chapter 38 .ᐟ ૮ happy tears emoji ྀིა
𐙚 pairing: non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)
𐙚 genre: slice of life + strangers to friends to lovers
𐙚 in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.
chapter 36 .ᐟ ૮ to hold a hand ྀིა
𐙚 pairing: non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)
𐙚 genre: slice of life + strangers to friends to lovers
𐙚 in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.
09—SO PREDICTABLE
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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 !)
chapter 34 .ᐟ ૮ wrong room ྀིა
𐙚 pairing: non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)
𐙚 genre: slice of life + strangers to friends to lovers
𐙚 in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.
PAIRINGS: brothers bsf! heeseung × fem! reader
WARNINGS: use of petnames, jealousy, sexual innuendos, mentions of alcohol, kys/kms jokes
NOTES : I miss purple heeseung | LIBRARY
chapter 34 .ᐟ ૮ sleepover ྀིა
𐙚 pairing: non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)
𐙚 genre: slice of life + strangers to friends to lovers
𐙚 in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.
chapter 33 .ᐟ ૮ nom nom yum ྀིა
𐙚 pairing: non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)
𐙚 genre: slice of life + strangers to friends to lovers
𐙚 in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.
synopsis: Lemonade stands, cootie-proof forts, love songs, and endless arguments—some things never change. But this time, Chenle’s finally ready to win the only fight that ever mattered.
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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pairing: renjun x fem!reader
synopsis: the ultimate college friend group that does not escape the trials of suffering, love, drama, and weed. join y/n and her friends as they go through their third year of college together, they have no idea what's going on or what they're doing, but isn't that the fun of it?
genre: social media au, college au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst, comedy, coming of age
taglist: @she-is-dreaming @wavesandkisses @jenobubbles @finnydraws @snflwrhaerecs4u @sexygrass @miniature-tragedy @sweetcandycum @fae-renjun @dinonuguaegi note: please let me know if you want to get taken off the taglist !! i know I'm super late sooo I'm soooo sorryyyy
read full thread here
250309 DOYOUNG IG Update
"🍑🍑🍑"
find everything related to my two part series ‘in your eyes,’ in this one post.
requests are OPEN!! send me asks and request anything you want to see related to the fic.
in your eyes (m) 77k words, smut, fluff, angst
lee jeno, campus fuckboy, and you, a talented bass player in a band, couldn’t be more different. jeno is known for his reputation while you prefer to keep to yourself, immersed in your music and studies. but when jeno’s initial interest in nayoung, your roommate, leads him to one of your band shows, he finds himself captivated by your talent, your beauty and your unapologetic authenticity. he finds himself falling for you.
drabbles
boyfriend texts
ask the characters
visuals
… nothing yet
08 — FEELING DELIRIOUS
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WARNINGS | swearing, sexual innuendos, kys/kms jokes mentions of alcohol
NOTES | not proof read 🧍♀️so if you see any typos no you didn't (yes you did pls tell me!!) also not fully certain this makes sense but I live in blissful ignorance 🙂↕️
-
Ignore it. That's all you wanted to do, to ignore it. You watched as your phone buzzed against the nightstand, once, twice, three times.
The fourth never came, but Mark's voice across the line did, and it came before you even had time to regret your decision.
Mark's voice was a lot of things, familiar, comforting, nostalgic, but above all, warm. Mark's voice was awfully warm, not the sharp professional voice he'd used in those meetings, not the light playful Mark you'd joke with before, but gentle, honest.
His words however, were anything but.
He was saying everything you’d spent the past two years trying not to think about.
Mark's voice came soft, but fast, half thoughts, half laughs, spilling over each other, like his words were loosened by something, his mind left to run free.
And for a moment, you forgot to breathe. His words settled in, the slow ache of nostalgia mixed with something that cracked through the walls you’d spent so long building.
You couldn't help but grip your phone tighter, as if you could hold onto it all, the moment, the memories.
You didn't need to see Mark to know he was drunk, the slurring of his speech, the distant but still chaotic hum of voices behind him, a sight you could picture too easily. The same noise, the same energy you used to live in. It was obvious.
Though Mark barely seemed aware of just how much you'd managed to piece together, too caught up in whatever half drunk train of thought had led him to calling you.
