I was thinking how having readers with fem aesthetics are super common but not more alternative ones. It makes sense bc alt isn't popular or it wouldn't be alt, but anyways, do you think you could write ab enha with an alternative style reader?
OOO ANON YES!! i love this!!! i'd consider myself in the middle of both of these 2 categories so it's fun to write both ways and express different interests in different ways! i tried to give each "scenario" a different aspect of what i consider more "alt", so i hope it's what you had in mind!
Graffiti Hearts
.⋆♱ paring: non-idol!enha (ot7) x alt-fem!reader
.⋆♱ genre/tw: soft fluff with some flirty banter .⋆♱ wc: 750-980ish per member 6.23k total
heeseung - strings attached
The practice room wasn’t supposed to feel like home, but for you, it did. It wasn’t the neat kind of home with polished floors and framed pictures — no, this one was different. The room smelled like dust and varnish, like old amps that had been pushed too far, like strings gone through too many bends. It was raw, imperfect, and honest. Most people avoided it, opting for the newer, shinier rehearsal spaces down the hall. But you liked the grit. The static hum in the air. The way your guitar felt louder here, like the walls carried the sound instead of stifling it.
Tonight, you were lost in it — standing with your strat slung across your shoulder, fingers coaxing a riff that was rough around the edges but alive. Your eyeliner was smudged from hours ago, rings clinking against the strings every now and then, but you didn’t care. You were too far gone in the music to notice the door creak open.
Until he coughed.
Your head snapped up. He was leaning against the frame, half-shadowed, tall and easy in the way he always was — but his eyes were different. Curious, sharp, almost caught off guard.
Heeseung.
You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. He was the type who didn’t even need to try — always drifting around with his acoustic case slung on his back, his hair falling into his eyes, a lazy grin that made people lean closer without realizing it. You’d passed him in the halls, seen him bent over polished wood and clean strings. Folksy, warm, a little too put-together for a place like this.
He shouldn’t have looked so out of place here. But he did.
“Didn’t think anyone actually used this room,” he said after a beat, voice smooth, carrying over the faint hum of your amp.
You arched a brow, fingers still resting on the frets. “Guess you thought wrong.”
His mouth tugged into a smirk, and he stepped inside, the door groaning shut behind him. “That wasn’t acoustic.”
“No shit,” you shot back, rolling your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed a twitch of a smile.
He walked closer, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze locked on the guitar like he was trying to decode it. “I mean… I’ve only ever played on wood. Nylon strings, steel strings. This—” he tilted his chin toward your strat, “—this sounds like it’s alive. Like it wants to bite.”
You snorted, strumming a quick, distorted chord that rattled the air. “That’s kind of the point.”
Instead of being put off, his eyes lit up, sharp and curious. He dragged a chair over, scraping it against the floor, and sat down a little too close. “Play it again.”
You raised a brow. “What, so you can analyze me like I’m some new chord progression?”
He leaned back, grin lazy but eyes intent. “Exactly. Humor me.”
You wanted to say no. To tell him to take his clean acoustic sensibilities back to his corner of the school. But there was something in his stare — open, intrigued, daring you. So you shrugged, fingers sliding down the neck, and ripped into a riff, messy but deliberate, letting the distortion bloom until the walls practically vibrated.
He didn’t flinch. He leaned in.
When you stopped, breath a little uneven, his lips curved slow. “You play like you’re stealing.”
You scoffed. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“Like you’re taking pieces of me without asking,” he said casually, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. Then, softer, “Guess I can’t complain. Been doing the same with you.”
Your chest tightened, a strange warmth flickering through the usual armor you wore. You fought it with sarcasm. “You don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do.” He leaned his elbows onto his knees, voice low, teasing but steady. “You’ve got calluses deep enough to prove you don’t just mess around. You hum when you’re deciding what chord comes next. And you—” his eyes flicked to your smudged eyeliner, then back to your hands on the strings, “—pretend you don’t care if anyone’s watching, but you’d have slammed the door in my face if you really didn’t.”
