★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : "you don't have to feel forced to do it, and not to presure you either but, will you go to the aquarium with me? I must admit that I've liked you since we first met, surrounded by fish back in the day."
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 psychology student! leehan x marine biology student! fem!oc (maya)
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 friends to lovers, fluff, tried to include comedy but idk how that went, 3rd person pov, mostly written but some smau parts too
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 this is my first time making a smau, it was really fun but lmk if you have any feedback as I'm just starting!
Leehan: Which country has the most birds?
Riwoo: Portu-geese
Riwoo: Wait-
Leehan: That’s a language
Riwoo: Portu-gull
Leehan: Nice recovery
Riwoo: Don’t you mean nice re-dove-ry?
Jaehyun: Turkey. How did we miss Turkey
🎤︎︎ Once upon a time, a knight fell in love with a woman he could never keep. But this story does not begin with armor, or crowns, or the slow shatter of a wedding bell. It begins, as all impossible things do, with a stolen afternoon—and a boy who did not know how to bow.
knight!taesan x princess!reader ──── forbidden love, childhood friends to lovers, forced/arranged marriage, no happy ending. (wc 3.3k)
✎ thank you to my lovely munchkin @niiqv for the beautiful header!
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ Chapter 1: The Boy with the Wooden Sword
You are eight years old the first time you learn that loneliness has a taste.
It is the flavor of cold porridge eaten in a dining hall built for forty. Of honeyed tea gone tepid because there is no one to drink it with. Of the silence that follows your own footsteps through corridors too vast for a child so small.
Your mother watches you from a gilded frame above the fireplace, her painted eyes kind and forever frozen. Your father is a king before he is a parent— you see him at feasts, at councils, at the distant end of long tables where his crown catches the candlelight and you are not allowed to run to him. Your brother, the crown prince, is away at military academy, learning to be the man you will one day serve.
The castle swallows you whole.
It is a beast of gray stone and stained glass and a thousand rooms you have never entered. Turrets claw at the sky like fingers. Tapestries whisper old battles when the wind blows through unsealed windows. The servants call you Your Highness in voices that never quite reach their eyes, and the ladies-in-waiting arrange your hair like you are a doll they are dressing for a shelf.
No one calls you little one.
No one calls you sweetheart.
No one asks what you dream about when the candles burn low and the moonlight paints silver stripes across your bedroom floor.
So you wander.
You have mapped most of the castle by the time you are six. By eight, you have begun searching for the places the maps forgot— the narrow staircases that lead nowhere, the walled-up doors that hide forgotten chambers, the corners where the dust settles thick and undisturbed and the world seems to hold its breath.
The garden behind the stables is one such place.
It is not a proper garden. There are no manicured hedges here, no marble fountains carved into the shapes of weeping maidens, no roses bred to bloom in colors that do not exist in nature. Just weeds and wildflowers and a single gnarled apple tree bent sideways by decades of wind. The ground is uneven, patched with mud and the ghosts of old footprints. The knights use it for training drills, which means it is usually scattered with broken practice swords and dented shields and the fading echoes of gruff laughter.
Your governess would collapse into a dead faint if she knew you went there.
That, you have decided, is precisely why you keep going.
On this particular afternoon— a Tuesday, you think, though Tuesdays have a habit of bleeding into Wednesdays into Thursdays into a blur of identical hours— you slip away during your embroidery lesson.
It is laughably easy.
The lady-in-waiting, a woman named Elara whose corsets are always too tight and whose patience is always too thin, has dozed off over her sewing. Her needle hangs suspended above a half-finished rose, a silver thread trailing from its eye like a spider’s silk. Her breath comes in soft, rhythmic puffs.
You set down your own needle. You rise from your cushion. You step over the discarded threads and the scattered pins and the small, sharp scissors that Elara would die if she knew you touched.
The door opens without a sound. You have learned how to make it do that.
And then you are running.
Your slippers whisper against the stone floors. Your braid— tight, immaculate, the work of twenty minutes and seven hairpins— begins to unravel behind you like a banner. The corridors blur past: portraits of ancestors you have never met, suits of armor standing sentinel over nothing, windows that spill rectangles of sunlight across the floor like spilled honey.
You do not stop until you reach the stables.
The smell hits you first— hay and leather and the warm, animal musk of horses dozing in their stalls. A stable boy looks up from a bucket of oats, recognizes the silver embroidery on your dress, and promptly forgets how to speak.
You press a finger to your lips.
He nods, wide-eyed, and goes back to his bucket.
You slip past him, through the narrow passage behind the tack room, and out into the garden.
And that is when you hear it.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The sound of wood striking wood. Rhythmic. Relentless. A heartbeat with a blade.
You slow, pressing your shoulder against the rough stone wall. The garden opens before you, drenched in afternoon gold. The apple tree casts a crooked shadow. The weeds sway in a breeze that smells of distant rain.
And there, in the corner—
A boy.
He is maybe twelve years old, though you are not good at guessing such things. He is all sharp angles and too-long limbs, the kind of gangly that suggests he grew three inches over the summer and hasn't figured out what to do with them yet. His hair is dark— black as wet stone, black as the space between stars— and it falls across his forehead in unkempt waves that he keeps shoving back with an impatient hand.
