[ WINWINTEA FILES ]

└➤ oh? hello?

└➤ what’s this? you aren’t supposed to be here…

└➤ london hasn’t finished writing for this event yet! please wait while i go remind them to finish up.

└➤ …

└➤ um… they’re busy.

└➤ i’m sorry you may have to come back later.

└➤ …what? oh.

└➤ i just got information that most of these stories are missing pieces or endings. and that london has allowed me to ask of you to help out with these cases.

└➤ classic london.

└➤ it seems these stories are in case file mode, and each contain “clues”. or riddles i guess, because london isn’t smart enough to come up with so many clues.

└➤ anyways. i hope you fail. i hate my job.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ hi gang thank you for 800 followers?????? i did not think i would get this far, it’s honestly so much for me. like those numbers are unfathomable. especially since this basically concides with my one year anniversary of being a writer on this website, i figured i might as well do a little fun event for my followers? below are the rules on how to participate! it’s a first come first serve basis so get your asks in ASAP!

Kids make me laugh so much. Little guy walks into a space he’s never been before and BOOKS IT away from his parents towards the nearest stranger. Buddy you are 2 feet tall and doing the exact opposite of what you should be.

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WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS

wc: 2,6k pairings: schroeder!chenle × lucy!reader genre: fluff, romance, peanuts gang au, childhood friends to lovers au, lwk crack warnings: none! notes: I'd sell my soul to the devil for chenle to write songs about me

The first time you decided Zhong Chenle would marry you, it was a Tuesday. 

Specifically, a Tuesday he was supposed to be admiring your lemonade stand. You put all that hard work into impressing him, yet instead, he was hunched over a tiny piano in the school music room, plinking out a melody that sounded suspiciously like a funeral dirge.

You marched over, fists on your overalls. “You’re doing it wrong,” you announced, leaning so far over the piano keys your braids brushed his hands. “Love songs are supposed to be sparkly. Like glitter. Or… or soda.”

Chenle didn’t look up. His bowl cut bobbed as he muttered, “This is sparkly. It’s Chopin.”

“Chopin’s boring. Play our song.” You slammed a juice box on top of his sheet music.

“We don’t have a song—”

“Yes, we do! It’s called ‘Future Mrs. Zhong’s Lemonade Stand Jam’.” You began humming loudly, off-key, while Chenle groaned and covered his ears.

By recess, you’d dragged your lemonade stand and a disgruntled Renjun hauling his security blanket, next to the playground swings. Chenle was there, of course, because the universe hated him. He’d brought his piano again, a portable keyboard balanced on the slide.

“Five cents for lemonade!” you barked, ignoring Renjun’s sigh of, “Unrequited love is statistically improbable before puberty.”

Chenle squinted at you. “Your sign says ‘Psychiatrist’.”

“It’s a package deal.” You shoved a cup at him. “Drink. Then tell me why you’re allergic to romance.”

He took a sip and immediately spat it out. “This is just straight up lemon juice!”

“It’s advanced lemonade.” You crossed your arms. “For advanced love problems.”

Valentine’s Day was your magnum opus. You spent hours gluing sequins to a card shaped like a grand piano, then shoved it into Chenle’s hands during naptime.

“Here. It’s a down payment for our wedding.”

He blinked, cookie crumbs on his cheeks. “…Thanks?”

The next day, you spotted it poking out of his piano book—as a bookmark? How dare he.

You seethed while Chenle played a concerto, oblivious… until you noticed him gently smoothing the crumpled corner of the card when he thought no one was looking.

By fifth grade, Chenle’s desk looked like a war zone.

He’d stacked recorded Beethoven albums into a precarious tower, draped a raincoat over the top as a “roof,” and taped a Lunchables box to the front with a crude drawing of a dragon that vaguely resembled a dog. The pièce de résistance? A sign scribbled in red marker: “NO GIRLS ALLOWED. ESPECIALLY LEMONADE GIRLS.”

You surveyed his fortress, hands on your hips. “Is that a sock puppet guard?”

Chenle peeked over the wall, clutching a pencil like a sword. “His name’s Daegal. He’s allergic to cooties.”

“Cooties aren’t real.”

“Prove it.”

You lobbed a love note over the wall. It fluttered into his lap, adorned with a glitter bomb heart.

“GAH—” Chenle swatted it away, accidentally knocking over his “Moonlight Sonata” CD. “I’m serious! This is an anti-girls zone!”

