#nuguidols

If you're okay with this ask.

Hi! I can imagine Johnny wearing Abby's clothes against his will lol (like Price ordering him to dress up for some disguise?), but in my headcanon he would refuse to dance or show off like kpop idols unless the team's in danger. The 'macho man' deeply seated in his mind refuses to do so, which makes it really funny to watch him having inner conflict.

dancing awkwardly like a wood log trying to sway

synopsis: As a camerawoman, it's your job to capture content for AMPERS&ONE. Instead, you somehow capture evidence that one of the members, Brian, is utterly head-over-heels in love with you. pairing: brian x camerawoman!reader word count: 2,551 words content: fluff, reader in denial, brian gets slightly injured, awkward flirting authors note: he was so cute in the behind-the-scenes for god I just had to write something! likeee that first pic with him on the metal grate oh my goodness he's adorable (⁠♡⁠ω⁠♡⁠ ⁠)⁠ playlist: You Are In Love - Taylor Swift, Over The Moon - AMPERS&ONE, Love, Maybe - MeloMance, Every Breath You Take - The Police, Let Me Love You - DAY6, I.L.Y. - The Rose please consider liking and reblogging if you enjoyed this fic!

Hand Holding

Ampers&one ot7 hand holding headcanons

Warnings: fluff, bbg Seungmo and I low-key started running out of ideas

~Master List~

Kamden:

Kammy gives the vibes of always holding your hand in public especially in crowded areas. Like my guy will not risk one of y’all getting lost.

Brian:

I feel that Brian would be the kind of person who likes to play with your rings or bracelets. (The fact that he’s my ult bias but gets the shortest section)

Jiho:

I feel like a common Jiho head canon is that he's really romantic. With hand holding that plays out in my head like he’s the kind of guy to like rub his thumb over the back of your hand.

Siyun:

In my mind Siyun dislikes any physical touch in public. But in the safety of home he would like placing his hand on the back of your hand like he doesn’t like intertwining fingers because he likes being able to remove his hand at any time. (I hope this makes sense)

Kyrell:

I feel like Kyrell would be similar to Kamden in like always holding your hand. But an added note for Ky is that if you paint your nails he'll always compliment a new colour or set.

Mackiah:

Kiah is the type of guy to see so many things and want to go check them out. In the process of this he ends up nearly ripping your arm off multiple times.

Seungmo:

In my mind I feel like Seungmo grabs your arm instead of your hand like we all know he’s very much a diva and requires princess treatment.

Taglist:

@5trawb3rry-5h0rtcak3 @cherry-bomb-heart

Comment if you’d like to be added to my taglist

Summary: You and Wumuti have been friends forever. That won’t ever change

Genre: Fluff, Friends to lovers, Any and all pronoun usage for Wumuti, reader is fem and bi, Wumuti’s sexuality is not labeled, reader’s race isn’t mentioned but she is BLACK

A/N: I’M BACK. I’M NOT DEAD YALL. I’ve just been busy being a person and stuff. There are more XLOV fics on the way I swear‼️‼️Props to my mutual who had to constantly reread this, you’re the best 🫶.

Wumuti has always had two homes.

Tap-tap-tap

The first home he was born into, bonded by forgotten memories, blood, and shared last names that made her part of that family. They could never change that.

Tap-tap-tap

His second home was with you.

Tap-tap—

“Hi, Muti.”

The swift swing of your opening door left her momentarily like a deer in headlights; however, hearing your familiar tone turned their startled, wide eyes and rigid posture to a cheeky, resting smile and drooped shoulders, as if he had come home from a long day.

“Hello. May I come in?”

In your affable, taciturn manner, you take a small step away from the door, leaving the house open for Wumuti to come back like she always did.

Wumuti breathes a contented sigh, taking a moment to look around your apartment. Welcome home. They snicker a bit, not maliciously, but fondly at how you could always stay the same.

The old black couch you would always sleep on because you refused to have him sleep in anything but your bed; eventually, she made you stop because they felt too bad about stealing your bed every time he came over. She sleeps better with you nearby, anyway.

The black metal coffee table and minuscule kitchen that you used to make ramen when Wumuti was eliminated from Boy’s planet.

Wumuti remembers walking to your house in the cold night air, their beat-up dance practice shoes and trembling fist tapping on your door. You gently opened it, looking up knowingly at him; no words were said as Wumuti sat down, and you locked the door, shuffling to your kitchen. Wumuti remembers the sound of boiling water and the clattering of cabinets; the cracking of eggs and the clunk of your knife hitting your cutting board as you prepared everything.