He is wearing a tunic of plain brown wool, patched at the elbow with a stitch so crooked it must have been his own work. His boots are scuffed nearly to ruin, the leather cracked and stained with old mud. There is dirt smeared across his cheekbone and a fresh scrape on his knuckles and a smear of something that might be grease or sap across his collar.
He is holding a wooden sword.
No, not a sword. A stick. A rough-hewn piece of oak, splintered at the hilt, wrapped in fraying leather that has seen better decades. He swings it at a battered training post— an old stump hammered into the earth, scarred with a thousand previous impacts— and the impact jars up his arm.
He stumbles back. Corrects. Swings again.
He is not good at this.
His footwork is clumsy. He overcorrects, throwing his weight too far forward, then wobbling as he tries to recover. He holds the sword too high, then too low, then too high again. His jaw is set with the particular stubbornness of someone who has been told he is not good enough and has decided to prove the world wrong through sheer, bloody-minded repetition.
A bead of sweat traces a path down his temple. Another follows. His breathing is heavy but controlled— he has been at this for a while.
You should leave.
You should turn around, go back to your embroidery, pretend you never saw him.
Instead, you step forward.
A twig snaps beneath your slipper.
The boy whirls around, wooden sword raised, his dark eyes wide and immediately wary. He scans the hedge, the wall, the gap where you are standing with your silver-embroidered dress and your half-unraveled braid.
You step through the gap.
"You're doing it wrong," you say.
The boy stares at you.
You stare back.
The afternoon holds its breath. Somewhere in the stables, a horse snorts. The wind rustles the apple tree, sending a few sour-smelling blossoms drifting down between you.
"You're not supposed to be here," he says finally. His voice is lower than you expected— not quite a boy's, not yet a man's, hovering somewhere in the middle like a bird deciding whether to land.
"I'm not supposed to be anywhere," you reply.
It is the truest thing you have said all week.
He blinks. His eyes drop to your dress— blue silk, deep as midnight, embroidered with tiny silver flowers that catch the light and throw it back in fractured sparkles. The kind of garment that costs more than most people see in a year. The kind of garment that announces royalty before a single word is spoken.
Something shifts in his face.
You have seen this before. The recognition. The calculation. The moment when a stranger realizes exactly who you are and decides exactly how to behave.
But this boy does not bow.
He does not stammer.
He does not avert his eyes or back away or call you Your Highness in a voice thick with fear.
He lowers his wooden sword, tilts his head, and studies your face like you are a map he is trying to read.
"You're the princess," he says.
It is not a question.
You lift your chin. "I am."
He looks at you for a long moment. His eyes are very dark— the color of wet earth, of old forests, of secrets kept too long. They move across your face: your braid, your stubborn chin, the small scratch on your cheek from the thorn bush you pushed through yesterday.
Then he says, "You're short."
The world stops.
You have been called many things in your eight years of life. Graceful. Precocious. A credit to your bloodline. The kingdom's greatest treasure. A flower blooming in winter.
No one has ever called you short.
No one has ever called you anything so simple, so honest, so unvarnished.
You should be offended. Your governess would be scandalized. Your father would have the boy whipped for insolence.
Instead, you laugh.
The sound startles you— bright and unexpected, cracking through the quiet like a stone thrown into still water. You clap a hand over your mouth, but it is too late. The laughter spills out anyway, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, a place you had forgotten existed.
The boy's eyes widen. He wasn't expecting that.
"You're bad at that," you say, pointing at the training post. The laughter is still trembling in your voice, making your words wobble.
His jaw tightens. "I'm practicing."
"You're going to hurt yourself."
"I'm not—" He stops, defensive now. A flush creeps up his neck, reddening the tips of his ears. "How would you know? You're a princess. You've probably never held a sword in your life."
"I've read about swords."
"Reading isn't the same."
"Then teach me."
The words fall out before you can catch them. They hang in the air between you— impossible, ridiculous, the kind of thing no princess has ever said to a strange boy in a ruined garden.
He stares at you like you have grown feathers.
"Teach you," he repeats flatly.
"That's what I said." You step forward, already reaching for the wooden sword in his hand. "Show me how to hold it. And then show me how to do it properly, since you're clearly doing it wrong."
He pulls the sword back, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline. "I can't teach a princess to fight."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He fumbles, words tangling. "Because you're a princess. You're supposed to embroider things and dance at balls and—"
"And die of boredom before I'm thirty?"
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
You plant your hands on your hips. "I don't want to embroider. I want to learn how to hit things."
The words hang there, absurd and glorious.
The boy looks at you.
You look at him.
The afternoon light filters through the branches of the apple tree, dappling his face in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. He is still dirty. Still wary. Still holding that stupid wooden sword like it is the only thing in the world that belongs to him.
But there is something else in his eyes now. Something curious. Something almost warm.
"You're strange," he says slowly.
"So I've been told."
"For a princess."
"I don't know how to be anything else."
He considers this. His thumb traces a splinter on the sword's hilt. The wind lifts his hair, revealing a small scar above his eyebrow—a thin white line, old and silvered.
Then, with a sigh that seems far too weary for someone who cannot be older than twelve, he holds out the wooden sword.