By lunch, you’d engineered a catapult from rubber bands and a spoon to fire candy hearts into his fortress. One hit Daegal in the eye.

“Ceasefire!” Chenle yelled, waving a white flag that seemed oddly like a napkin.

“Never!” You reloaded with a gummy bear. “Love wins, Zhong!”

Renjun looked at the chaos and merely sighed. “This is why I don’t leave my blanket.”

You were finally 16 now. You hadn’t officially given up on Chenle. You just… upgraded.

“Arguing is just verbal jazz,” you declared to Renjun, shoving a stack of debate notes into your locker. “And I’m Miles Davis.”

Renjun, now permanently fused to his security blanket, sighed. “Jazz doesn’t involve threatening to sue the cafeteria over soggy tater tots.”

“Alleged tater tots.” You slammed the locker shut just as Chenle rounded the corner, his growth spurt leaving him all elbows and awkward angles. He froze, sheet music slipping from his hands like confetti.

“Oops,” you said, stepping over a stray page titled “Lemonade Stand Blues (Draft #47).”

“I— It’s not— It’s a metaphor,” Chenle stammered, scrambling to gather the sheets. His voice cracked. Twice.

You arched a brow. “For… plagiarism? You never paid me royalties.”

He opened his mouth, but you were already gone, heels clicking toward the debate hall where Haechan waited, clutching a wilting daisy.

It seemed like Haechan had asked you out for what you thought was the third time that month behind the gym bleachers, his baseball cap on backward and his shoelaces tied together.

“So, uh… I heard you like justice,” he said, kicking a pebble. “There’s this new documentary about… lawnmower regulations?”

You snorted. “Are you asking me out or questioning me about my interest in running for city council?”

“Yes?” He grinned, all crooked. “I’ll even let you yell at the popcorn guy if he skimps on butter.”

You glanced over his shoulder. Chenle was lurking by the water fountain, pretending to fix his Walkman while blatantly staring. 

“Deal,” you said, loud enough for Chenle to hear. “But only if you be a little more careful next time.”

Haechan tripped over his own feet celebrating.

  While you seemed to have everything under control, Chenle’s piano compositions had gone rogue.

Gone were the moody sonatas. Now he hammered out synth-pop bangers during lunch, lyrics scrawled in the margins of his math homework. “She’s got a heart like a lawsuit / Lemonade empire, no parachute.”

Yangyang, now his self-proclaimed manager, danced on the cafeteria table with a ketchup bottle microphone. “THIS IS A BOP! CALL IT ‘OBJECTION: NO, THAT’S WRONG, IN THE NAME OF LOVE’!”

“Quiet, if you say ‘bop’ one more time I'll hit you.” Chenle hissed, cheeks blazing as you walked by with Haechan.

You paused, tilting your head. “Sounds peppy. Selling out, Bach?”

“It’s experimental,” Chenle muttered, slamming the keyboard cover shut.

“Experimental garbage, what happened to the classical stuff?” you looked almost sad, but Haechan. sweet, very nice… but dumb, Haechan gave Chenle a thumbs-up.

“Nah, man, it’s fire! Trust. Keep cooking.”

Chenle looked ready to implode.

He also started to realize he probably had a tiny crush on you the moment he started “accidentally” lingering by your locker.

Today’s excuse? A very important conversation about the “Dangers of Over-Caffeination” 

“You don’t even drink coffee,” you said, snatching the pamphlet.

“I’m… preemptively concerned.” Chenle’s glasses slid down his nose as he leaned too close. “Also, I heard Haechan eats fries with a fork. Red flag, right?”

You smirked. “Jealousy is a red flag too, Zhong.”

“I’m not— It’s not— UGH.” He stomped off, colliding with a freshman carrying a tuba.

Yangyang slow-clapped from the trash can he’d been hibernating in. “AND THE OSCAR FOR ‘MOST OBVIOUS CRUSH’ GOES TO…”

The first time Chenle asked to tutor you, you thought someone had kidnapped him and replaced him with a fake. 

“Hi.” You looked up, startled to see him squinting at you in the library. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the table, his glasses fogging slightly. Inside was a 10-page study guide titled “Algebra for the Romantically Disabled” in Comic Sans. Comic Sans. Of course it would be in comic sans. 

You snorted. “Is this a self-help book?”

“It’s efficient,” he muttered, cheeks pink. “And you’re failing.”