She remembers the soft thump of a porcelain bowl hitting the table and the spicy stew reaching their nostrils; he remembers looking up with glassy eyes at you as you passed her chopsticks and some water; with firm eyes, you said softly, as if speaking to a small, scared doe: “Eat.”

That made them burst into tears.

The same untouched cat tree, because your cat only ever considered resting on your feet or your chest.

Everything was the same; the only things that you ever changed were your candles and the books on your coffee table; suddenly, a faint scrape of heels hitting rug taps Wumuti out of her recollection.

“So, what would the client like for today?”

He playfully scoffs, tongue hitting their inner cheek as she pulls the seat across from you; you don’t pay any mind to him or her small smirk as you lean over to plug in your curing lamps and gently roll your nail trolley closer to you. Wumuti hums for a small moment, mulling your dry words around their mind as if to savor them for a moment longer. You’ve always had a lovely voice.

“You choose.”

They say as he elegantly stretches her fingers across to you like a queen waiting for her valorous lover to greet her properly; you pause for a moment, looking down at Wumuti’s long, fair fingers contrasting the black leather of your armrest, then to their face with a blank look.

“Are you serious?”

Wumuti smiles teasingly, his teeth lightly showing through her pink-glossed lips as they stare at you tenderly.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You sigh faintly; there’s no sense of annoyance in your tone, only a vague, insecure reluctance as you roll back your long sleeves.

“Alright.”

The faint, low buzzing from your nail drill grazing Wumuti’s delicate fingers flows into the soft rhythmic bass playing through your phone speaker; she absently hums as he gently gazes at you. You looked like a vision to them. Your curls were pinned back messily with the black cat hair clip they had bought you on a whim; your work makeup laid carefully on your face even after hours. Wumuti grins tenderly; he’s always considered you an inspiration. From the moment you stepped into Wumuti’s life, you had captivated her.

“Hold still.”

Wumuti takes a deep breath, closing his eyes in an attempt to clear their fretful mind. The classroom feels so muggy, even with the winter air. She hears your chair scrape and your frustrated hums as you shift closer. Your delicate fingers feel achingly warm against their cheek as you apply your eyeliner to him. Your smooth, even breath tingle his burning skin, causing her eyelashes to shake faintly. They hear the low wrinkles of your school uniform desperately trying to escape from your body; however, she never feels the fabric touch his blazing skin. Never does Wumuti feel your plush chest or soft curves graze their stinging body. Never do your lips accidentally graze his from your proximity. That’s all it is; close, but never close enough. Feeling, but never touching. Wanting, wanting so much that it hollows you out from the inside, but never getting fully.

“Done.”

“Jesus, Lucifer, can you stop that?” You huff as your cat curls against your face. Wumuti chuckles softly. Without fail, you captivated them. With your narrowed black eyes sharpened from your pointed liner and perched gelled brows knitted into focus as your glossed lips scrunched in mild frustration; You’re more captivating than before. Everything about you has improved since then, especially your makeup.

Wumuti’s eyes flutter open, looking at your handiwork; it’s amateurish at best. The dark liner is messy and unintentionally dramatic on him. It doesn’t even fit the shape of his hooded eyes.

“I love it.”

I love you.

She unsteadily breathes out, as if telling a dangerous secret. I love you. You grab their face softly in your hands, turning him at all different angles. With your equally amateurish liner framing your face, Wumuti feels like mirror images of one another. They’ve been made in your image, by your hand. I love you. Your cold, soft fingers light a fire throughout her body as you smile proudly with a matter-of-fact, “It looks good.”

He smiles along with you. She remembers that day fondly; it stays behind the back of their mind when he paints her lips a cherry pink or when the cool, black liner kisses their fair eyes. Anyone who asks how Wumuti learned to do his makeup hears your name. You’ve always been my inspiration.

Her sweet reminiscing is cracked open with your soft utterance of “Your debut’s going well.”

Wumuti’s lip curled into a small smirk, clearly satisfied with their work and your acknowledgement; Wumuti considered his mission to impress you at every moment. I want your attention.

“It is.”

You hum lightly, pushing back her cuticles with practiced ease.

“I’m happy for you.”

Wumuti feels themselves go pink with a dull warmth; suddenly, your hand touching his tingles like a spicy stew, comfortable, but vaguely painful. Wumuti's smirk turns into a bashful smile.

“Thank you.”

