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00127am · 4 months

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₊˚⊹☆ CiTRiNE KiSSES .ᐟ . . .ㅤ﹫ wayv headcanon ✮⋆˙

wayv & types of mundane love ꒰ 🍊 ꒱ wayv & gn! reader genre headcanon, fluff, 6 different scenarios, lowercase intended warnings cursing wc 3.4k

kun 錕

qian kun is a class crush. the one who sits on the opposite side of the lecture hall, the one who you only ever see the side profile of (much to your chagrin). the one who has your complete and utter attention and who you hold responsible for your last poor test grade. i mean, come on, what were you supposed to do when he showed up looking like he just scrambled out of bed? dressed in sweats, some ratty band tee shirt that looked much too small for him, and hair sticking out from every angle. it's like his only and main purpose in your life is to serve as a distraction, bedhead or not. you’ve never spoken to him, assigned seats forcing you apart. you say it’s like romeo and juliet, though your friends vehemently disagree. you’re not quite sure you could talk to kun, regardless of the distance. he’s top of the class, always with something smart to say. always knowing the answers, always scoring the best amongst your peers. he’s kind, and dependable, and smart, and completely out of your league. or so you assume. despite your prayers to some higher power about the professor assigning you both to the same group project, you seem to be down on your luck when it comes to running into him. it isn’t all bad admiring him from afar. because from your vantage point, you can stare at him all you like with a view utterly unobstructed. his glasses are sliding down the bridge of his nose, eyes pulled into squint of concentration as his finger traces over the words on his notes. his tongue is poking out from pink lips, caught in between his teeth as he flips a page. platinum blonde hair with black roots, swooped away from the center of his forehead with an effortless touch, lights of the classroom bringing a thoughtful gleam to the small, silver hoop earrings which adorn his ears. he raises his hand, held at attention and lifted with such elegance that you would swear it was intentional. well, you would if you weren’t already aware of the uncomplicated perfection of being one qian kun. he asks what you assume to be an intelligent and thoughtful question to the professor before replying with a thanks, the slightest bow of his head, and that pretty grin that makes you feel like you’ve got a concussion. maybe you do have a concussion. but then as if directed by some higher power, he looks in your direction. if you weren’t so flustered about him catching your yearning staring (completed with your tilted head resting upon your hands and the occasional pining sigh), you might have been elated at the fact that you’re finally seeing him head on. his eyebrows dart upwards in surprise, lips parted into a small o as he blinks slowly at you. as if he’s surprised that you’re shooting him that infatuated look, completely ignorant of his own flawlessness. forget everything you said about a concussion. it’s one hundred percent the aftereffects of looking at him.

ten ลี้ชัยพรกุล

chittaphon leechaiyapornkul is someone you fall in love with when he passes you on the street. it’s always a blur of a moment, a second in time that has your breath catching in the back of your throat and your heart thumping out of your chest. for in the longevity of life, this moment, in which you see him is the only moment which truly seems to matter. this splinter of a second in which your worlds collide and your stomach plummets to your knees. if you knew what real love felt like, you would assume it’s like this. complete and utter infatuation with a stranger who you could barely get a good look at. just long blonde hair, upturned at the ends, and the corner of grin that has you kicking yourself for not seeing the full of his face. you decide, then in this less important moment, that if you see him again then perhaps it’s fate. and as the romans said: amor fati, quite literally, love fate because as all luck would have it… there he is. standing across from you at the crosswalk, bobbing his head back and forth to the music playing from his headphones. a headset which lays dutifully upon his head like a crown, smushing strands of blonde bangs onto his forehead. his head is tilted downwards (much to your disappointment) as his fingers skim the screen of his phone, lingering for a moment with each tap. he’s well dressed, fashion style unique and perfectly catered to him. you’re not sure if you’ve ever seen someone so wholly themselves. nor someone as beautiful and you find yourself wondering why the hell everyone isn’t staring right at him. while the entire crowd of commuters and tourists and whatnot aren't falling to their knees and worshiping the blonde haired man in front of you. you certainly would. might. will. because he looks up from the screen, slim eyes adorned with winged liner, glitter smudged on his lids and with those ever-so-pretty eyes, he bats them at you ever-so-elegantly, and you’re all but gone. all of his features are thinly framed from the sleek bridge of his nose to his painted pink lips that curve into a grin that you fear may split his face straight into two. beauty marks littered like kisses to his complexion, shadowed by the length of his bangs and the playful sway of his head. small hoops decorating his ears, matching the thin necklace which hangs loosely around his neck. it hangs heavy against defined collarbones and falls beneath the slope of his shirt. he’s so pretty, so much so that you fear you may wear out the word. but before you have the chance to conjure a new one (enchanting? handsome? gorgeous?) the crosswalk indicator strikes green and the crowds flock to the striped street without a clue of the angelic (stunning? lovely?) stranger amongst them. you’re not sure how they could walk by him so utterly ignorant of his presence because frankly it’s taking everything within you not to start squealing like a schoolgirl with a crush. or get on one knee and propose though you doubt that would accomplish anything in your favor. and then he walks straight past you and you’re left craning your head to catch another glimpse of him. standing in the middle of the street with the crowd bustling past you, knocking into your shoulder and telling you to walk, you can only focus on him.