You had no choice but to listen, with his non-stop rambling, he was barely taking any time to breathe, classic Mark.
So you sunk deeper into the pillows behind you, listening as his voice spilled through the speaker, unfiltered, familiar and threading through the quiet of your bedroom like it belonged there. You didn't interrupt.
Though Mark realised your silence soon enough, cutting himself off mid sentence.
“You’re actually listening to me. That’s crazy.”
You let out a quiet laugh, your now glossy eyes stuck on the ceiling. “You’re not giving me much of a choice.”
“Thats fair.” You swear he sounds half asleep, but before you can question it, Mark begins again, the same reminiscent talk and raw emotion flooding through the silence once again.
“You know... I was thinking, it’s been a while since we had one of our late night talks. I miss that, you know?”
You chuckle, “Drunk Mark's awfully sentimental.”
“Let me finish y/n, because sober Mark would say the same thing.”
You have no reason not to believe him, so you offer a quiet hum in response and he continues.
“I miss it. Not just you—but us. Everything. I miss the sound of you laughing over something stupid, the way we'd all crowd around the dinner table, arguing about the dumbest stuff like it was life or death.”
You let his words sink in, feeling the weight of them pull at something buried deep in your chest. Something you'd like to keep buried.
“I guess it’s–” He hesitates, then comes the sound of him shifting on the other end, you suppose running a hand through his hair in classic Mark fashion. “I guess it’s a little stupid of me to be saying this now, huh?”
You let out a soft sigh. "Yeah, a bit." But your voice is softer than either of you had expected, betraying almost.
“I just–” He cuts himself off, then tries again, his voice much quieter. “I just thought you’d come back, you know? Not even for the band, but for us, for all the stupid stuff we used to do together. I thought we could find a way back to that.”
You don't respond.
Mark exhales. “It doesn’t feel the same without you.” He pauses, waiting for you to respond perhaps, but when you don't, “We aren't the same without you y/n, we need you.”
You don't respond again. Mark takes it as cue to continue, rambling for at least another 5 minutes.
You really wish he didn't.
“I should probably shut up, but I miss you. We all do.”
The silence stretches a little longer than you'd like to admit. And then, you speak. “Mark?”
He breathes out a response. “Yeah?”
“You don't get to say that. Not now.”
He sighs, “I know.” then, when you don't respond, again, he speaks, “But you didn’t say I was wrong.”
“Go to sleep Mark.”
You end the call, but the conversation doesn’t end with it. It lingers, replaying in your head, each word settling into the quiet of your room.
You shut your eyes, willing yourself to push it down, to bury it deep where it can’t reach you. And this time, you mean it. No more looking back, no more lingering in the past. This is it. You’re done. It's the right choice, the obvious one.
And you think that maybe in the morning, it’ll feel final, that you’ll wake up and the weight of this will all be gone.
Still, you tell yourself you’ll sleep on it. Except—you can’t. You can't sleep on it, can’t sleep over it, under it. You can’t sleep at all.
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 (comment/send an ask to be added !)
chapter 32 .ᐟ ૮ imessage must be down ྀིა
𐙚 pairing: non-idol! jeno x f! reader (.◜◡◝)
𐙚 genre: slice of life + strangers to friends to lovers
𐙚 in which y/n, a pre-med student, who loves to cook & feed people, meets jeno, the quiet sports science major with a soft smile, and discovers that the way to someone’s heart really is through their gastrointestinal tract, their stomach.
Anonymous asked: Hi💕 can u do how dreamies deal with arguments with their s/o while on tour? 🫶🏼🫶🏼thanks
୨୧ Pairing : nct dream x reader
୨୧ Genre : Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, relationship
୨୧ Word Count : 600 words
୨୧ Disclaimer : This is a work of fiction from our imagination. It is not intended that the plot, theme, original characters, idols, etc. portray any real-life events/people. Plagiarism is NOT tolerated on this blog. If you believe we have copied an existing authors’ work, please message us privately. thank you and enjoy :)
Mark hates arguing, especially when he’s away from you. The moment tensions rise, he tries to defuse the situation.
"Babe, I don’t want to fight like this, not when I’m so far away." His voice is tight with stress, exhaustion evident. "Can we just... please, let’s talk it out calmly?"
