baby.” A particularly resonant voice startles you out of your thoughts. Peter is swinging from your balcony railing, a pair of gray sweatpants and zip-up jacket slung over his Spider-Man suit. “Sorry for ditching early. I got pizza and flowers to make it up to you, though.”

He swings himself to sit down next to you, placing the box of pizza and bouquet in front of your crossed legs. When he pulls his mask over his head to remove it, your eyes glance over his cuts and bruises. They definitely weren’t there earlier.

“What happened?” You unconsciously bring a hand up to his face, brushing your knuckles tenderly over the sensitive areas. It’s only when he winces that you drop your hand back down to your lap.

“Some guy tried to rob a bank.” Peter shrugged, refusing to meet your gaze. “Turns out he brought a bunch of other guys to back him up.”

“Did you win, at least?”

Though his face is turned down, you can see Peter’s eyes crinkle into a smile underneath his tousled hair. “Yeah, ‘course I did. Who do you think I am, a loser? I’m fucking Spider-Man, baby.”

Ten minutes later you’re seated face to face, still on your balcony, with you dabbing a cotton pad onto his injuries. No words were exchanged; you just went in and out to grab your emergency medical kit and grabbed him by the chin. The pizza box is left unattended, but neither of you care much about the hunger puncturing your insides.

“Why do you look so down?” Peter inquires as you place a Hello Kitty bandaid on his cheekbone, giggling breathlessly as you do so.

“Do I?”

“Yeah.” He brings his own hand up to your face, brushing away the strands of your hair on your forehead. “I mean, you’re smiling now, but your eyes have this sadness to them. So, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

What the actual fuck? It literally takes you every nerve in your body to fight the urge to propose to this man right then and there.

“Hey, come on,” he urges, delicately pulling your face an inch closer to his. His thumbs run down your flushed cheeks, and it takes you a while to notice he’s brushing away your tears. “I said talk to me.”

“Well, you’ve probably already noticed that I’m different from my friends.” You wrap your fingers around his wrists. “I guess I thought I could pull off the whole socialite act, but I’m starting to feel so…”

When you can’t find the words, Peter finds them for you. “Lost?”

He presses his forehead to yours as you nod softly. “This might not be the best time, but I think you’re a star.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you shine the brightest amongst everyone else’s shadow. And your friends probably see you that way too. Also that I really, really want to take you out on a real date.”

“You were right, it’s terrible timing.” You fake pout, pretending as if your heart didn’t skip a beat at his words.

“Sorry, sorry!” Peter laughs, setting distance between the two of you once again. There is no inclination to pull him back, though; the space devoid of someone else finally feels comfortable.

“My answer is yes, by the way, you can take me out on a real date. Unfortunately no blackmail this time, though, I think I'm gonna quit that dumb internship.”

Both of you share a fit of affectionate laughter. The temperate scent of food merges with that of the flowers and caresses your senses as Peter opens the box of pizza. “If they ever make fun of you for not being rich, we can always stage one of them as Spider-Man. We'll even get $1,000 from it, then you'll actually be rich."

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Spidey.”