winwin 思成

dong sicheng is an airport crush. the kind that makes you feel suddenly hyper aware of what you’re wearing. the kind that makes you open the camera app on your phone only to gasp in horror when you catch a sight of your reflection. the kind that has you fixing your appearance to any such semblance of “put-together” before your five in the morning flight. because he is so utterly composed, so utterly mesmerizing that he has you scrambling to fix your hair. or your face. or your clothing because like any rational human being about to board a five in the morning flight, you’re in something very akin to pajamas. a decision you are very much regretting at the moment. and of course he’s at your gate. which means he’s probably on your flight. that he might be sitting in the seat next to you. a thought that gives you butterflies. though you can’t place if they’re from a budding crush or nervousness. a combination perhaps? you do your best to sit some rows away from him, deciding it would be best to face him. if you hadn’t then you would be craning your neck to take a look and you certainly have doubts about the inconspicuous nature of that action. not that you facing him is a much better alternative. you’ve been “reading” the same page in your book for the last fifteen minutes. eyes sliding up beyond the printed words to study the stranger. he’s sitting just two or three rows away, one leg crossed over the other as he reclines in his chair. he has coffee in one hand and a novel in the other, lips pursed in concentration as dark, cat-like eyes sift over the pages. slender fingers flip absentmindedly, black lashes fawning his cheeks in long, sleepily sluggish blinks. he stifles a yawn, back of his hand raised to cover the full of his lips and the crinkle of his eyes. dark eyebrows furrow down upon the bridge of his nose, which moves but half an inch higher. black hair is fanned across his forehead, long enough to dig at the corners of his eyes, a sensation which he pushes off with the unconscious pass of his hand. and then it’s dropped again and you can once more enjoy the full, uninterrupted beauty of his fair complexion. a countenance that nearly seems to be painted. barely saturated hues are drawn upon his cheeks, freckles noted with fine dark specks that dance across his face. a face which is puffy from just waking up and eyelids swollen in a desperate attempt to be closed once more. he’s an unprecedented type of pretty. one which takes no effort to cultivate nor maintain. one that makes your head spin to the extent that you consider digging around for a barf bag when you board. well, if he wasn’t your seat partner that is. he’s the worst type of crush. one that you know you’ll never see again. and one that you know you won’t approach, certainly not with the current state of your appearance. and one who you doubt would approach you, not with the way his attention is buried in his book. a thought which pulls a drowsy huff from yourself, relinquishing yourself back to your own novel with a tsk of your tongue. you didn’t make it past page three.