Your jaw clenched. He wasn’t wrong, and you hated that.
“Wow,” you muttered, plucking at a string just to have something to do. “Real Sherlock Holmes of you.”
He grinned, sharp and delighted. “Thanks. Want me to show you what I can do, or are you too scared I’ll make you look bad?”
“Oh please.” You slung the guitar off your shoulder just long enough to shove it toward him. “Be my guest, folk boy.”
He blinked, surprised, then laughed — low, warm, and way too self-assured. Sliding the strap over, he adjusted it awkwardly, fingers finding their place on the frets like he was testing foreign ground. The amp buzzed, the guitar practically growling under his touch. He hesitated only a second, then struck a chord. It cracked through the air, rough, imperfect, but alive.
His eyes widened. He looked at you like you’d just handed him fire.
You smirked. “Told you. It bites.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, strumming again, more confident this time, until a grin spread across his face. He looked up, that lazy, dangerous smile settling in. “Think I like it.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” you teased, leaning in until your knees almost touched his. “You’ll ruin your soft-boy reputation.”
“Maybe I need ruining.” His voice dipped, playful but edged with something heavier, and for a second, neither of you moved.
The amp hissed faintly, the air buzzing with static, but the only thing you felt was his gaze — sharp, steady, locked on yours like he was already planning the next note.
Finally, he smirked again, fingers idly sliding across the strings. “Tomorrow. Same time.”
“And if I don’t show up?” you challenged, though your pulse betrayed you.
His grin widened. “You will.”
And you hated how sure he sounded.
jay - secondhand hearts
the bell above the record store door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, the kind that lingered in your ears long after it faded. the air smelled of dust, worn vinyl sleeves, wood polish, and the faint trace of incense someone had burned weeks ago. dim yellow bulbs hummed softly, casting long shadows across rows of albums stacked like secrets waiting to be found. it was the kind of place that felt untouchable by time, a bubble where the world outside didn’t exist.
you weren’t expecting him.
jay was tucked into the back, one hand in the pocket of his ripped jeans, the other flipping casually through a pile of secondhand cds that someone had carelessly mixed with the vinyls. black tee, silver chain, hair falling into his eyes — he looked like he belonged in every photograph you’d ever seen of underground gigs. effortless. sharp. like he knew exactly how good he looked under the dim light.
“wow,” his voice cut through the quiet, smooth and teasing, carrying that little edge he seemed to reserve just for you. “let me guess — you’re here for the smiths vinyl, because of course you are.”
you arched a brow, stepping past him toward the bins. “and you’re here because you don’t have a personality without your leather jacket. congratulations, jay.”
he grinned, wolfish, and you hated it. insults never landed the way you wanted. he collected them, stored them, twisted them back into charm, and it drove you mad.
“touché,” he murmured, trailing after you as you thumbed through cracked spines. “but for the record—” he tilted his head, smirk sharpening, “—this jacket is vintage. not everyone can pull it off.”
you didn’t look at him. couldn’t. not when you felt his gaze slide over you like a scanner, noting every detail. “you act like you invented vintage. thrift stores existed before you, you know.”
“sure,” he said lightly, leaning against the shelf so close you could smell his cologne, warm and smoky. “but you wear it like armor. i wear it like a statement.”
your hands stilled. you hated that he noticed things — really noticed. the eyeliner sharp enough to warn people off, the way your dark boots made you feel smaller, less seen. he wasn’t wrong, and that made your chest tighten.
sliding the record back into place, you finally met his gaze. “you talk too much.”
his smile softened slightly, the sharp edges dulling into something quieter. “maybe. but you listen, even when you pretend you don’t.”
for a moment, the store felt too small. the hum of the bulbs too loud. your reflection caught in the glass of a framed poster behind him — two silhouettes standing too close in the haze of vinyl dust and shadow.
the bell jingled again, but jay didn’t move. his eyes stayed on yours, unwavering. the teasing had shifted. something had changed — you weren’t just sparring partners anymore.
you forced your gaze back to the albums, fingers brushing against worn spines. “shouldn’t you be somewhere else? terrorizing another aisle?”
he chuckled low, unhurried, stepping closer, the scent of him filling your senses. “nah. i like it here.”
you felt it then — the pull he always carried, subtle and persistent. you wanted to turn away, to pretend nothing was happening, but the space between you was charged, alive.
