﹙𝓓raw a dream in my eyes.﹚⸺ I'LL LOVE YOU 4EVER ݁

RUTH (she/her) | '06 liner (18) | lovergirl

guidelines ,, writings & wips + recs.

omg this question made me giggle lmao. okay, so, i can't reveal much. but it's because i'm an early 06' baby and had to repeat 8th grade (2019) due to my dad's job transfer in the middle of an academic year when obviously no school would take me. so yep, i'm a soon to be 19 y/o h.s graduate :)

but i might take a gap/drop year before college because entrance exams are forkin ridiculous 😄

just finished 5 hours of studying biology in one sitting with my bsf over google meet, wrote a post, edited and then posted it but sleep still evades mehhh O_O !!

🍫 ,, santa, tell me if you're really there !

♡ WORD COUNT .. 1.1k

☆ NOTES .. have a small lil offering *hands you fic cutely* while i recover from seasonal downtime (aka depresso expresso :)) also, if you want to request something, feel free to do so. or just chat with me. i love making friends and yapping <3

The streets are quiet, lit only by the soft glow of holiday lights strung between lampposts. You and Mark stroll side by side, the snow crunching beneath your boots. It was supposed to be a quick coffee run, but somehow it has turned into a long walk through the nearly empty city.

Mark is quiet, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “It’s weird, huh?” he says suddenly.

“What is?”

“Christmas. Feels different now.” He gives you a small, sheepish smile. “Not bad, just… different.”

You nod, understanding the unspoken weight behind his words. Mark always carries so much—trying to be everything for everyone.

As the two of you stop in front of a massive Christmas tree in the town square, he looks at you, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by something softer. “Thanks for sticking around,” he says, his voice quiet. “This year’s been kinda rough, but having you here makes it feel… better.”

You smile, bumping your shoulder against his. “You’re not getting all sentimental on me now, are you?”

“Maybe,” he admits, laughing as he looks up at the tree. “But don’t tell the guys. They’d never let me live it down.”

The air between you is warm, even in the biting cold. When he finally takes your hand in his, the small, hopeful squeeze is all the reassurance you need that this Christmas is special—for both of you.

The snow falls softly outside, casting the world in a glittering glow. You and Renjun sit in his cozy room, surrounded by art supplies he insisted on pulling out for a “holiday-themed painting session.”

“You’re doing it wrong,” he says, leaning across the table to point at your canvas. His finger brushes over yours as he adjusts your grip on the brush, his focus so intense you almost forget to breathe.

“Excuse me, Picasso,” you tease, “but this is my masterpiece.”

Renjun smirks. “Your masterpiece looks like an angry snowman.”

“It’s abstract art!” you shoot back, and he bursts into laughter.

Soon, the evening devolves into chaos. You dip your fingers into the paint, swiping a line of blue across his cheek. His jaw drops in mock betrayal before he retaliates, dabbing red on your nose. By the end, both your “masterpieces” are forgotten as you chase each other around the room, laughing so hard you can’t breathe.

The park is a winter wonderland of twinkling lights and snow-covered trees, and Jeno’s competitive streak is in full force.

“Ready to lose?” he asks, packing a snowball with expert precision. His grin is all sharp teeth and mischief.

“You wish!” you counter, already ducking behind a bench for cover.

Snowballs fly through the air, your laughter blending with his as you narrowly dodge his shots. He is fast—unfairly so—but you have strategy. When he steps closer, ready to strike, you pop up and nail him with a perfect throw.

Jeno freezes, blinking as the snow slides down his face. “Oh, you’re so in for it now.”

Before you can run, he tackles you into a snowbank, both of you dissolving into laughter. The cold melts away in the warmth of his smile as he helps you up, brushing snow from your hair.

“You fought well,” he says, his voice softening. “But I’m still the reigning champion.”

“Stop eating the candy!” you scold, slapping Haechan’s hand away from the bowl of gumdrops.