xiaojun 德俊

xiao dejun is a convience store crush. the type that you find yourself running into (quite literally) in between the aisles in the middle of the night in a corner store which you’re always forgetting the name of. the kind that has you fumbling with the apology that rests upon the tip of your tongue, unable to spit it out for all intents and purposes. mainly because he renders you speechless but partially because the way you slammed into him knocked all the breath out of your lungs. and now you’re finding it hard to catch that breath with the way he’s staring back at you. blinking and batting long lashes against his cheeks as he watches you open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. and then he’s apologizing and you’re waving him off and you find yourselves in separate aisles as you hold two fingers to your pulse point. you might be having a heart attack. or a stroke. or sudden death from running into the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. a man who is just two shelves away, digging around the ramen section for something you assume to be specific. his long black and blonde hair drifts across his shoulder blade as he hunches down, tank top suddenly looking much too tight for the expanse of his back. you decide that it’s one hundred percent sudden death. a sudden death you cut short that night only to re-experience the next time you stop into the convenience store. you certainly hadn’t forgotten about him (neither could your friends after all your time spent gushing over the stranger) but you certainly weren’t expecting to see him again either. a pleasant surprise. one that you can indulge in, since this time around, you didn’t smack into him. nor were you wearing the bright pink hello kitty pajamas that you previously adorned. and you’re fairly certain that you would be able to muster more than one or two words this time. maybe not. not with the way his hair is brushed back away from his forehead, a few strands here and there falling out of line to the curves of his face. his heavy brows draw your attention to the dark accents of his eyes, smudge of eyeshadow hidden beneath his lower lashes. then to the slope of his nose and the prominent cupid bow that rests upon puffy lips, the bottom of which is sucked in between perfect teeth. he has to be a model. or an idol. or an angel. because you’re not sure that a man as pretty as him could be doing anything else. the idea of him working a nine to five office job in some off corner cubicle and bland suit and tie (which he would no doubt make you think is anything but bland) makes you stifle the bubble of laughter about to escape from your lips, clearing your throat and redirecting your gaze. perhaps you might run into him more often? that is a thought that has a blush sparking in your chest and sliding up your neck, coating your throat and dusting your ears before it makes its final home resting upon your cheeks--complexion so red that you fear you must match the bright red of the surrounding packaging. regardless, you’ve made sure to memorize the name of the store. and the address. and its periods in which it’s open and closed. and you’re about to become their prized patron, that’s for sure.

hendery 冠亨

huang guanheng is someone you met by chance abroad. a handsome stranger that you spot from across the street at some packed tourist attraction. a stranger so captivating that you wonder why the hell he isn’t the attraction. but it’s rude to stare and quite uncomfortable to crane your neck in his direction in a desperate attempt to catch his gaze over the hundreds of heads standing between the two of you, so you (albeit reluctantly) relent. you’re not focusing much on the site itself. mind replaying the sight of him over and over again in your head until the details become fuzzy and details seem to miscorrect themselves. but you can easily recall the gist, a man who’s tall and lean. well built with well defined features that were displayed through the loose (frankly sheer) hanging of his tee shirt across his broad shoulders and the slacks that were fitted against muscular legs. brown hair that fell upon his face in swooping curves, brushing against his cheekbones with a loving touch. its twinged with a bright blonde, no doubt lightened from hours spent in the sun. another such indication being smooth skin tinged with a honey tan, littered with dainty necklaces and bracelets that pull from the scattered beauty marks bleeding across his arms and collarbones. pouted lips pulling into a soft smile at something one of his friends said. it was a language you didn’t quite understand, not native to the country you both were visiting, thus words incomprehensible and separating the two of you with a barrier you were unable to cross. well without the help of a middle man that is. not that it really quite mattered anyway, because now you were right up in front of the real tourist attraction (not to be confused with your attraction) and far set away from your short-lived romance (could you really call it that if it was one-sided staring?). the sight was almost as captivating as him, standing on your toes to get a better look. and the sight itself really does make you forget about him for all of ten seconds. ten seconds spent admiring something other than him. ten seconds ending as you stand back on the full weight of your feet and abruptly turn around. the eleventh second which is spent up against his chest, steadying yourself on the bulk of his forearm. the twelfth second spent with alarm bells ringing inside your head as you pull away from him, apologizing in mandarin (your mandarin is basic, tones rusty and hesitant but if he noticed he didn’t show it) at the same time he does the same in english. oh. oh! you brush off his apology with a gentle smile and the wave of your hand, words perfectly poised in english. spoken at the same time of his own, words sung sickeningly sweet as he speaks them in the elongated intonations of mandarin. ah. the next sound from the both of you is laughter as you bow and go your separate ways in the crowd. you’re so flustered by the fact that you spoke to him that you can’t even kick yourself for failing to keep the conversation going, though it’s fair to say that was no fault of your own. and as you turn back to get one final glance at him, you find him returning your stare--a sight to which the both of you jerk your heads in opposite directions, tips of both your ears a pretty pink. would it be so bad to brush up on mandarin?