“you’re infuriating,” you muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of the lights.
“yeah,” he said softly, stepping another half-step closer, smirk turning genuine, edged with warmth, “but you like it.”
heat crept up your neck. your fingers fumbled on the records. he noticed, of course he noticed.
“maybe i do,” you admitted, almost.
his grin deepened. “good. because i’m not leaving anytime soon.”
he leaned closer, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, just barely, and your breath caught. a light, teasing touch, but heavy with implication. “and just so you know,” he murmured, voice low, “i’ve been watching how you linger by the jazz section. vintage collectors are my favorite kind.”
you rolled your eyes, pretending annoyance, but your lips betrayed you with the faintest curve. “you really think you’re smooth, huh?”
“nah,” he said, softening, tone sincere now. “i just notice.”
the tension between you hummed, quiet and heavy, punctuated only by the rustle of vinyl sleeves, the distant footsteps of another customer, and the faint buzz of fluorescent light. he didn’t step back. instead, he stayed just close enough that you felt him, not just noticed him.
“don’t get used to me noticing,” you said, heart racing.
“too late,” he replied, leaning casually, eyes twinkling. “i already have.”
and somehow, against all better judgment, you realized you didn’t want him to stop. you didn’t want the tension to break, the teasing to fade, the pull to dissipate. you liked it too much.
the bell jingled again, and you both looked toward the door. someone else had entered, but the moment didn’t shatter. jay stayed, eyes steady on yours, a quiet challenge in the air: this game was far from over, and neither of you would walk away first.
and you already knew you’d be back.
jake - kickflip crush
the skate park always looked a little sad at night, floodlights buzzing overhead, graffiti curling along the half-pipes like half-finished secrets. the concrete smelled faintly of rubber and oil, faint ghosts of chalk lines marking tricks long gone. you only came here because it was quiet, because no one asked questions if you perched on the edge with your headphones in, sketchbook balanced on your knees. it was your place.
except lately, there was him.
jake. sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, sneakers scuffed from a hundred failed tricks, hoodie hanging loose over his shoulders like he didn’t care how many holes it had. he was always laughing, always grinning, even when he wiped out hard enough to scrape his palms raw. it didn’t make sense — someone so golden choosing to orbit your quiet, someone so alive insisting on tugging you closer every time you tried to stay away.
“hey,” he called out, breathless from a run-up, board tucked under his arm. “you’re here again.”
you didn’t look up from your page. “you say that like i came here for you.”
“i’m choosing to believe you did,” he said, dropping down beside you without asking. the smell of sweat and citrus gum clung to him, loud and alive. “what are you drawing this time? bet it’s me.”
you snorted. “you’re not interesting enough.”
he leaned in, voice dipping into mock drama. “ouch. you wound me.”
you shoved your sketchbook against your chest, glare sharp enough to cut, but he just laughed — the kind of laugh that cracked something open in your chest before you could stop it.
“come on,” he urged, nudging your shoulder. “just a peek. if it sucks, i won’t even tell anyone.”
“you’re insufferable.”
“yeah,” he said, grinning, “but you keep showing up where i am, so what does that say about you?”
you hated the way he said it, light and teasing, because it wasn’t entirely wrong. you could’ve gone anywhere else — the library, an empty diner, even your own bedroom — but something about the skate park at night felt less lonely. maybe, if you were honest, it wasn’t the place keeping you. it was him.
he leaned back on his hands, tilting his face toward the lights. a scrape bloomed red across his palm, raw from his last fall. without thinking, you muttered, “you should clean that.”
his head turned, grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “you do care.”
heat crept up your neck. “i just don’t want your blood getting on my stuff.”