He hears the clattering of your nail supplies as you place them back into their cups. You pull your Polish rack closer with a disinterested look, but Wumuti knows you’re just thinking. After careful consideration, you decide on a dark red color, packaged in black.

“No need to thank me. You deserve it.”

Wumuti feels herself grow a bit fuzzy from your statement. Your praise always slipped out easily and smoothly like a truth that had always been hidden. The room fills with the sound of light strings and velvet vocals as you carefully brush product onto his peach-tinted fingers. Wumuti feels so warm as they breathe out anxiously, unrecognized by your measured concentration on her nails, “You know…”

You give a slight hum, egging them to continue as you blow small, sharp gusts onto his wet nails. The feeling of your cool breath burns her numbingly hot skin. It’s hot.

“You could work for us…Make press-ons and designs without having to deal with your regular job, along with doing our nails.”

You swiftly answer with a firm, “No.” as you plop the polish back onto your cart.

Wumuti scoffs, tongue hitting their cheek and lips going playful tight; he pushes back with a whiny, “Why not? You don’t like it anyway.”

You gently guide her still hand to the lamp, placing each finger softly underneath, as if each were made of stained glass. As if they were the most precious thing to you. As you start the lamp, UV lights molifying the dark polish, you straightly respond, “Money’s better there.”

He smirked, her eyes narrowing playfully sharply, like he did whenever they didn’t get her way. You pay him no mind as you continue with his other hand.

Wumuti sinks lazily into your couch, lightly squeezing and grazing your intertwined hands with her new nails. The faint scrap of their pointed black tips leaving invisible lines on your pointed knuckles preoccupies his mind as your cat purs and rubs at your lap. The voices on the variety show mingle together into one low buzzing noise as Wumuti watches the show from your sunken eyes; little white boxes forever skirting around the black pool that surrounds them. Her lips part cautiously, should they ask? He always hates the answer. No one is ever good enough for you.

“So…”

Your head turns sluggishly, eyes half-opened with a mild curiosity. She squeezes your hand a bit tighter, feeling your heart beat slow underneath their veins.

“How’s that guy you’re seeing?”

You lean back with a faint breath, your eyes resting for a moment as the low TV glow paints you faintly blue, and you reply, “Not seeing him anymore.”

Wumuti leans on your slumped shoulder, eyes lidded; he wonders if you can feel her lashes tap your neck. Your skin feels so warm underneath their chin as his lips border on your neck. Have you always been this warm, or is it her? You’re so close yet still far. Stray hairs fall onto your nape, tickling their nose as his breathing creeps to match yours; the smallest movement would have her lips caressing your skin. You’re too good for men. They breathe out a small, “Oh.” as your words reach his ears. You’re too good for anyone. Beneath her long lashes, their eyes monopolize the small, dotted crow near your ear. How beautiful, he thinks, gripping your hands together at your side. My skin burns. Your hand feels so small in hers. It’s so hot. Their eyes shut as the room grows hotter, pushing out a, “It didn’t work out with him?”

He hears the faint squeak of your couch as your head moves in a small nod, you yawn, “Liking everyone isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Wumuti nuzzles more into your shoulder, watching your chest rise and fall with each breath. Those lovers aren’t anything. The show becomes lower in her ears as they obsess over your deep, languid breaths; They don’t know the deep itch, the burn. The tip of his ears feel red as she squeezes your hand harder. No one is good enough for you. Your eyes open up lazily, and the room feels as muggy as the old classroom—no one except me. Wumuti watches your lips part leisurely as you hum out a “How about you? Any new guys?”

Their nose feels numbingly itchy from your hair, but he won’t move. Everything burns. Everything feels like sparks underneath her veins. You’re so small, but everything about you makes the room burn; it almost hurts. It feels like the devil sits on their tongue as he whispers out, “I like everyone…especially you.”

Your lips stretch into a lazy smile as you look down at her, muttering out a faint, “Yeah?”

Wumuti leans their head up, feeling your sleepy eyes gaze at him as she replies, “Yeah.”

Their tongue feels heavy.

You give a small, languid laugh as Wumuti leans up further and further. So close. He can see your eyelashes kiss your cheeks. So close. She traces the curve of your cupid’s bow as they feel your breath relax under his skin. So close. She can feel how perfectly your nose slots against theirs. Close. Your forehead lightly bumps his as you lean into her. Closer. The TV glow paints you both a faint pink. Come closer. They close his eyes, her lips flickering alight. Close the distance. They feel your lips against his.

It burns.

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