yangyang 扬扬

liu yangyang is your co-worker from some summer job you had in high school. it's some gig that’s paying you less than they should be, summer camp counselor or waiters or lifeguard. a job that has you on your feet all day, barely giving you a second to sit down and recompose yourself. or breathe. or properly function without snapping back into customer service mode. and it’s this job that you’re doing partially for the money and partially because some masochistic shred of you enjoys it but primarily because of him. an embarrassing fact that you would never willingly admit but you’re in high school and what teenager hasn’t done something for a crush. something even as taxing as working a nine to five (more like a seven to six with the extra hours and work you’re putting in). but all your worries, all that weight on your shoulders is practically thrown off during your shifts with him. or your lunch breaks. or the parking lot at the end of the day where he walks you to your car with a bashful smile and a nervous hand on the back of his neck. he’s refreshing and youthful, an older you would attest that he perfectly encapsulates the teenage summer dream. an older you would also revisit him in your memories quite often, wishing to go back to that one summer shared with him (though you doubt you would be as lenient with the work now). that summer where you would both hide from your supervisor in one of the storage closets, pressed up against one another as you held your hands over your mouths. whispers escaping through sudden bursts of giggling that nearly had you caught. perhaps it was the thrill of hiding or escaping the admonition of your boss but you weren’t very aware of the way your foreheads brushed against one another's or the fan of your breath on one another's lips until after it was over. a summer filled with exploring the back hallways of your workplace, pretending like you were in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. he held onto your hand as he dragged you along, waiting for a lull in your conversation to jump back at you. a trick you always fell for. a trick you always reprimanded him for. a trick he always did despite the reprimands. not that you minded, more focused on the way his thin fingers felt pressed against your own. a sensation that made you feel like you really might turn into a zombie. a summer that was consumed by sneaking into the kitchen and stealing the ice cream they had locked up in the freezer. eating it as quickly as you could before someone would come in, dripping it down your chin and onto your uniform as you laughed at something he said. something undoubtedly stupid. undoubtedly him. a summer that held pinky promises of friendship (which you wished was something more), and the tending of wounds when you scraped your knee, and a few almost kisses that neither of you had the courage to make real. a summer that had you wishing the job would never end or that maybe you could conjure up the grit to ask him out (you couldn’t). a summer that flowed into fall and had you up every night recalling each and every moment spent with him. safe to say that summer became your favorite season.

🗯️ writing ten's scenario was incredibly serious for me. he's my first nct love (i love you forever sm rookies ten lee) and i just hold him so dear to my heart. that's my guy! might be the best thing i've ever written who knows. yang's made me cry because i'm a nostalgic loser and his was based off my summer work-place crush. as a set, i was kicking my feet and giggling and blushing while writing all of these...

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CHAPTER FOUR : chiba marmoru! or not...

@ notyourmalelead top of his class, hallway crush kim doyoung isn't very interested in his semester long partnership with sailor moon obsessed, popular vlogger ln yn. until your larger than life crush on him is revealed. then he's much more interested in proving that he's not your male lead (and subsequently wishing he was).

SATURDAY 8:45AM

JINSU 9:30AM (a whopping 45 minutes before something went wrong)

“From sailor moon?”

Your head snaps to attention at the sound of his voice, mouth parting as if to respond before promptly closing again with a decisive bite of your tongue. You blink, tilting your head ever so slightly to the side with a bashful smile as you set down your phone. “Sorry?”

Doyoung raises a lazy hand to point at your phone case, elbow leaned against the table and fingers relaxed. His eyes flicker from the brightly colored sailors depicted to the tuxedo mask keychain dangling from it and then, finally, to your eyes.

“Chiba Marmoru,” he clarifies, “Tuxedo Mask from Sailor Moon, right?” he scrutinizes you with narrowed brown eyes, brow quirked as he waits for a response. You’re blushing both from the weight of his attention and the fact that he’s incredibly aware of the root of your slip-up. Tips of your ears dusted a pink that matches Chibiusa's hair.

“Oh! Yes, yeah, he is,” you say, voice caught halfway between a laugh and an exhale. You drop your gaze to the keychain, absentmindedly flipping it over with manicured fingers. Doyoung follows your movements, the pad of your thumb stroking over the shape before losing interest and twisting the string which holds it in place. Your eyes are lifted again, following the curve of his throat to his soft features. He meets your gaze, expression not unkind.