“right,” he said, like he didn’t believe you for a second.
the night stretched between you, filled with the hum of the floodlights and the faint echo of wheels against pavement. jake idly spun his board with his foot, sneakers tapping against the concrete in a rhythm you found yourself sketching without meaning to.
he broke the silence first. “you know, you look like you’d hate me.”
you blinked. “what?”
“the boots, the eyeliner, the whole ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe. first time i saw you here, i thought, ‘that person’s never gonna even look my way.’” he glanced at you, eyes crinkling. “but now you’re stuck with me.”
you rolled your eyes, but your lips almost — almost — curved. “bold of you to assume i don’t hate you.”
“nah,” he said softly, not teasing this time. “if you hated me, you wouldn’t laugh then act concerned when i fall.”
your breath caught. you hadn’t realized he noticed.
he stretched his legs out, hands behind his head, casual like he hadn’t just cornered you with the truth. “so i’ll keep showing up. you can keep pretending you’re not waiting for me. deal?”
you closed your sketchbook before he could see the page — the messy outline of his smile, caught mid-laugh.
“deal,” you muttered.
he sat up a little, eyes lingering on you. “you know,” he said, voice low, teasing but edged with something warmer, “i think you like having me here. more than you want to admit.”
you narrowed your eyes. “i don’t admit anything.”
“good,” he said, smirk turning genuine, “because i’d just tease you about it anyway.”
the night went on, slow, comfortable. he attempted small tricks near the edge, scraping, wobbling, laughing when he failed. you sketched silently, only occasionally glancing up to meet his dark eyes. every now and then, he’d glance toward your sketchbook, grin tugging at his lips. each glance was a little spark of tension you couldn’t ignore — teasing, but somehow intimate, like he was reading you without words.
finally, he leaned close enough that your knees brushed. “you gonna draw me falling next?”
“maybe,” you said, tone casual, but your heart was racing.
he laughed, soft this time, leaning back and letting the light catch the curve of his smile. “good. at least you admit i’m worth watching.”
you didn’t answer. you just kept sketching, letting the concrete, the graffiti, the hum of floodlights, and the warmth of him beside you fill the page.
and somehow, against every instinct to push him away, you already knew you’d be back tomorrow.
sunghoon - focus, unfocused
the rink was nearly empty, the kind of place you liked best when the fluorescent lights hummed and buzzed overhead, when the smell of sharp, cold air mixed with the faint musk of skate leather, and every sound — the scraping of blades on ice, the echo of distant whistles, the tap of your own boots on the metal bleachers — felt amplified.
you settled onto the bleachers with your camera hanging from its frayed strap. the metal body was dented, paint chipped at the corners, lens scuffed. it wasn’t sleek or new, but that was the point. imperfections made it yours, and film never gave the same picture twice. blur, static, light leaks — accidents burned through the frame like secrets. you liked secrets.
he was already there.
sunghoon.
at first, you hadn’t known his name. just a boy who appeared whenever the rink was quiet, moving across the ice with surgical precision. nothing wasted. every turn, every jump, every landing polished into what looked effortless, but you could see the tension coiled in his muscles, the careful focus in his eyes. he practiced control as if it were armor.
you lifted the camera, pressing the shutter. the click echoed, crisp in the hollowed space.
he heard it immediately. mid-spin, he slowed, dragging his blades carefully, gliding toward you with controlled ease. he stopped at the barrier, dark eyes meeting yours.
“are you taking pictures of me?”
you let the camera fall back against your chest, leaning casually against the railing. “maybe.”
his brow furrowed, a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth. “you can’t just—” he gestured toward the camera, measured in irritation, “take photos without asking.”
“relax,” you said lightly, teasing. “half of them won’t even come out right. you move too perfectly. blur makes you interesting.”
the muscle in his jaw ticked. he wasn’t used to someone dismissing his polish so casually.
“why are you here?” he asked finally, voice controlled, but curiosity slipped through.