"Fine," he says. "But when you fall on your face, I'm not carrying you back to the castle."
You grin— wide and unguarded and utterly, gloriously unladylike.
"Deal."
His name is Taesan.
You learn this an hour later, after you have fallen on your face approximately seven times and he has laughed at you approximately fourteen.
"The grip is too tight," he says, circling you like a hawk circling a very confused mouse. "You're strangling it. It's a sword, not a chicken."
"I've never held a chicken either."
He pauses. Blinks. "You've never—" He stops. Shakes his head. "That explains a lot."
You stick your tongue out at him.
He raises an eyebrow but does not scold you for it. You get the sense that he does not care much about propriety— that he has spent his life outside the careful dance of courtly manners, and he sees no reason to start bowing and scraping knees now.
He steps behind you. His hands close over yours on the hilt— not tentatively, the way the older knights touch you when they must guide you down a staircase, but firmly. Like you are just another trainee and not the king's only daughter.
His palms are calloused. Warm. Slightly rough against your soft, uncalloused skin.
"Loosen your shoulders," he says, and his voice is closer than you expected, right by your ear. "You're holding all your tension here." He taps your shoulder blade with one knuckle. "You'll wear yourself out in five minutes."
"How do you know so much about swords?"
He is quiet for a moment. The only sounds are the wind dancing through the leaves of the apple tree and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer from somewhere beyond the stables.
Then: "My father was a knight."
"Was?"
"He died."
The words fall flat. Unadorned. He does not look away when he says them, and he does not add the usual but it's fine or don't worry about it that adults always tack onto grief like a bandage over a wound that will not close.
He just says it. A fact as solid as the stone walls of the castle.
You do not know what to say. No one has ever spoken to you so plainly about loss. The adults in your life wrap their grief in velvet and store it in dusty rooms where no one has to see it.
So you say the only thing you can.
"I'm sorry."
He shrugs. It is a small movement, barely a twitch of his shoulders, but you see something flicker across his face— gratitude, maybe. Or surprise. Or the particular ache of being seen when you expected to be invisible.
"I'm going to be one too," he says. "A knight, I mean. That's why I'm here. The captain took me on as a squire." He nods toward the training post. "I have to get better."
"You will."
He looks at you. "How do you know?"
You think about it. About the way he kept getting up every time he stumbled. About the focus in his eyes when he swung— not anger, not desperation, but something quieter. Something like promise. About the dirt on his face and the calluses on his palms and the stubborn set of his jaw that reminds you of your own reflection.
"Because you're still here," you say. "Even when no one's watching."
The words land somewhere soft.
His expression shifts— a crack in the armor he did not know he was wearing. Something raw and young and achingly vulnerable passes through his dark eyes, there and gone so quickly you almost miss it.
Then he reaches out and ruffles your hair.
Your braid, already half-undone, gives up entirely. Strands spill across your face. A few hairpins ping to the ground.
"You're still strange," he says.
But his voice is warmer now. Softer. Like honey left too close to the fire.
And when you push the hair out of your eyes and smile up at him— shameless, unafraid, unreasonably happy—
He smiles back.
It is the first time you have seen him smile.
It changes his whole face. The wariness melts away. The sharp edges soften. He looks, for one breathless moment, like a boy instead of a soldier. Like someone who might laugh at your jokes and catch you when you fall and stay, just because you asked him to.
You do not know it yet.
But you will spend the rest of your life trying to see that smile again.
You go back to the garden the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
Each time, you find him there, practicing his swings against the old training post. Each time, he pretends to be annoyed to see you. "Don't you have princess things to do?" Each time, he hands you the wooden sword without being asked.
He teaches you to stand without wobbling. To swing without closing your eyes. To block, though your arms ache and your palms blister and your governess asks why you keep sneaking off to "explore the library" with a strange, secret little smile.
You teach him, in return, without meaning to. You teach him that not all nobles are cold. That loneliness wears the same face whether you sleep on silk or straw. That there is a difference between being alone and being lonely, and you have been both for longer than you can remember.
You teach him that the princess is not just a crown on a cushion.
She is a girl who laughs too loudly and falls too often and asks too many questions.
She is a girl who, for reasons she cannot name, feels safe when he is nearby.
He teaches you, in return, without trying. He teaches you that strength is not the absence of fear but the refusal to stop swinging. That grief does not have to be loud to be real. That the best conversations happen in silence, side by side, watching the clouds drag their shadows across the distant mountains.
He teaches you that the heart does not wait for permission.
It simply wants.
And yours, small and eight years old and utterly unprepared, has already begun to want him.
That night, you lie in your vast bed, staring at the canopy above your head.
The castle is silent. The servants have tucked you in. The guards have bowed at your door. The candles have been extinguished one by one, leaving only the silver wash of moonlight through the window.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
But something has shifted.
You close your eyes and see him. The boy with the wooden sword. The dirt on his cheek. The roughness of his palms. The way he looked at you when he smiled— not at the princess, not at the crown or the title or the weight of a kingdom's expectations—
But at you.
You do not know his last name. You do not know where he sleeps or what he eats for breakfast or whether he misses his father as much as you miss your mother's voice. You do not know that one day, his name will be the first thing you reach for in the dark, or that his absence will feel like a hole in the world.