“Are you a fan?” you ask, tone fluttering into something slightly higher pitched. Words interlaced with something that could only ever be interpreted as hope (perhaps to save yourself from your embarrassment) as your lips lift into a small smile.

Doyoung wrinkles his nose at your question, almost as if he’s offended at the notion. His brows furrow, then relax as he tilts his head away from you—leaning back in his chair and offering you a full view of his side profile. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, pretty eyes lingering on the storefront window. That fact that him doing quite literally nothing at all caused a flutter in your stomach was met with a slight irk of annoyance.

“No,” if he noticed the way your face fell, he didn’t show it, “Not at all,”

You laugh, albeit a bit uncomfortably, echoing his choice of words. “Not at all?”

“Well, it’s a girly kids show, isn’t it?”

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CHAPTER FIVE : kiss and tell

@ noisecomplaint ln yn isn't too fond of apartment living, between the occasional roaches and the person who keeps stealing her grocery deliveries. but especially because of her exceptionally loud next door neighbors whom she has decided: she cannot stand. it's not all bad though, certainly not when xiao dejun (the prettiest boy she's ever seen) lives in the building. well, it was a perk. until it's revealed that him and her next door neighbor are one in the same.

“Come to chew me out about smoking again?”

In any and all iterations of the word lovesick, Xiaojun seems to be fitting of any and all descriptions. It’s embarrassing, the way his lips part and his eyes blow wide the second he hears your voice. The way in which he declines you the privilege of a response, primarily for the fact that he cannot seem to muster one. Not with the way you’re peering back at him, head tilted and tongue poking at your cheek. One brow raised and lips in the beginning of a sneer that despite all connotations, he can’t help but feel is charming. There’s a cigarette hanging from your fingers, dangling over the railing as the ash drips down like oncoming snow. You make it look so appealing, smoking that is, more so than Ten or Sicheng ever has. And Xiaojun begins to wonder whether it really is all that bad for you.

He clears his throat, hand heavy on the back of his neck as he leans over the railing. Half lidded eyes slide in your direction, forcing you to swallow, hard, in a concentrated effort to push down the beginnings of a blush. His hands are dangling over the edge, tongue snaking across his bottom lip before getting caught between his teeth. His brows are furrowed, lips parted in the beginning of response that he just can’t seem to get out. But then, he does, with an expression so utterly pathetic that you could have sworn that he reached over and squeezed your heart. “So you and Ten?”

It takes you a moment to register the implications of his words, gears turning in your head before you burst out laughing. Staring at him with a grin that pushes up your cheeks and swallows your eyes. He’s never smoked before, too afraid of damaging his lungs and forever ruining the pretty voice he uses when he sings in the shower. He’s never had an addiction in the first place. But if he did, then he’s pretty sure that it would feel like this. All consuming, setting him alight from the tips of his toes to the shell of his ears. A burn in his chest that seems to eat away at him with each change in pitch from you. Laughter as pretty as a songbird, a sound that he would play on loop if he could.

“What?” you muster through your giggling, waving the cigarette in his direction as you shoot him an incredulous look, “Ten and I what? Dating?”

He nods, lip pulled underneath his top set of teeth, looking like a puppy who just got kicked. His hair is falling over his dark eyes as he looks back at you, cheeks flushed a pretty pink from the chill (it’s more so you, not that you would ever connect the dots). In contrast to his sullen, somber state, you’re out of breath. Practically bent over the railing as you snort, “What gave you that impression?”

“The picture he sent on new years. The lipstick one. You guys seemed…busy,”

“That? No, Ten and I always kiss on the countdown. Not like a real kiss or anything. Nothing romantic, I really … yeah, I don’t think I could ever see Ten like that,”

He shoots you a look, features scrunched and eyes narrowed. He’s cute. So cute that you might fling yourself off the balcony because you’re not sure you can continue on with this conversation. It’s hard to hate him when he’s looking at you like that, an expression that is begging you to reach over and show him what a real kiss is. You grip your cigarette tighter, desperate for any semblance of getting an actual grip over yourself.