“the place was open,” you said, kicking the toe of your boot against the metal beam, “and i like the sound. blades on ice, the hum of the lights… it’s nice when no one’s around.”
he studied you a long moment, longer than expected. your eyes caught the way his shoulders tensed and released, a rhythm of observation and assessment, and you realized he was measuring whether you were distraction or nuisance — maybe both.
you raised the camera again and snapped another frame, deliberately loud.
this time, he didn’t just slow mid-spin; he came closer. stopped at the barrier, leaning forward on his elbows, chin resting against his hands, watching you. “show me.”
“show you what?”
“the picture.”
you tilted your head, smirking, and held the camera so he could see the developing square. his outline appeared, imperfect: motion blur smeared his form, streaks of light across the frame, shadows bending where they shouldn’t. a ghost of him. raw. alive. unpolished.
he frowned slightly. “that’s not… how it’s supposed to look.”
“exactly,” you said softly, voice cutting through the chill. “that’s why it’s good.”
he stared longer than expected, expression softening. curiosity replaced his initial irritation. control faltered in small, almost imperceptible ways: a loosened jaw, a slight tilt of his head, a fleeting blink. he wasn’t sure what to make of it — that someone could see him better in imperfection than in polish.
you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “what, expecting me to frame you like a poster?”
“people usually do,” he said, flatly, though the edges of his mouth betrayed him. vulnerability hid in the corners, subtle, fleeting.
“then maybe you need new people,” you said lightly.
he didn’t answer. not right away. instead, he pushed off again, gliding in wider arcs, sharper turns, daring jumps. each time he landed, his eyes flicked back to you, tracing your posture, watching your reactions.
you stayed quiet, letting him watch as much as you watched him, camera ready but untouched. your chest tightened when his gaze lingered. you noticed how his lips pressed together slightly after a complicated landing, how his fingers gripped the top of his stick, how even his controlled breathing betrayed a spark of awareness: he wanted your attention, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
finally, he came back, skating to the barrier again. a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, small, almost shy. “come back tomorrow,” he said simply, breath misting in the cold.
“so you can scold me again?”
“so you can get it right this time.”
you smirked, leaning back. “maybe i already did.”
he didn’t argue. he pushed off again, gliding with effortless precision into another turn, leaving you alone with the hum of the lights, the sharp cold of the air, and the faint echo of blades on ice.
you sat back, camera warm against your chest, boots cold on the bleacher, and realized you’d be back. tomorrow. the day after. maybe every time the rink was empty, and maybe he’d be there too, just enough to make the quiet hum of fluorescent light feel electric.
and that thought made the cold, sharp air feel almost comfortable.
sunoo - push and pull
the parking lot wasn’t the kind of place people hung around at night. the strip mall it belonged to had shut down years ago, the storefronts long empty, windows boarded, signs faded. no cars came through anymore. just wide, cracked asphalt under flickering streetlights — the kind of place that felt abandoned to everyone else but familiar to you.
you dragged your board under one arm, kicking through scattered gravel as you walked. your boots crunched, the cold air biting at your ears. beside you, sunoo kept pace, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself.
“i still don’t get it,” he said after a long silence, his voice almost bouncing against the emptiness. “out of every place in this town, this is your hangout?”
you smirked. “what, you wanted fairy lights and a café playlist? this place is perfect. no people. no noise. no one telling you to move along.”
sunoo wrinkled his nose, but his eyes kept flicking curiously across the lot — the empty lamp posts, the graffiti scrawled along the walls, the cracked basketball hoop that leaned crooked against the far end.
“kind of eerie,” he admitted.
“creepy’s better than boring,” you said. then, bumping his shoulder with yours: “you’ll get it once you try.”
he gave you a skeptical look but didn’t argue.
you dropped your board onto the pavement, the clatter sharp in the stillness. the wheels wobbled in place. sunoo stared at it like it was a wild animal, taking a careful step back.
“that’s it?” he asked. “that’s your… big escape?”
“yep,” you said, nudging the deck with your boot until it spun in a lazy circle. “this thing’s gotten me through more nights than i can count. when the world’s too much, you just push off and let the wind drown everything out.”
sunoo tilted his head, studying you, and for a second you felt bare under his gaze — like he could see how much you meant it.