“I’m strategically failing. It’s called rebellion.”

“Rebellion doesn’t get you into college.”

You rolled your eyes but flipped open the binder. As the two of you began studying, you noticed how his handwriting was frantic, margins filled with doodles of lemons and tiny pianos.

Yangyang crashed the session halfway through, wearing a fake mustache and a name tag that read “Dr. Love, PhD.”

“I’m here to supervise the tension,” he announced, tossing gummy worms at Chenle’s head.

Chenle batted them away. “This is a library—”

“And this is a crime against chemistry!” Yangyang gestured wildly at the two of you. “You’re sitting three feet apart! The laws of physics demand a climactic moment!”

You lobbed a gummy worm back at him. “Go bother us somewhere else, Snoopy.”

Chenle’s knee bumped yours under the table. He jerked back like he’d been burned. Weird. 

By week three, you noticed things.

Like how Chenle’s sleeves were always rolled up now, showing off his… quite boney… wrists. How he’d hum under his breath while you worked before clamming up when you glanced over.

One afternoon, you caught him staring at your debate trophy on the shelf.

“What?” you said, snapping your gum.

“Nothing. Just… you’re good at arguing. Obviously.” He fidgeted with his pencil. “But you’re also… weirdly good at this.”

“At failing?”

“At Math. When you try at least.”

The room felt suddenly smaller. You broke the silence first. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll start charging for lemonade again.”

Chenle’s laugh was quiet, almost shy. “Worth it.”

Jackson’s house was a neon-lit warzone. Music throbbed through the walls, someone had duct-taped a Wii remote to the ceiling fan, and Johnny was screeching, “WHO WANTS TO WATCH ME BEAT MARIO KART BLINDFOLDED?!”

You arrived with Shotaro, your latest and most confusing date. Shotaro was a soccer star with the vibes of a golden retriever who’d never really heard of the word sarcasm.

“This place is… loud,” he said, blinking at the chaos.

“Stick with me,” you said, steering him toward the punch bowl. “Survival tip: Avoid anything labeled ‘Johnny Juice.’”

Chenle had been lurking by the snack table for 20 minutes, holding a soda and glaring at Shotaro’s hand on your shoulder.

Why did I come here? he thought, watching you laugh at something Shotaro said. She’s dating a guy who probably thinks “Beethoven” is a type of kitchen appliance.

Yangyang materialized beside him, holding a suspiciously glowing drink. “You look like you’re plotting murder. Want a drink?”

“No.”

“Want to commit murder?”

“Yes.”

“Okay hear me out…”

Thanks to the help of YangYang’s foot, Chenle managed to ‘trip’ on his way to the punch bowl. Red liquid seemd to soar through the air, making contact and drenching Shotaro’s white hoodie.

“Oh my god,” you said to Shotaro, staring at the stain spreading. “Are you okay?”

Shotaro blinked down at himself. “I… think so? Is punch supposed to smell like gasoline?”

Chenle froze. Why did I do that? His chest tightened. I don’t even like her like that. Do I?

You burst out laughing, taking Shotaro’s hand up. “You look like you fought a ketchup monster.”

Chenle’s stomach dropped. She’s laughing. She’s not mad. Why does that hurt?

“I— I’ll get napkins,” he stammered, fleeing before you could see his face crumple.

Chenle locked himself in Johnny’s bathroom, gripping the sink.

“Ai-ya, why am I like this?!” he hissed at his reflection. “You’re a composer, not some dumb rom-com villain!” He’d written entire songs about her, memorised the way she twirled her pen when she was annoyed, and still couldn’t admit why. Why he was like this at all.

A knock. Yangyang’s voice: “Open up, I’ve got a emotional support Choco Pie.”

“Go away.”

“You’re not a bad person! Just a little deranged. Love makes us stupid!”

“I’m not in love—”

“Then why’d you even think about listening to me?”

Silence.

Chenle slid down the door, head in his hands. “...I don’t know Yangles. Something’s up with me I guess.”

You found him later, sitting on the curb outside, staring at the stars.

“Sulking?” you said, tossing him a juice box.

He caught it, wary. “Where’s Captain America?”

“Emergency stain-removal mission.” You sat beside him. “You’re a terrible actor, by the way.”

Chenle stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The ‘trip’? The glaring? The ‘Algebra for the Romantically Disabled’?” You smirked. “You’re not subtle, Zhong.”