“So you guys just make out all the time or…”

This indicts another laugh from you and Xiaojun feels all the blood in his body rush to his head. “Ten’s lucky if he gets a peck on new years. I’m affectionate with all my friends but we’re not fucking if that’s what you’re asking,”

You take a drag, watching amused as he spits and sputters over your choice of words. You snicker, lips twitching into a self-satisfied grin at his floundering. Utterly unable to find a foothold for a response. How could he ever respond to that? Sorry, didn’t mean to pry into your sex life! Bye! His face is hot as he gulps, loud enough to elicit another bout of entertained laughter from your direction. A direction which he avoids, head in his hands as he scrambles for any pretense of an apology. You’re not sure if it’s because of how pitiful he looks or because you want to escape the potential conversation of said sex life but you interject, swooping in and saving him from the inevitable, resigned comment he would have to make.

“He asked me to kiss him all over for the picture. Said he wanted to send it to you, that it would drive you crazy,” you shrug, smoking falling over your lips in a steady stream, “I’m not your biggest fan, if you didn’t know, and it’s just Ten so,”

Xiaojun picks his head up so quickly that the sides of his head seem to be squeezing in on him. There’s a burning itch in the bridge of his nose and a ringing in his ears, seeing double with the force of bringing himself to look at you. He blinks himself out of it, once, twice, then five times before he’s no longer staggering where he stands. “So you’re not dating Ten,”

“Nope,” you pop the P, taking another slow drag of your cigarette.

“And you didn’t enjoy kissing him?” it’s an exhale this time as you shake your head no, eliciting him to pinch his thumb and pointer together, “Not even a little bit?”

You raise a brow, gesturing the cig in his direction as you speak. “No. You into him or something?”

If one week ago, someone had told him that his nextdoor neighbor, the same one he’s head over heels for, would be asking him if he had a crush on Ten Lee--he would have laughed in their face and told them to fuck off. If there was ever a direction in which this conversation was never in a million years meant to go too, it would be this one. A conclusion that Xiaojun has reached with the fall of his face and the slack of his jaw. And when he hears that question fall from your ever-tempting lips, it feels as if he had just gotten hit by a freight train. Then run over ten times (even the number makes him angry) for good measure. Then had the earth implode. “No! No, god no. Not him,”

He watches as his dismissal and rejection flies straight over your hair. Soaring over that pretty head of yours. You look him up and down, inner cheek caught in between your teeth as your gaze flickers back to his eyes. Your tone is dry, thick with complete and utter disbelief.

“Uh huh,”

He gapes, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His tone is hurried and panicked, desperate to clear up the misunderstanding that you seem to have already solidified as the absolute truth in your head. “No!” his volume is nearly at a shout before he coughs quickly and lowers it again after taking in the amused look on your face, “No, no, no, really. It’s not like that,”

“Sure, yeah,” you wave him off, smug smile twitching on your lips as you spin around on your heels, “I’ll let Ten know it’s not like that,”

“Seriously! I’m not into Ten. Yn, I’m serious-” the butt end of his sentence is interrupted by the slam of your door and Xiaojun is left standing alone on his balcony. It takes him a few moments to process everything that has just happened and when he does, he can only reach one conclusion (one beyond the fact that it feels like his entire world just exploded and went up into smoke and flames).

Ten is never going to let him live this down.

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CHAPTER FOUR : up in smoke and flames (no pun intended)

Taking Hendery’s suggestion into full force and consideration, it isn’t long until Xiaojun stomps over to the balcony. Where, for a single moment, he pauses. And in this single moment, he remembers the last time he swung open a door. A door which opened to greet him with your agitated expression and sharp tongue. Both things that Xiaojun wouldn’t completely mind seeing again, against his better judgment that is. But the chances of seeing you this time are next to none. In fact, he’d bet against seeing you. Because he just can’t seem to imagine his pretty next door neighbor smoking that god awful brand of cigarettes that Sicheng likes. The same brand that makes him wrinkle his nose at the stench and pulls an exaggerated cough from his throat in the form of an attempted deterrent. It’s not going to be you, that he’s sure of.

So sure that when he really does open the door and shift his vision to your balcony, your empty balcony, he exhales in relief. Though it’s not long lasting as he catches another whiff of smoke that makes him grit his teeth, jaw locked and eyes narrowed. He throws his head back, tossing an angry finger at the balcony above him as he raises his voice. “You have shit taste in cigs! If you’re going to make the whole fucking building stink then do me a favor and smoke something that doesn’t give me a migraine. For fucks sake,”

“Sorry?”