“okay,” he said finally. “show me.”
you raised a brow. “show you?”
“yeah,” he said, voice rising with mock determination. “how hard can it be?”
the corner of your mouth tugged up. “oh, you’re in for it now.”
he glanced between you and the board, suspicion already creeping into his eyes, but it was too late. you crouched down to steady the deck, motioning for him to climb on.
“front foot here. push with the other,” you explained. “don’t lock your knees. relax.”
“relax, they say,” he muttered, reluctantly stepping on. the board immediately wobbled, and his arms shot out, eyes wide. “relax my ass—”
you barked a laugh, catching his sleeve before he could topple. “balance, bambi.”
“don’t call me that.”
“then stop looking like one.”
sunoo shot you a glare, but his fingers tightened in your hoodie when the wheels shifted again.
“you’re not gonna let me fall, right?” he asked suddenly, quieter than before.
the words caught you off guard — not just what he said, but the way he said it. not as a joke. not like he wanted you to tease him back. there was a softness to it, almost a trust he hadn’t voiced out loud until now.
you swallowed, steadying the board with your boot. “no,” you said, firm. “i’ve got you.”
his expression flickered — surprise first, then something almost shy, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it.
he pushed off once, clumsy, nearly toppling again. you ran alongside, your hand hovering just over his back.
“hey— look! i’m moving!” he laughed, voice loud in the empty lot, bright and breathless.
“barely,” you said, grinning despite yourself.
“barely’s still moving.”
he coasted a few feet before the board caught on a crack, and he pitched forward with a startled yelp. instinct had you catching him against your chest before he could hit pavement.
his hands gripped the front of your hoodie, bunching the fabric tight. for a heartbeat, you were pressed together — his breath warm against your neck, hair falling into his eyes, your pulse hammering in your throat.
you forced a laugh to break the tension. “told you pavement always wins.”
he looked up at you then, and it wasn’t playful. his eyes lingered too long, dropping briefly to your mouth before darting away.
“thanks,” he mumbled, voice softer now, almost lost to the buzz of the streetlight. “for catching me.”
you let him steady himself, though your fingers twitched with the urge to keep holding on.
“get used to it,” you said, tossing him a crooked smile. “you’re gonna fall a lot.”
“not if i’ve got you.” the words slipped out of him, unpolished but real.
you pretended not to notice how your chest tightened at that.
“again?” you asked, nodding at the board.
he grinned, determination sparking despite the flush still on his cheeks. “again.”
so you stayed. running beside him each time he pushed, catching him when he wobbled, trading jabs and laughter under the lonely glow of the parking lot lamps. and the longer the night stretched, the less it felt like teaching him to skate and more like something else — something that tugged at your ribs, steady and relentless, every time his fingers brushed yours when you steadied him.
by the time the cold sank into your bones, you realized it wasn’t the board he was learning to trust — it was you.
jungwon - ink and static
the first time jungwon saw you, he decided he didn’t like the way you made him feel.
not because you weren’t attractive — if anything, it was the opposite. you were magnetic in a way that made it impossible to look away without feeling guilty. it was the silver hoop catching the light as you tilted your head, the black ink curling along your forearm like constellations he couldn’t decipher, the chipped black polish on your nails, the combat boots scuffing across the linoleum floor of the corner store where he worked weekends.
jungwon’s world was predictable. neat. planned. clean sneakers by the door, textbooks stacked just so, schedules that left no room for mess or chaos. you were the opposite: music spilling faintly from your headphones, bracelets clinking against your wrist with every movement, eyeliner smudged perfectly wrong, ripped tights under a skirt that didn’t match the rest of the world.
he told himself it didn’t matter. he wasn’t interested. not at all.
but then you came back the next week. and the week after. always with that same lazy confidence, always with a lollipop between your teeth or a can of something you pretended was casual.
and each time, without meaning to, he noticed.
you would hand him crumpled bills, eyes barely lifting from whatever book or phone you were clutching, and he’d catch the motion of your fingers brushing against a silver chain bracelet. the faint smell of your perfume would linger, sharp and sweet, long after you’d left.
he wasn’t staring. he told himself. he was… observing. professionally.
the fourth time, you caught him.