You only know that when you are with him, you do not feel lonely.
And that, you are beginning to understand, is the most dangerous thing in the world.
Because princesses are not allowed to keep the things that make them happy.
Princesses are allowed to keep kingdoms.
And a boy with a wooden sword, a boy with dirt on his face and calluses on his palms, a boy who looks at you like you are a person instead of a position—
He is not a kingdom.
He is something far more precious.
taglist: @moesthinking ℘ @taestulipss ℘ @tsanho
credits: lace, sparkle line, line and glowing stars by @cursed-carmine, chapter divider by @honeyluvsw, header by @niiqv
want more scripts? visit the masterlist!
want to be a vip? visit the taglist!
this has honestly been one of the hardest things for me to write, but after thinking about it for a long time, I've decided that I'll be stepping away from writing once I've completed my remaining projects.
I simply don't feel the same spark or motivation for writing like I used to anymore 😭💔 and for a while I've been wanting to focus on myself and other parts of life.
writing was never something I planned on or saw myself doing, I posted my first few fics kind of on a whim, and the love and support I got back was so much more than I ever expected, which is what made me want to keep going. but even then, I don't think I ever saw it as something I'd do long term, so maybe a part of me always knew this day would come eventually 🥲
I still have two projects I want to finish before then : Love at Latte Lane and, most importantly, No One Knows, the final story of Lights, Camera, Action!
first of all, I want to apologise for how long NOK has taken. I know it's been a while, and I know many of you have been waiting patiently. after spending so much time writing the LCA series, I've found myself struggling to sit down and write the final installment 🙂↕️ the thought of writing NOK has been dreading me, especially with the burnout and exhaustion I remember experiencing while working on the five other fics from this series. nevertheless, LCA is an important part of my writing journey and I want to see it completed, so I refuse to leave without NOK fully written and published for all of you 🥹🫶 (I'm itching to just spoil the epilogue rn tbh 💀 especially since it's the story I've always wanted to tell from the very beginning 😭)
thank you to each and every one of you for all the love and support you've given to me and my stories, you've made this past year so much more meaningful than I ever imagined 🥹💕 I'm always so touched to hear how many people I've inspired and impacted with my work during my time here 😘🫶 this community came into my life at a time when I was struggling a lot, and getting to meet so many of you through it meant more than I think you know.
I don't know if this is the end of my writing journey or just a pause, but regardless, you'll always be a chapter of my life I'm really glad I got to have 🥹
thank you 🫶💕
PS : I've got one more fic I have yet to complete for @taestulipss too so stay tuned for that! :)
sypnosis: Your best friend loves soccer, and you love your best friend. So when he forces you to watch with him, you have no other choice.
pairings: bsf!JAEHYUN x READER
genre: fluff, comedy
warnings: romantic tension, cuddling, lgbtq+ joke (not offensive), crushes, Jaehyun physically forces reader to wear a jersey lol
w/c: 800+
A/N: First request!! This was so fun omg
₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི♡‧₊˚
There were many things you hated: cockroaches, sweat, football, etc.
There were very few things you loved: cats, coffee, and your best friend of five years.
It just so happened that he was obsessed with the thing you hated.
"Come onnnn, just one game," he whined, pulling your hoodie arm and letting it loose over and over again.
You sighed, closing your laptop. This was supposed to be an at-home study session, but Jaehyun had just been droning on about the World Cup since the moment he arrived. Every five seconds, he'd scroll on his phone and go "I'm gonna explode," and you'd have to reassure him that it's not that deep.
"Why the hell," you yank his hand off you. "Would I sit and watch a bunch of men sweat on a screen?"
He props his head on his hands, lying stomach down on your bed. "What if they were hot men sweating on a screen?"
You laughed. "So that's why you watch that stuff. Happy pride month." You stood up, but he grabbed your arm and pulled you down again.
"Come onnn, just once. You'd be the nicest person in the world. You'd be my little pretty princess. I'll be so nice to you for the rest of your life."
You roll your eyes as you fight to hide the smile forming at his words. "...Maybe."
"YOU SAID YES!" He yelled, grabbing you and pulling you into a bear hug on the bed. "I could kiss you."
"Ew," you muttered, hiding your red face. You pushed him off. "You're paying for drinks and snacks."
"Of course." He beamed.
₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི♡‧₊˚
On the day of the game, Jaehyun arrived at your house with a dorky smile on his face, holding two big shopping bags of food and drinks. He was wearing a bright red jersey, grinning like the devil himself. He streamed past you and into your room, unloading his supplies and setting up the TV.
You watched lazily from the bed, but shook your head in horror when he stood up. He was holding an identical red jersey, smiling deviously.
You shot up from the bed. "Nuh uh. I just said watching. I am not wearing that."
Jaehyun's smile didn't break an inch. "Oh yes you are."
And so the chase began.
You leapt to the door and bolted out of the room, Jaehyun following close behind. You ran through the halls at lightning speed, swerving around and eventually reaching your room again. You zoomed in, trying to close the door in his face, but he grabbed the handle in time and pushed it open, stepping in and closing it shut behind him.