You’re there, sitting in the frame of your open window. Your hair hanging low over your face as you lean forward to look at him, lips parted in the beginning of a snarl and brows set furrowed down upon your eyes. Eyes that are narrowed as you scrutinize him, lifting from the base of his slippers to the waistband of his jeans to the tongue that’s pressed against the back of his teeth and then his eyes, now caught somewhere in between surprise and horror. Your attention is so unwavering and undivided to the extent that he can feel the heat beginning to burn in his cheeks.

You laugh, completely unamused, the pretty sound failing to meet your eyes (perhaps in any other circumstance, your neighbor would have gotten butterflies) as you stare him down. Or…glare him down really. And if looks could kill? Well Xiaojun would be dead ten times over. Then dismembered. Skull kicked in for good measure.

You take a drag of your cigarette, shaking off the built up ash with a flick much too harsh for the job. Exhaling the smoke in a manner which makes Xiaojun think there might be a chance that he doesn’t hate that brand after all. “Sorry for my shit taste. I’ll be more considerate next time when I’m buying my cigs,”

Oh.

Oh no.

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CHAPTER FIVE : in defense of usagi tsukino

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CHAPTER ONE : pretty sailor soldier meets her tuxedo mask

7:50AM

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CHAPTER THREE : don't shoot the messenger

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00127am · 5 months

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CHAPTER ONE : apartment crush!

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00127am · 4 months

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SETLIST FOUR : give it up for viva la vida nine!

@ shangri-la as the lead singer of viva la vida nine, you have little interest in anything other than your band and stealing the attention of the crowd from any other competitors. until you watch rival lead singer of pantera, nakamoto yuta, preform. cocky, charismatic, cavalier nakamoto yuta. the same nakamoto yuta who you cannot stand (him and the way he makes your knees feel weak). after that, you're much more interested in stealing his attention (though you'd rather die than admit it).

THURSDAY, AMP 08:00PM

Ten nudges your shoulder, a cheshire grin plastered against his lips as he signs hello to you, tilting his head to get a better look at the scowl on your face. The delight he takes in his constant teasing is nearly palpable, visible in the soft squint of his eyes and the lopsided quirk of his dimples. His hair falls over his eyes in thin strands, blonde bangs long enough to skim the bridge of his nose. His roots are growing in, dark brown hair burning at his scalp and slipping underneath the brighter blonde that frames his face with a doting curve. Blue colored contacts blink back at you but they do little to mask the teasing lit in his eyes.

“You really kicking me out?” His voice is still muffled, even with his cherry lips pressed up against your ear (sure to leave a vivid mark of his lipstick) and you find yourself biting back the hint of a smile. He can sense it too and you feel his lips curve into a broader smile, hot breath sticking to the curves of your ear and forcing a movement in your earrings.

“Keep it up and maybe I will,” you try your best to sound annoyed but there's too much affection in your voice to mistake the statement as anything with veracity.

Your response makes your bandmate hum, a low, baritone sound that mixes in too closely with the tuning of Johnny’s bass guitar for you to differentiate them. His fingers momentarily intertwine with yours, giving you a quick squeeze, before he’s raising his hands. Ten’s always had pretty hands, long fingers coated in tarnished gold rings and fingernails painted a vibrant color that always matches your own in some way or another. And when he signs with those pretty hands, he’s fluid and elegant. He signs the way he dances, each motion seamlessly flowing into one another to the extent in which you’re unsure of where one starts and the other ends.

The way he signs Yuta’s name is clunky, unused and unpracticed. The signs are choppy, each syllable pronounced with a harsh movement of his hand. He didn’t have to sign it, you didn’t need any other indication that he was about to preform than the shift of the curtain and the whine of the mic. And unlike Ten’s signage of his name, Yuta is anything but clumsy and unappealing to the eye.

If you heard the words that Ten was speaking against your ear and signing in front of you, you didn’t acknowledge them. So utterly captivated with the rival lead singer just a few hundred feet away that everything else has faded out with the sharp ring in your ears and the blur of your peripheral. Everything but him.

“You sure you don’t like him?”

09:35PM

“What are you so focused on?”

Johnny’s voice is just short of amusement, volume fluctuating with the strum of a few here and there cords from the band currently on stage--hooking up their instruments with the familiar squeal and whine of feedback. The question is directed to the lead singer who’s currently comfortably relaxed against the back bar of the venue, elbows digging into the wood paneling and head tossed ever-so-slightly back. His lips are pulling into a smug look of satisfaction, an expression otherwise unnoticeable if not for the benefit of knowing Yuta for so many years. There’s a cigarette held in between slim fingers and metal rings, unlit and crumpled as the blonde unconsciously toys with it as if he has forgotten it’s there in the first place. Not many things can make Yuta forget about a smoke. Not many people. In fact, his bandmate struggles to think of just one.