“I’m taste-testing,” he replies, popping another one into his mouth with zero remorse.

You were supposed to be decorating gingerbread houses together, but with Haechan, nothing ever stays on track. He's more focused on sneaking candy and sabotaging your house than actually building his own.

“This isn’t a competition,” you say as he reaches over to stick a candy cane in the middle of your roof.

“Everything is a competition,” he shoots back, grinning.

Despite his antics, you can’t help but laugh when his own house collapses under the weight of too many decorations. He looks so genuinely horrified that you decide to share your extra candy, though not without teasing him first.

By the end of the night, your houses aren’t Instagram-worthy, but they are full of memories—messy, chaotic, and perfectly Haechan.

The Christmas market is alive with the scent of roasted chestnuts and cinnamon, the air buzzing with laughter and holiday music. Jaemin walks beside you, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he leads you to a booth selling handmade ornaments.

“This one looks like you,” he says, holding up a tiny snowman with a crooked hat.

“Are you saying I’m unbalanced?” you tease.

He chuckles, tucking the ornament into your hands. “I’m saying you’re cute.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, but you hide it by pretending to inspect the ornament. Jaemin is always like this—effortlessly charming, his warmth shining brighter than the fairy lights strung overhead.

The night ends with hot cocoa by the firepit, your fingers brushing as he hands you his scarf. “Keep it,” he says, his smile soft. “I’ll just use this as an excuse to see you again.”

Chenle insisted on hosting a Christmas karaoke night, and naturally, it spirals into a chaotic, laugh-filled event.

“Your turn!” he announces, shoving the microphone into your hands as Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You blares through the speakers.

“I can’t hit those notes,” you protest, but he is already singing backup for you—loud, off-key, and completely unapologetic.

By the second verse, you give up and join in, both of you dancing around the living room like maniacs. He twirls you dramatically, nearly tripping over the tinsel on the floor, but his laugh is so infectious you don’t care.

Later, as you collapse onto the couch, breathless and grinning, Chenle looks at you with a twinkle in his eye. “That was terrible,” he says, “but I’d duet with you anytime.”

The ice rink bustles with families and couples gliding gracefully across the surface—or, in Jisung’s case, trying not to fall.

“Don’t let go,” he begs, gripping your hand like his life depends on it.

“I won’t, I promise,” you say, holding back a laugh as he wobbles dangerously.

Despite his initial nerves, Jisung slowly finds his balance with your help. By the end of the night, he skates on his own, though not without the occasional stumble.

“You’re a terrible teacher,” he teases after one particularly dramatic fall.

“And yet, you’re still upright,” you shoot back, sticking out your tongue.

As you leave the rink, his hand brushes against yours, tentative but lingering. When he finally works up the courage to intertwine your fingers, the smile on his face is brighter than any Christmas light.

©DALGOMII, 2024

so... i'm working an a jeno f1 au (yes i have jumped on the bandwagon, ur welcome). although my intel of the sport itself comes from my very enthusiastic bsf only, so if anyone knows anything about the f1, pls give me a link to a guide or something i beg 😅

𝄢 ── 𝓜.ASTERLIST: currently not considering writing smut but there might be suggestive content or dark themes (such as drug use, drinking and smoking + other heavy topics. please refer to warnings in each work) in this blog.

( 𖣯 ) ── NCT . . . (not writing for wish yet)

☘︎ ݁ ˖ nct dream _ 엔시티 드림 !

☘︎ ݁ ˖ mark lee _ 이마크 !

more to be added.

©DALGOMII, do not copy, repost or translate my work without permission.

@lyvhie my exact reaction to this ^^

you're so sweet omg, ahhh!! feels like i got noticed by my idols 🫶🥹 and yes, in this neo nation, we love mark lee !!! can we be friends pls? 💖

۪ ݁ 이마크 — the anatomy of 'home'.