He looked away, throat bobbing. “...I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“You didn’t.” You bumped his shoulder. “Shotaro’s nice, but he thinks Beethoven is a type of kitchen appliance.”

Chenle’s laugh was shaky, relieved. “It’s not?”

“Nope.”

He met your eyes then, and for a second, the world felt still—no pianos, no punch, just the weight of 10 years hanging between you.

Then Yangyang screamed from inside, “THE CEILING FAN’S ON FIRE! THE WII REMOTE IS STILL UP THERE. I REPEAT THE WII REMOTE IS STILL UP THERE.” and the moment shattered.

And so what they say, maybe you had given up on love. You hadn’t exactly lost touch with your friends over the years, but you never chased Chenle the way you used to. You seemed to have forgot about it, that was until you received a letter.

It was buried under coffee-stained interview transcripts. You almost missed it. Almost. Renjun, now a tenured philosophy professor still dragging his security blanket to brunch, plucked it from the pile.

“Fan mail?” he said, eyebrow raised.

You tore it open. Two gilt-edged tickets slid out, along with a note scrawled in familiar, frantic handwriting:

“Lemonade Stand Serenade – World Premiere

You owe me 15 years of therapy sessions. Front row or I sue for emotional damages.

– Chenle”

Yangyang, now a TikTok-famous DJ with a beagle sidekick, FaceTimed you mid-eye-roll. “He’s been working on this for years. It’s like twilight but with less vampires.”

“I’m not going,” you said, tossing the tickets aside. “He probably wrote a symphony about how annoying I am.”

Renjun sipped his tea. “Denial is the first stage of…”

“Don’t.”

The concert hall was all velvet and gothic architecture. You sat stiffly in the front row, arms crossed, as the lights dimmed.

Then Chenle walked onstage.

Gone was the gangly boy with a bowl cut. This, modern Chenle wore a tailored suit, his hair swept back, confidence radiating like a smirk. But when his eyes flickered to yours, he fumbled his sheet music. Same old Zhong, you thought, biting back a smile.

The first notes were a playful clash of piano and synth, like childhood arguments set to music. Then the screen behind him lit up with your doodles. You saw images of the lemonade stand, the “Keep Out” fortress, the Valentine’s card he’d kept all these years.

Your breath caught.

The symphony swelled, weaving pop beats with melodies you vaguely recognized. He played the songs he’d hummed during study sessions. The piece was suddenly interrupted by a loud screech.

“CHENLE, GET OFF THAT PIANO! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME!”

The crowd laughed. You didn’t.

Because suddenly, it all made sense.

You found him pacing behind the curtain, muttering to Yangyang. “—what if she hates it? What if she sues?!”

“Relax,” Yangyang said, tossing a potato chip in the air. “She’s already mentally drafting your wedding vows.”

“Shut up—”

“Too late.” You and Renjun stepped into the light, with you holding up the program with his symphony’s title emblazoned in gold. “Explain.”

Chenle froze. Yangyang saluted and ducked out, dragging a cackling Renjun behind him.

“It’s… a metaphor,” Chenle said, fiddling with his cufflinks. “Of our… dynamic.”

“Dynamic.”

“Yeah. You know. Rivalry. Friendship. Uh.” He swallowed. “More.”

You stepped closer. “Define more.”

He laughed, shaky and raw. “You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Say what?”

“That I’ve been in love with you since you called Chopin ‘sparkly’. Thought you were dumb. Didn’t understand you.” His voice cracked. “And yet every song I’ve ever written was about you. And I kept your stupid Valentine’s card like a loser—”

You kissed him.

It wasn’t very romantic or graceful. He stumbled into a prop table, sending sheet music flying. But his hands found your face, and for the first time in 20 years, the world made sense.

“Took you long enough, Beethoven,” you whispered against his lips.

He grinned. “Beethoven was a bachelor though.”

You twirled his tie around playful with your fingers, “And yet here we are.”