You backed up into the room, hanging your head in defeat as he pulled the jersey on over you, grinning in satisfaction. He adjusted the sleeve and collar proudly. "Look at you. Red's really your colour."
You grumbled and sat down on the floor. "When does this thing start?"
He sat next to you, still staring at you in your new outfit. "Soon. 5 minutes?"
You nodded, playing with the hem of your new shirt. Red's your colour?
Jaehyun soon leapt up in excitement. "It's starting! The game's starting!"
₊˚⊹♡🧸ྀི♡‧₊˚
As the game went on, you couldn't even pretend to be enjoying yourself. When a team scored, you clapped politely while Jaehyun shrieked and howled. You really were just doing this for his sake.
Soon, Jaehyun seemed to realize how low energy you were. He himself was getting pretty tired. He slowly inched towards you, and eventually, he was right beside you, shoulders practically touching. At one point in the game, he gently reached over and tilted your head onto his shoulder.
You stared up at him in confusion, but he pretended to be invested in the game. You could feel his heartbeat. Why was it so fast? Was the game that exciting?
After that, every time Team Korea scored, he would gently laugh, occasionally reaching up to pat your head or shoulder. When the other team scored, he'd groan and gently rub your arm.
At this point, you were more alert than you had ever been while watching a sport. Every time he touched you, you prayed he wouldn't catch your slight tremble.
The game eventually ended, with Team Korea winning. Jaehyun let out a bunch of whoops, falling back to rest his head against the foot of the bed. "See. It's 'cause you watched. You're the country's lucky charm."
You laughed at his absurdity. "What do we do now?"
He smiled, gently pulling you to him. Your head landed on his chest, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulder. "Now, we sleep."
As your best friend drew small circles into your shoulder for the next hour, you couldn't help but think that maybe football wasn't all that bad.
A/N: Again, thank you so much for the prompt!! I hope I did it justice >_<
🐈⬛ྀི beatle!han taesan x pop singer!reader ⸺ fem reader, fluff, lotsa blushing, 60s au, use of y/n 🎥 963 words
There's no time for fanatical teenage girls like the sixties; two of the most influential musicians are all anyone and their mother can talk about.
Their faces fill newspapers and record shops, and you're bound to hear their names slip by amongst teenage girl chatter.
It still feels unreal everytime you see your face plastered on some wall or on the front page of the daily news. Or, like right now, sitting in front of the most famous talk show host in the country.
“The new album really is something! No wonder everyone's raving about you.”
You laugh, looking down bashfully like you do after every compliment—which, with the number that you receive, you should be used to by now—crossing one leg over the other. “Thank you. It means lots coming from you.”
He flashes you a smile in response.
“Now, you're not the only one whose face has been on every newspaper and tv channel these past few years.” The interviewer glances at the papers on his desk before back up at you. “You know The Boys Next Door, right?”
“Yes, I really love their songs.”
His brows perk up. “Really?”
“Yes. They're really good, especially the guitarist. The way he plays really brings the songs to life.”
“Oh wow,” he laughs, “seems like you're a fan.” You nod, now bashful, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Who would you say is your favorite?” He leans in, and you blink, slightly taken aback by the question.
“Oh, I don't know. I only really listen to their music.”
“But if you had to pick, who would it be?”
“Well, uhm, I'd say,” you trail off, thinking of the best way to answer without embarrassing yourself. “Probably Han Dongmin. He's a good guitarist, and he's quite quiet and cool. Kind of like me—the quiet, I mean.”
The interviewer chuckles. “He is cool.” Tilting his head in agreement. “And so are you!”
“Me?” You laugh. “But, uhm, I do like his voice. He doesn't sing often, but when he does it's very..” you pause to think, looking down shyly as if you're admitting a personal secret. “Addictive, fitting.”
“Addictive? It seems you do have a favorite!”
“Oh, I just mean it's nice to listen to.” You look down, voice getting quieter as your cheeks get warmer, though ‘it's nice to listen to’ probably isn't any better than addictive.
“Hey, Taesan! Are you hearing this?”
Said boy looks up from his book to see his bandmates sitting in front of the TV with the widest and cheekiest grins known to mankind.
“No..? What about it?” He furrows his brows, scanning their faces with a questionable eye. Woonhak moves to turn it up, which draws his attention to the screen. It's some talk show, one they’ve probably been on, and the host’s talking to a girl who’s clearly blushing despite the monochromatic display.
He pauses; she looks familiar. Well, she is on a talk show, so he's probably seen her in a movie or on a shelf in a record store.
“Y/n L/n just said you're cool!” Woonhak beams, and Jaehyun wiggles his brows up and down, adding, “and your voice is addictive.”
“Looks like you have competition, Leehan!” The youngest turns to said boy, who perked up at the sound of his name, clearly not listening to anything they were just saying.
“She even complimented your guitar skills.” Jaehyun continued to Taesan, who's trying his hardest not to flush red right now (but actively failing), slumping further in his chair and hiding behind his book.
“She totally likes you.”
“Many girls like me,” Taesan mutters.
“Wow, she should mention how humble you are too!” Woonhak rolls his eyes as the other boy gets up and crowds Taesan.