♡ WORD COUNT .. 2.5k

☆ NOTES .. established relationship. you and mark talking through the night over a pizza picnic, that's the story. got way too poetic and in my feels at the ending and then fumbled it lol. happy first tumblr post to me, yay! :)

Lately the pep in his steps have been noticeable. Even the mundane task of picking up delivery and climbing five flights of stairs because the elevator still hasn't been installed in the building couldn't dampen his mood. Mark walks in through the front door, practically skipping, two boxes of pizza in his hand.

Inside is like a sea of knicknacks yet to find their rightful place in the one bedroom apartment tucked into the heart of a bustling metropolis.

You smile up at him from where you are sitting, unboxing the things your mothers had insisted on buying in the name of home decor. "Done chatting up the delivery guy?"

Mark rolls his eyes, setting the food on the kitchen counter which was overflowing with utensils left to be stowed away. His gaze stops at your Harry Potter mug, one of the few things finally freed from your incessant overdone packing with the wrapping paper to make sure nothing broke during transit.

If the cogs of his brain cleared from the fog of bliss long enough, he would vividly recall the story of winning it at a fun fair — a mere consolation prize as opposed to the big pygmy puff plushie he'd originally promised you. Still, no matter your carefully hidden disappointment he'd assume, you had kept the mug, taking it out every morning for it to enable your insane caffeine consumption.

Perhaps it's the fact he'd seen it with you so many times, warming your hands on a cold morning or staining the corners of the Sunday newspaper acting as paperweight, Mark had forgotten it was his to begin with.

"For your information, I was getting the scoop on the local restaurants. So when you come home too tired to cook, I can swoop in to save the day."

"So heroic, my knight in shining... takeout boxes? You know all this could be avoided if you just learnt to cook?" Your sarcasm is met with bubbling laughter, making you beam up at him. "Come here for a sec. How does this look?"

Raising a brow, Mark goes to stand right behind you, narrowing his eyes at the wall of cat pictures and movie posters framed above a white table that held up a shimmering and ridiculously fragile glass vase.

He frowned at a couple things he thought had long since lost, in his childhood home or the studio apartment he used to shared with three others which looked like it was struck by a hurricane on a good day, hung up on the tiny bit of space by his bookshelf.

Specifically a Wham! vinyl.

The one you'd bought Mark on his first birthday that you spent together as a couple. The effect of the years passed is visible on the not-so-shiny black surface marred with misplaced dents and scratches. Yet the 'I know you've wanted this for a long time. Happy Birthday, rockstar' written in black sharpie onto the center label is still as fresh as his memory of receiving it.

"It's pretty," he states finally, genuinely, and hopes to God he played it cool enough. But who was he kidding? Five years of desperately trying to be nonchalant wouldn't have been comparable to a second spent being yours. Mark adds as an afterthought, "Let's hope it stays that way if we stumble into it."

You can't help a snort, "If? More like 'when'. Your foot eye coordination is whack in the morning."

Mark lets out a scandalized gasp, pointing at you, "Take that back right now".

And you, being the responsible, independent, tax-paying adult, stick your tongue out at him making him shake his head before looking back at the picturesque nook in your new residence.

"We need to get some flowers for the vase, huh?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah", you smile over a stifled yawn, pretty and serene, stretching your hand up to your boyfriend. He takes it as cue to pull you up from the ground. His hand remains twined with yours even after you're standing. "Peace lilies. And maybe chrysanthemums for a pop of color?"

Mark finds himself grinning at your hopeful gaze, bringing your joined hands to his lips. "Anything you want. We can go first thing in the morning."

He feels his eyes widen when you cross the small distance between you, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Thank you, you're the best," you whisper, brushing a few strands of his fringe away from his forehead before you moved away, leaving Mark standing there frozen like a statue. A very red in the face statue.

He thinks you know exactly how to make him weak in the knees.

You stand in the middle of the clustered living room, every inch of space on the floor filled with cardboard boxes and your belongings packed with bubble wrap. "I don't think we can finish this today. Plus, it's getting late. Let's just eat and go to bed, yeah?"