“you always look at me like that,” you said, tossing a pack of gum onto the counter with a lazy flick of your wrist.
jungwon froze. “like what?”
“like i’ve got something on my face.” your voice was teasing, calm, but your eyes didn’t let him off the hook. they studied him like a puzzle he wasn’t prepared to solve.
“i—I wasn’t…” he started, throat dry. “i didn’t mean to—”
“don’t apologize,” you said, leaning forward on the counter just enough for your hair to brush the edge of his forearm. “i don’t mind.”
his hands hovered over the register, frozen, caught between doing his job and… doing nothing at all. he tried to look professional, but the way your tattoos curled up your arm, dark against your skin, kept dragging his gaze back. he noticed the small details he wasn’t supposed to — the tiny star inked near your wrist, the way your knuckle rings clinked when you shifted your fingers, the chipped polish catching the fluorescent light.
“you… like them?” you asked suddenly, catching his stare before he could hide it.
jungwon blinked, scrambling for words. “i—I wasn’t… i mean, yeah. they’re… cool.”
“‘cool,’” you repeated, raising an eyebrow, lips tugging into a smirk. “convincing.”
he felt his ears heat up. he wanted to retreat, wanted to tuck his hands into his pockets and tell himself he’d never come back. but instead, he leaned forward slightly, drawn in despite himself.
“you’re cute,” you said simply, tilting your head and letting one earphone hang loose around your neck. “probably too clean-cut for me, but cute anyway.”
the bell jingled behind you as you left, and jungwon stayed frozen behind the counter, heart hammering, replaying your words. he told himself it was nothing — just a compliment, casual, harmless. but his fingers itched to trace the curve of your ink, to know the story behind every mark.
the next evening, he found himself outside the store again, pretending to check his phone while he watched the shadowed corner of the parking lot where you liked to sit on the curb, board leaning against your knees.
he didn’t approach at first, just leaned against the lamppost, observing the way you tilted your head as you adjusted the chain around your wrist, the slight flex of your fingers as you thumbed the edge of your notebook.
finally, he stepped forward. “you’re always here,” he said, voice quieter than he intended.
you glanced up, smirk tugging at your lips. “always is a long word.”
“always enough to notice things,” he said, the words rough but honest. “like… your tattoos.”
your smile softened just a little. “you notice them?”
“yeah,” he admitted. “and… your piercings. i don’t know why, but…” he trailed off, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets. “i can’t stop looking.”
you tilted your head, letting the streetlight catch the silver hoop in your ear. “can’t stop, huh?”
he swallowed. “yeah.”
a quiet pause stretched between you. the lot smelled faintly of asphalt and winter cold, your bracelets clinking as you shifted. and for the first time, he felt a strange tug — an urge to reach out, to touch the ink, trace it with his fingers, even though he barely knew you.
“i don’t bite,” you said softly, reading his hesitation. “if you want to come closer.”
he wanted to. wanted to cross that space and see your expression up close, feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from you even in the cold night.
but instead, he stepped forward just a little, careful. just close enough for your hands to almost touch when you shifted, letting the energy hum between you.
“maybe… maybe next time,” he said, voice low.
“next time,” you echoed, letting the corner of your mouth curl.
and as he walked away later, the streetlights casting long shadows, he realized he’d already been drawn in — ink, metal, and all — and there was no turning back.
ni-ki - like gravity
the corner store always felt a little out of time. buzzing fluorescent lights that hummed like a broken amplifier, stacks of ramen cups leaning dangerously on cracked shelves, the faint smell of dust and oil from the fryer that hadn’t worked in years.
ni-ki was here more than he’d ever admit. sometimes with friends after practice, sometimes alone, using the glow of the refrigerators as cover for how restless he felt when he didn’t want to go straight home. tonight was one of those nights — a can in one hand, skateboard leaning against his knee, pretending he had nowhere better to be.