“Ooh, is someone blushinggg?” Jaehyun leans in, and the boy turns, shielding his face with his book. Suddenly Woonhak gasps, “do you like her too!?”
“Wha—no, just—just shut up!” Taesan shoos the older boy away, which fails and he ends up poking him with his foot, while the younger grins at him from the carpet.
“Oh you so do.”
“Shut up!”
The four boys are almost always surrounded by people. If not fans, then producers; if not producers, then journalists and reporters. In today's case, it's the endmost.
“Taesan,” the reporter in front of the four holds the mic up to him, “did you know that Y/n L/n talked about and complimented you in a recent interview?”
Taesan pauses for a second, remembering how his friends were teasing him the other day, before nodding with a shy smile.
“Do you have anything to say about her?”
He glances down, feeling his friend's eyes on him, and smiles nervously. “I.. I’m not sure.” Now he can hear his friends trying to contain their giggles.
“Do you think she's pretty?”
He freezes for a second, like actually freezes—mouth ajar, fidgety fingers frozen, the only sign of life is his blinking and the growing rosiness on his cheeks. Jaehyun can't contain his laughter anymore, nudging the boy. He blinks, trying to recover at least a shred of his dignity. “I– uhm–”
Woonhak, who’s clutching onto a doubled over Leehan, both from laughter, responds for him as he catches his breath, though it doesn't really help his case. “I think his silence is enough of an answer.”
Taesan turns to the boy, though all he can manage is a “hey—!”
But the reporter’s relentless.
“Have you listened to any of her music?”
“I, uhm, I have, yes.” He nods, still recovering from the last question. He just blushed, stuttered, and got exposed in front of people and reporters and cameras, and soon this is going to be in every newspaper and magazine. And he's never going to live it down.
i've been obsessed with the beatles lately so naturally i had to do an au (also since the beatles are four only four bnd members are mentioned sorry sangsunz fans 😞)
woonhak x fem reader. | mini smau — part 2
in which woonhak is the epitome of a teenage boy and, unfortunately, also your best friend.
tags: bff!woonhak, comedy, attempts at humor, reader is kinda mean lol?? dw she's just teasing, taesan mention, woonhak just lowkey catching strays 😭
warnings: mild cursing, kms/kys jokes
a/n: first smau/textpost! i was giggling to myself a little making this, it's just silly hahaha also i fully believe that if i knew woonhak irl we'd be the best of friends 😎
your boyfriend fucked up so he’s trying to make up for it
۫ ꣑ৎ 리우 x 𝒻!reader ft. bnd , wonyoung of ive , minju of illit , taehyun of txt genre fluff crack non idol au warnings profanity suggestive jokes gay jokes kys/kms jokes riu loser agenda hyukmyungz + gongfourz crumbs
from fae — EXAMS ARE FINALLY DONE THANK FUCK I HATED STUDYING 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 ok anyways back to the point happy birthday my dear sweet bebe @lusayyawnn i love u so much i still remember back when i was a reader and discovered fortepiano and as a violinist i was SEATED and when u followed me back and went into my inbox yesyes i still remember ok i hope u enjoy this bs smau i made for u ok mwah love u 🥹💕 . masterlist
💻 𓂃 ﹕an all A student is now at risk of tainting his so called “perfect image” to help a troublemaker like you.
READ PART TWO HERE ──── classmate ! taesan x troublemaker ! gn ! reader ╱ ⌕ smau, slowburn-ish, hurt/comfort ( ? ), fluff-ish! ∿ ˊᯅˋ mean banter/bickering, language >3< ( 💬 ) yoohoo…! breaking my silence with this one 😳 sorry this has been rotting in my drafts LMAO here’s something to make up for it before i finally get to work on that smau of mines… 😅 part 2 soon !
‘💬’ ─ off topic but it’s so hot right now that i feel like a baked rotisserie chicken from costco
woonhak x femreader
w: smut, swearing, making out, handjob, first time, praise kink if you squint, they're both shy and whiny, no sub/dom dynamics | wc: 2.4k | might have typos | english isn't my first language | mdni
it all really started pretty innocently.
you sat on the bed, against the headboard with your boyfriend next to you. you were both playing mario kart all alone when one thing led to another and now you were tangled in a make out session instead.
his left hand rested softly on your cheek, his thumb brushing along it, while his right hand was gripping at your waist like he was afraid you might disappear. you rested both your hands on his chest, startled by how fast his heartbeat was getting, fast enough it made your own chest feel tight.
woonhak pulled back with a string of saliva connecting you two. both of your breaths were uneven, his lips were swollen and he quickly licked over them. the room felt smaller all of the sudden.
he looked at your face carefully, like he was trying to memorise every single detail on it. even the ones you used to call ugly were beautiful to him.
you bit on your lower lip as you looked down, blush creeping from your neck to your face when you noticed the growing tent between his legs.
woonhak's face went completely red when he realised the reason why you weren't looking at his face anymore. he quickly panicked, pulling his hands away from you before you would think he's some type of pervert.
"fuck– shit– oh my god, I'm so sorry. I- I couldn't help it. I- fuck, I'm sorry, I swear it won't happen ag–"
"it's okay, woonie." you cut him off, batting your lashes at him. you leaned in closer to kiss him again, biting on his lower lip to let yourself in.
one of your hands travelled dangerously down to his lower abdomen, your wrist accidently touching his clothed erection, earning a whine around your tongue. a sound you never heard coming from him.
he sucked on your swollen lips as his hands hesitantly came back to your body, pulling you even closer by the waist.
as the kiss turned heavier you felt heat pooling in your lower abdomen, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. your fingers tangled around the strings of his hoodie, deepening the kiss.
woonhak's lips traced from your lips to your cheek, then to your jaw until he was facing the crook of your neck, sucking and nipping on your warm body. you let out a shaky moan into the air, hands going to slightly grip at his hair.
"woonie…" you called out softly, slowly pushing him away. you rested your hand on his thigh, dangerously close to his heated core. he looked down at the way you brushed your thumb on his thigh. he swallowed hard, wishing you could lower your touch just a little more.
he looked up, noticing the way your face blushed with anticipation, the way your lips looked glossy thanks to the mix of salivas, and the way the collar of your shirt had loosened up from pulling it down.
"yeah?" he asked, and you swore you could see his eyes sparkling up like a cartoon character.
you exhaled softly yet nervous, not knowing how to make up the words without sounding too vulgar. "I–" you started, quickly giving glances to his growing crotch. "can I…?" you looked away, scratching your hand just to do something with it. you cleared your throat. "can I touch it..?"
his heart pounded hard and his eyes opened wide. he let out a shaky, nervous laugh and his eyes darted everywhere but you. "y-you don't have to…it'd probably go away. other wise I could j-just go to the bathroom anyways." he gulped, finally looking at you.
"but I really want to." you said, instinctively pouting at him. you grab one of his hands with your free hand, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. you noticed his adam's apple bob up and down once again.
woonhak stared at you for a moment, biting his lower lip at the thought of you touching him the way he'd had imagined many times on those needy late nights.
he let out a heavy sigh, slowly nodding as he looked down at his painful boner. he usually didn't get hard during making out, he'd fight it back, but there was something different in the air tonight.
you managed to kiss him again, hands starting to traced down from his chest to his thighs once again, making him shiver under your touch. you hesitantly reached your hand over his erection, slowly palming him over his jeans.
he moaned softly into your mouth, the tip of his ears immediately turning a deep red at the unfamiliar touch. woonhak's hips bucked up unconsciously, and he uselessly tried to apologise against your tongue. you moaned softly at the vibration, the sound sending waves straight to his already twitching dick.
your fingers struggled with the button of his jeans until you finally pulled back from his lips, using both hands this time. he helped you out, pulling his jeans down and throwing them to the floor.
you kissed him again as you grabbed his dick over his boxers. he whimpered into your lips, brows frowning with pleasure.
he hid his face on your neck, trying not to moan too loudly when you started to move your hand up and down painfully yet deliciously slow. you whined when he bit your neck a little too hard.
"f-fuck– you sound so hot.." he murmured against the red skin of your neck.
he turned his gaze at you, coming back to kiss you eagerly as his hands tried to grope every part of your torso. you let out a small moan when he did an experimental squeeze at your breast.
your hand reached down to the hem of his boxers as you pulled away, searching for his permission. when he nodded you pulled his underwear down to his knees, he hissed at the feeling of the cold air against his glowing red cock.
you took it, trying to decipher the way his face contorts as you pumped up and down. "does it feel good?" you asked, a soft pout forming on your lips.
he let out a pathetic moan when your thumb started playing circles on his aching tip. "f-fuck– y-yeah, it feels good. j-just try twisting your wrist more. shit–"
you do as he says, going back to kiss him as you pumped him. he pulled away and you noticed the way his chest fell back and forth, throwing his head against the headboard behind him.
"it feels s'good." he whimpered, resting his hands on his sides, not knowing what to do with them now, completely overwhelmed.
your stomach fluttered, the sounds he made sending heat throughout your whole body. it was a lot.
too much and not enough at the same time.
you noticed the way his breathing stuttered, the way his body tensed slightly beneath your hand. you slowed down without thinking twice, earning a confused look from him.
"wha-what? why did you slowed down?" his voice cracked, eyes flickering between your blushed face and your hand.
for a split second he thought he'd done something wrong. moaned too loud, reacted too desperately.
"I– I really don't know..." you confessed, earning a shaky laugh from your boyfriend. you laughed too, trying to ease the sudden tension. "I g-guess I just wanted to check on you," you said softly. "am I doing alright..?"
his shoulders relaxed a little and he smiled, leaning in to give a small peck onto your lips. "yeah," he nodded quickly, then slower, meeting your eyes. "you're doing it perfect. f-feels much better than my own hand." he let out a breathy laugh.
you nudged his shoulder slightly with your free hand, more blush forming on your cheeks thanks to his comment. "shut up."
you leaned in to kiss his lips, brushing your tongue across his as the pace on your hand quickened again little by little. his breath hitched, the sound muffled against your mouth.
woonhak tried to focus on breathing through his nose, but it was useless. every small movement of your hand and your mouth sent a jolt through him, sharp but warm.
he pulled away, throwing his head back again, placing his forearm over his face, trying to hide it from you. his cheeks were burning up and his brain was fogging, squeezing his eyes tight as he tried to steady himself.
he opened them back, looking at you. looking at the way you were watching his face, not his body. the way your brows knit together slightly, like you were paying attention to every little reaction, like you got off by the way his face contorts, made his chest tighten.
you noticed the way his breath hitched whenever your thumb brushed his tip, the way his lips parted letting out the prettiest sounds you ever heard. even the smallest reactions, all because of you.
your thighs pressed together instinctively, a quiet rush of heat pooling low in your core at the sight of him like this. you weren't sure when watching him started to feel this good, almost as if you were watching something you shouldn't.
woonhak noticed. not the movement itself, but the way your breath changed when he did. it made his stomach twist pleasantly, feeling his climax come closer.
the idea that his sounds, his reactions, the way he was falling apart under your touch were doing something to you made his heart race faster than before.
his fingers curled into the sheets, feeling closer than before. "I–" he called out, voice cracking. "I think I'm gonna– fuck." his breath catching in his throat.
you felt the way his body tensed beneath your touch, the way his hips stuttered as they tried thrusting up into your hand. you leaned in without thinking, pressing your lips to his, slow and warm as if you were grounding him. the pace of your hand quickening in a way that made his eyes rolled back to his skull.
his whole body gave in at once. he gasped into your lips, the sound muffled and desperate, hands flying to grip tight at your waist. his forehead dropped to your shoulder as his seed spread across your hand, swearing softly under his breath.
"fuck, s-shit– oh my god." his voice cracked. his breath was uneven.
you patted his head with your free hand as the other one slowed down, trying to milk every single drop until he was done. he stayed there until it finally passed, breathing hard. his hands still fisting around your waist, knuckles white.
he let out a shaky sigh, half laughing and half embarrassed. you smiled, cheeks burning just as much as his as you let go his dick. "'you okay?"
he nodded slowly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. his eyes were still glossy, and his mouth formed a cute pout. "yeah..." he said quietly, pulling away to grab the box of tissues on his nightstand, cleaning both your hand and his thighs.
he finished cleaning up quietly, pulling his boxers back up. his movements were a little clumsy, sensitive, like his body still hadn't caught up with what just happened.
your ears still buzzed like crazy. heart racing, skin warm, your whole body feeling heavy. watching him cum undone like that, hearing the way his voice broke. it all replayed in your head, sending another quiet wave of heat low in your stomach, making you press your thighs together again without even realising it.
woonhak noticed it, his ears burning red immediately.
"are you...um," he started, then stopped, rubbing his palms against his thighs nervously. "are you okay?" he asked, voice soft and careful.
you felt warmth settling into your chest. you nodded, "yeah." a shy flat smile tugging on your lips. "I am." you said, then hesitantly added, "it was...really nice...hot."
his eyes widened just a little, smiling. "it was?"
you nodded again, cheeks heating up as you started to hug your legs, resting your chin between your knees.
his gaze dropped without meaning to. just for a second.
his breath caught immediately and his face went hot all over again when he noticed the faint darkened patch of arousal on your shorts.
he looked away so fast it almost hurt his neck.
"..sorry," he blurted out quietly, embarrassed before you'd even said anything. his hands curled into the sheets again. "I didn't mean to stare."
you hadn't even noticed what he'd seen until you looked down between your legs. your cheeks burned, instinctively hugging your legs closer, embarrassed as if you didn't just give him the best handjob of his life.
it took him a moment to work up the courage to look at you again. when he did, his expression was soft. careful. almost worried.
"I just–" he hesitated, swallowing hard. "I thought maybe...you might be feeling...kinda worked up too..?" his voice dropped lower, shy but serious. "because of me."
"if you are," he continued, words rushed now, flustered. "I mean– only if you want– I could...maybe help? just a little? not anything you don't want to." he shook his head quickly. "I just don't like the idea of you feeling all...uncomfortable because of me."
his eyes flicked down to your crotch once more, then back up. apologetic and hopeful all at once.
"...I want to take care of you too," he said softly. then, quieter, "even if it's just– I don't know...whatever you want."
you didn't answer right away. instead, you let your legs relax just a little, unwrapping your arms that were around them. his eyes followed every little movement you made.
woonhak swallowed hard. jaw tightening as his gaze dropped again, lingering longer this time, biting back a moan. his hands slid to rest on your knees, thumbs brushing slow, warm circles against your skin.
he leaned in, pressing a long, gentle kiss to your knee. not where you were aching. not yet. he reached for both of your hands, locking his fingers with yours and giving them a small squeeze, grounding not only you but himself too.
you leaned forward to kiss him, a muffled whine slipping from you when he started to spread your legs to let himself settle between them. his hands resting on the inner sides of your thighs to keep you spread apart.
his breath ghosted over your body as he lowered himself, close enough feel his warmth even through your shorts. close enough that your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking.
he paused, then look up at you. "tell me if you want me to stop." he murmured, eyes sparkling up.
your breath stuttered. you looked down at him, at the way he was waiting. hands steady on your thighs, gaze warm but intense.
"don't," you said softly, voice barely louder than a whisper. "please."