But everything you say goes in one ear and out the other. It's baffling how many times Mark would get stuck in his head over the smallest thing about you.

It's more of a habit he'd developed – or so his friends insist – back when he first met you at orientation on campus.

No, you weren't a wide-eyed freshmen and he wasn't one either. Yet, somehow the friend-of-the-world music major had managed to stumble upon the live art workshop your department had set up.

From then on, it was only ever "Did you see how beautiful her eyes are? It's like the whole galaxy is mapped in them!" or "She's so recklessly kind, dude! Today she ran into traffic to save this one old lady's cat! How much more perfect can she be?"

Mark Lee isn't a stranger to waxing poetics– hell, he does that for a living, writing lyrics with the power to make people laugh out loud, be a metaphorical shoulder for people to cry on, to feel so intensely with just words alone.

But then every syllable fails him when it comes to you, a soul so beyond the realm of letters and alphabets that nothing he could ever scrap together feels enough.

It's like the universe had decided from the very first moment you both locked eyes that this was it for him.

Mark knew it when you waved at him with amusement threaded into your expression from behind the stand you were running and he reciprocated shyly after looking around to make sure at least twenty times that it was indeed him you were waving at.

When Mark asked for your number after finishing a basketball game as state level champions because the adrenaline high of the win and the elation in having spotted you cheering him on as he nailed the deciding shot from halfway across the court turned him into his most confident self — only to be reduced to a stuttering mess when you saved his contact on your phone, blowing him a flying kiss goodbye before walking off alongside your giggling friends.

When his idea of a perfect first date to a fancy rooftop restaurant got rained on, and just when Mark was considering to never show you his face ever again, you both ended up in the backseat of his car on a McDonald's parking lot, talking and laughing and he found out that you were just as much of a rambler as him.

When a houseparty his friend Jaemin was throwing in their new shared apartment landed you on his bed, your lips like a safe haven, searing affection and praises onto his skin. That night Mark had been afraid to so much as go to sleep, scared that he would wake up to an empty room, and perhaps a half-assed note saying if he was a good fuck.

So he had stayed up till the wisps of dawn graced the city, holding you close and kissing your forehead over and over again. When you woke up, you had caught him in his bluff immediately, coming over that afternoon just to make sure he actually slept for more than an hour.

Mark thought love was a frightening emotion, too large for fickle mortal lives, too complex to fully comprehend.

And maybe he wouldn't really ever understand love in it's entirety, but he did see a version of it in you — one that was tailored for him and him only.

Mark knew it especially when after an entire year of flirty back and forths, holding each other through your biggest wins and losses, learning to be so well-versed in each other that it surpassed rationale, he asked you out.

You hadn't been particularly ecstatic, claiming you were going to ask him first but just as quick, your arms coiled around him in a tight embrace under the stars painted across the vast expanse of the universe witnessing that one deserted beach at exactly midnight.

Mark Lee fell in love with your smile but he kept falling over and over again for your heart. A heart that is irrefutably made of gold.

And he knew that if given the chance, he would remind you just how precious you are and how precious whatever it is you share is, over and over again till the sky falls.

It took Mark a while to bring you down from the pedestal he'd put you on, to accept that your love for him is as real as the existence of the world. Perhaps a speck of cosmic dust in the grand scheme of things but, to you, it is life.

That when you said "I want you to try hard, but try hard to be the best self of you. Mark, you're the sweetest, most hard-working person I have ever gotten the chance to know. So, please, don't take him away from me", you had meant every word.

It takes you snapping your fingers in front of his face to bring him out of his thoughts. You stand before him in a baggy t-shirt — one of his that you'd stolen ("permanently borrowed", you'd correct him) saying his detergent smelled better than your own — and your hair an untamed mess. You're the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

"Mark?" You whine again, cradling his face in your palms. "Baby, don't zone out again. Food?"