And in classic, expected fashion: Yuta declines the privilege of a reply. But it doesn’t take long for Johnny to follow the line of his vision. Sliding over tousled hair and through crowds of groupies. Past the small security detail on the left and just before the barricade of the stage. Straight towards you. He grins, the full extent of his entertainment showing on his face as clear as day. Even though Yuta wasn’t looking, he could feel it. It’s enough to cause the smallest twitch in his eye as he readies himself for the inevitable, taunting comment.

“Oh, I see,” he nudges the blondes shoulder, “Lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,”

If anything were to get his acknowledgement in this conversation, it would certainly be the topic of recognizing you. Or, misidentifying you. Yuta turns partially, brows set in a downward line and lips pulled into a pout. Expression scrunched and eyes narrowed as he finally dignifies Johnny with a response.

“What? No,”

Johnny returns Yuta’s puzzled countenance with one of his own, raising his brow as his tongue pushes against the bottom row of his teeth. He swallows, looking to his bandmate and then to you, and then Yuta, again, and then back to you. He blinks a few times before raising a thin hand, knuckles a soft red and veins catching on the dim orange hues of the bar. Johnny gestures in your direction, finger perfectly poised at the back of your head. “So you’re not staring at her,”

And Yuta follows like a moth to a flame, eyes slipping against the flesh of the older man’s finger, skimming his nail, before meeting the forty-five degree angle of your jaw. He looks longer than necessary, a few seconds of a lingering glance which Johnny notes with a miniscule upwards dart in the corner of his lips (one that if Yuta had noticed he would have returned with a scowl). The confusion of the situation allows for leeway in an honest admission, words slipping out without a single thought on the matter. A confession met without penance. “Yeah, I am,”

“Right. Yn. The lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,”

“No,” Yuta’s fully turned now, shooting Johnny an incredulous look that matches his tone, “That��s my fan,”

The emphasis on ‘my’ doesn’t fall on deaf ears. Nor does the conscious (or unconscious) decision to use it. You’re not ours, not Pantera’s, but Yuta’s. And based on his tone, Yuta’s alone. Knowing you (or at least the stories about you), Johnny doesn’t think that would be a sentiment that you would find particularly endearing. He meets his bandmate’s gaze with an equally perplexed one, tone in disbelief and perhaps the slightest hint of vexation that is mellowed over by the amused lit to his words. “Your fan? Don’t tell me she’s the one who you’re all lovey dovey for,”

“I’m not lovey dovey,” it’s the wrong denial provided as Yuta waves him off lazily, rolling his eyes, “It’s just interest. Can’t I be interested in one of my fans?”

My. Again.

“Not when your supposed fan is the lead singer of our rival band,”

And with those words being said (for what feels like the millionth time), Johnny swears he can hear the slightest snap in Yuta’s patience, a sharp sound that’s as clear as the strings on his bass. “She’s not the lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine. I met her after our last gig, I watched her the whole set. I’m telling you she’s-”

“Yn of Viva La Vida Nine,”

Your voice is entangled with the audible whine of the mic on stage, pulling Yuta’s attention with a harsh tug and the whisk of his eyes back to the center of the bar. He turned so quickly, so urgently that Johnny swears he got whiplash. An idea that bubbles laughter in the back of his throat, a sound that Yuta has all but cut out. There’s no bandmate, there’s no cheering crowd, no clink of the bottles at the bar, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, but you.

Yuta Nakamoto considers himself to be a rather practical man. He’s never worshiped anything. Never fallen into the thinly veiled trap of complete and utter obsession. He’s not an addict, not someone who is constantly chasing the adrenaline of a high. He sticks to what’s in front of him, what he’s good at, what can make a crowd scream or earn him a few more bucks then the last song did. He has never faltered with any desire. Any compulsion. Craving. Yuta Nakamoto is a practical man through and through.

But, oh god, it’s taking all he has not to fall to his knees and worship you.

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00127am · 4 months

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NEW YEARS SPECIAL : happy 2024!