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TRACK 505 — STILL INTO YOU

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WARNINGS | swearing, sexual innuendos, kys/kms jokes mentions of alcohol

NOTES : guys ten mv teaser and 82 pressin and ten and ty .. good week in ncity

tags: @sinisxtea @nanawrlds @f6llsun @karlitava @dudekiss3r @kaosuni @ayukas @soo-sh1 @flaminghotyourmom @jenobubbles @sibwol @n0hyuck @blossominghunnie @i03jae @rikufan3000 @chenlezip @awktwurtle @cookiehaos @thatsatricky1 @nctdreamchaser @jae-n0 @blondiedae @17ericas @lotties-readings @yizhrt @gomdoleemyson @jwisteroid7 @nctrawberries @t-102 @dilflover44 @saranghoeforanton @lvsdoyo @holyhaech @minkieater @iluvkyo @desssss-0 @jenocity23 @urlocalbeaner5 (comment/send an ask to be added !)

“It's so nice to finally meet the girl who's been clouding our Jisungie’s mind lately,” Jeno teases, pinching at the youngest boy's cheek. “We were all so sad we missed you last time.”

Jisung pulls away from Jeno, swatting his hand away. “Jeno, I'm a grown man,” he whines, avoiding eye contact with you as you sit down next to him.

“You're a grown man, but get tense whenever Y/N sits next to you,” Chenle comments, chuckling. “It's nice to see you again, Y/Nie.”

“You too, Lele,” you respond, smiling sweetly at the group. Your eyes fall on the only other familiar face, and your smile falls. “What are you doing here?”

“Jeez, you'd think you'd be kinder to your cousin,” Donghyuck replies, rolling his eyes. “I don't know why these dorks wanted to meet you so bad, I told them you were insane.”

“They're friends with you, I don't see how that's any different,” you joke, sticking your tongue out at him. “And they seem to love me already, especially Sungie,” you continue, knocking your shoulder into his.

“You're gonna give the guy a heart attack,” Jaemin teases, watching the way Jisung's face turns bright red at your words. “You're too cute, Sungie. How can we not baby you?”

Jisung just sighs in response, shyly looking over at you. “You were fine being all cuddly and flirty last night,” you whisper to him, letting out a small laugh. “Don't want to show that side to your friends or something?”

He returns the favor, knocking his shoulder into yours, and you can only smile back softly. You go to speak to the rest of the group again, but another voice cuts into the conversation:

“There you are, pretty,” the voice says, and your shoulders tense up. The empty chair beside you squeaks against the floor as they pull it out from the table, taking a seat next to you.”I knew you'd be on break around this time.”

“We didn't invite you to sit with us,” Donghyuck starts, glaring at the new person. “Sion.”

Sion smiles softly, throwing his arm around your shoulder, only for you to throw it right back off. “Oh, come on, I just want to visit my sweet barista.”

“Not yours, jackass,” you tell him, scooting your chair closer to Jisung. The man subtly pulls it even closer, wanting you as far away from Sion as you can get. “Just go, Sion. Order your drink and leave, please.”

“Baby,” Sion starts, running his hand along the edge of the table, closing in on your own. You pull back your hand instantly. “I just want to talk to you again. Our small chat yesterday just wasn't enough.”

“She doesn't want to talk to you, man,” Jeno fixes his posture, trying to make himself look bigger to scare the younger man off. “And like my friend here said, we didn't invite you to sit with us.”

“This doesn't concern you,” Sion responds nonchalantly, eyes never leaving you. “Come on, let's go outside.”

“She's not interested,” Jisung says, staring daggers into the other man's skull. “How many times does she need to tell you for you to finally get it?”

Sion scoffs, finally looking away from you and staring directly into Jisung's eyes with a cold look. “Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me, asshole,” Jisung replies. The rest of the group stare at their friend with wide eyes, in utter shock by the hostile words that leave his mouth. “What? You want to date her again because you've lost all control? She's actually dressing how she likes and you don't fuck with that? Or is it the fact that she's moved on to me?” He continues, and the fact that he can't almost see the steam rolling out of Sion's ears makes him smile. “Does that get under your skin?”

Your head slowly turns toward Jisung, jaw dropping at his sudden hostility. “Sungie,” you whisper, pulling at his sleeve.

Sion can't help but laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah, I wasn't talking to you,” he says, a fake smile playing at his lips.

“Yeah, I don't care,” Jisung mocks, scrunching his nose up at Sion. “She don't want you, man. Learn to take no for an answer.”

“Learn not to speak when I'm not speaking to you,” Sion replies. His jaw tenses up, and he runs his hand through his hair, while his other hand tries to find yours again. “She knows she can't be away from me for long.”

Jisung's fist clenches in his lap, and he just can't hold his anger back any longer.

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ENHYPEN: random tropes