Huffing a laugh, Mark pulls you towards the kitchen island with a hand around your waist, "I'm here, I promise. Where do you wanna eat?"

You survey the living room that had turned into your temporary storehouse in dismay. "Dinner in bed?"

"Minus the bedframe, you mean?" Mark muses making you wail.

"Oh my God, for the last time, I'm sorry I didn't check the delivery date was so far away. Please forgive me, good sir!"

Mark clicks his tongue in faux contemplation, biting back a smile at your dramatics. "I'll think about it."

Pouting, you help Mark set the pizza boxes down by the matress in the middle of the bedroom floor, dragging him down to sit beside you. "What will it take for you to forgive me?"

"Hmm... A few kisses and maybe something else?" He smirks, wriggling his eyebrows and causing you to smack his chest.

"You're such a man," you hiss and then with a coy look, push him down to lay on his back as your straddle his waist. "Though, that can be arranged," you whisper low and sweet, but right as Mark's hands grip your hips, you roll away towards the food, "After we eat. I'm starving!"

"A minx, that's what you are!" Groaning, Mark drags you back into him, tickling your sides till you are begging to be freed.

Dinner goes on without either of you bothering to put something on the background. The T.V. isn't installed yet and though you have your laptops, the comfortable silence and occasional sparks of conversation are more than welcome.

"You think we were meant to meet?" You ask out of the blue, when the moon is high in the sky. There are empty pizza boxes crushed into the trashcan and two half-empty beer bottles rest by your feet. Your fingers trace mindless patterns on Mark's chest, nuzzling into his side while he leans against the wall as though it's a makeshift headboard. “Like there’s a huge, incomprehensible divine plan that we’re just... following?”

"Yeah," Mark says simply. Though you would loath to admit it, you admire Mark’s easy belief in his own convictions. "I think that people have, like, agency and responsibility and stuff, like – okay, so we met, but me asking for your number after that game, or asking you to move in with me was on me. The big stuff, that’s fate, or the plan, or whatever you wanna call it. But we can still choose where we go from there."

"So me and you — that’s the big stuff?" You ask teasingly, and nudge Mark with your shoulder.

He sputters comically, well-practiced indignation clear on his face, "Shut up, I’m trying to have a philosophical debate here.” But his pink ears betray him, a pretty flush creeping towards his neck.

"I kinda like the idea that it’s all random, though," you say. "Like, if everything’s a coincidence. If everything leading to this moment was just a lucky series of accidents. Don’t you think that makes it special?"

"I guess." Mark looks up at the clear doors leading to the balcony, one of the deciding factors in you settling for this building complex. The stars linger in the night like paint splattered on a dark canvas.

Back in his small shared rental, sitting out on his balcony at 3am smoking with his friends, he could count them on one hand.

The city is a graveyard of these stars, he has learned. Millions of wishes and dreams burdened onto the ones that make it past the blanket of smog just to be seen.

It takes him back to that small secluded beach in Busan, on a fleeting night amongst so many other insignificant ones. Two people, barely learning their place in the word, so utterly wrapped up in each other.

There, away from the glow of 10 million or so human lives, the stars were endless and shining in a way the city never lets them.

"It makes me feel like my life is really worth something," you continue, quieter, "If I’m here by accident, and I’m the product of so many billions of years of accidents. It makes me feel lucky. And it makes me grateful for the chance. To, you know, make something of that."

That night five years ago, maybe you both were different people, not at all the souls that remain in your body today. But if there's one secret of existence Mark had started to figure out, it would be that any version of him that came to be since you crossed paths, each one of them was utterly and irrevocably taken by the versions of you which followed.

And destiny may as well be a glorified lie crafted by people to make sense of this larger than life magnitude of adoration they can hold for another.

But Mark hopes, with everything he has, that destiny has led every variant of you and him across the universe into each others arms. Home.

©DALGOMII, 2024