and then you walked in.
ripped fishnets laddering under shredded shorts, hoodie too big but pulled together with the weight of chains and silver rings that clinked softly when you moved. eyeliner sharp, lips set like you were daring the world to say something. the door’s tired little bell jingled above your head, and suddenly the store wasn’t buzzing anymore — it was humming.
ni-ki nearly fumbled the can of arizona iced tea he’d been pretending to study for ten minutes.
he straightened immediately, trying to lean back against the freezer door like he’d been born casual. shoulders loose, expression bored, headphones hanging just low enough on his neck to flash the logo. but the glass betrayed him — reflection showing his eyes darting toward you every other second, fingers drumming an anxious beat against the freezer door.
you crouched in front of the chips, and your voice cut through the hum. flat, bored, unbothered. “you’re staring.”
ni-ki’s whole body stiffened. “i—no. i wasn’t.”
finally, you glanced over your shoulder, one brow raised like you’d already filed him under predictable. “sure. must be my imagination then.”
the corner of your mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but enough to tell him you’d noticed the way he scrambled.
“i’ve just… seen you around,” he muttered, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his ripped jeans. his voice was steady, but his pulse wasn’t. “around campus.”
you stood, chips in hand, tilting your head like you were waiting for something better.
“you’re… hard to miss,” he finished lamely, instantly regretting it.
smooth, he thought bitterly. real smooth.
but instead of brushing past him, you smirked faintly, sharp and knowing. “same could be said about you.”
his throat went dry. he shrugged, ducking his head so his hair fell into his eyes. “guess we’re both obvious then.”
you stepped closer, brushing by just enough that your sleeve grazed his arm. the contact was small, fleeting, but it burned through the fabric. you didn’t apologize. you just leaned against the counter, casual, like you hadn’t just derailed his night completely.
he stared at your hand as you pulled a crumpled bill from your pocket. chipped black polish. rings stacked heavy across your knuckles. details he shouldn’t memorize, but already was.
“you always hang out in convenience stores,” you asked, voice lazy, “or is this just some once-in-a-lifetime performance?”
“depends.” his mouth was moving faster than his brain. “if you’re here, maybe it’ll be a habit.”
the words landed between you before he could take them back. his ears burned. but he didn’t look away this time.
your gaze lingered on him, unreadable, before the smirk sharpened. “bold.”
he tried to recover, running a hand through his hair like it was nothing, though his pulse betrayed him. “someone’s gotta keep you entertained.”
“mm.” you tore open the chip bag, metal crinkling loud in the hush. “don’t flatter yourself. i didn’t say i was entertained.”
“but you didn’t say you weren’t,” he shot back, lips curving.
that finally earned him something closer to a real smile. quick, dangerous, there and gone like a spark off live wire.
the cashier moved slow, ringing you up like they had all the time in the world. ni-ki stood rooted, skateboard balanced against his ankle, trying to look disinterested while his entire focus tunneled on you.
you collected your change, bag in hand, and pushed the door open. the bell above it gave that tired jingle again, spilling night air into the yellow glow.
just before the door shut, you glanced back. met his eyes head-on, gaze lingering a fraction too long. the corner of your mouth tugged up — deliberate this time, unmistakable.
and then you were gone.
ni-ki stayed frozen in place, like moving would break the moment still hanging in the air. he only snapped out of it when the cashier cleared their throat pointedly, waiting for him to pay. he grabbed a random pack of gum and tossed a crumpled bill onto the counter, mumbling thanks before stepping out into the night.
the street was empty, quiet except for the low buzz of the streetlights. you were already halfway down the block, walking slow, bag of chips swinging carelessly at your side. he thought about calling out. thought about catching up, skateboard wheels rattling against the cracked pavement.
but he didn’t. he just stood there, watching your silhouette get smaller, until you turned the corner and disappeared.
only then did he exhale, the night air sharp in his lungs.
so much for nonchalant.
you’d already ruined that — and deep down, he knew he wanted you to.
Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works
tl: @yazmike @teddybeartaetae
(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )