#yeonjae | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aclowntiny · 2 years ago

Note

Hii! First of all, congrats con 600 followers, you deserve that and so many more, I'm literally in love with your work :) I was wondering if I could request a San scenario with the following prompts (from the lists you reblogged):

“Urgh, why do you always insist on doing nice things for me?” “Because I enjoy it.”

“Can’t you just accept when people do nice things for you?” “No, I can’t.”

“The only reason why I’m letting you get away with shit like this is because I like you, you dense fucking cabbage.”

I was thinking kind of best friend au, but they both have feelings for eachother, BUT, they're both in denial about it. You can decide how the rest goes, thank you so muh in advance!! ~

yELLS thanks sweetheart 🥲 in love with my work whAT 🥹💕 thank you for being here with me! I love this request so here is your SAN-ario 😄 ps: look up the definition of mon petit chou I dare you

Mon Petit Chou- Best Friend!San x Gender Neutral!Reader

Word Count: 2282 | Best Friends to Lovers | Warnings: language, mention of drinking but no actual drinking lol, slightly suggestive?

You weren’t sure when the fuck this all started, just that you hated it with the burning passion of a thousand suns.

Your life had been peaceful, safe, mundane even, and so help you if you’d ever complained about it you were going to invent time travel just to go back and smack yourself one in the face for it.

Somehow, against all common sense, bro or whatever codes, and hope of joy you’d developed feelings for your best friend. The two of you had known each other for the past four years, meeting in your final year of high school at the dance of all places. Neither of you dated then, so you were there in a state others perceived as ‘alone’, each of you seeing it as with friends, with the while school, and leaping into the fray of energetic dancing. And that was how you ended up doing the cupid shuffle together and, for some reason, the old YMCA routine. You’d shook and jumped to Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off and the legendary Amor Fati by Kim Yeonja, all the simultaneously memed and beloved songs you could dream of. Some people assumed you were a couple and you two burst out laughing as you told them you’d literally just met. Like, you exchanged names after they said that.

San was easy to talk to, especially after seeing each other in sweaty teenage abandon first. He was no pressure, no butterflies- until now, for some forsaken reason, when your heart had decided to abandon all reason and beat like a mother when San pulled you into a hug or smiled that dimpled smile you’d looked at countless times- why was it special now?

Sure, you’d always acknowledged he was good-looking, but in the way people talked about celebrities outside their preferred gender- just acknowledgement, nothing deeper. But suddenly you found your brain rushing out from under you like a yanked rug, wondering what his lips would feel like against yours.

And dammit, you were dead-set on never finding out.

Making a move at that point would be platonic suicide, torpedoing the best friendship you’d ever had, and frankly you’d lost too many with age, time, distance, drama to do it again. And not with San. Even if it was like life’s Master Ball and you only got one forever friendship, it was going to be San. You’d already aimed and pitched, and no petty, new, frustrating as all get-out feelings were going to knock that off course.

If only San got the memo too.

Maybe it was simply a matter of increased awareness thanks to your nascent problem, but it was like he’d grabbed the knob full force and dialed all the charm and sweetness to eleven, sensing your pulse skyrocketing for a thousand tiny reasons you wanted to shoot down like clay pigeons.

It was chilly the other afternoon? Here, take his jacket. You forgot your sunglasses? Did you want his? What ring size were you? Here, compare to his- go on, just see if it fits. And by jove, you will never carry a single remotely heavy object again if Choi San can help it.

“Why do you always insist on doing nice things for me?” You groaned, head rolling to fix your best friend with a look.

“Because I enjoy it,” he replied simply, contentedly, the most plaintive of smiles on his face as he tilted his own head down for a brief respite on your shoulder.

Curse him and his adorable love of affection. “Well, ah, what can I do for you?” You spluttered, indignant at no one but yourself.

“It doesn’t have to be a transaction. I know you’ve had people around you make it seem like it is, but you don’t have to repay me. I know you’d help me if I needed it, too.”

Biting back a response about you surprisingly not actually needing him to carry your shopping bags, you just sighed and thanked him, shuffling along the mall tile with slightly less relish. He’d always been like this- selfless, kind, loving, and you’d always loved those things about him.

So when he sat you down at the food court, gingerly resting your bags on the shiny public-eatery metal seat adjacent to yours as he scooted yours back, what else could you do but smile and thank him? San asked you what you wanted for lunch, and you told him you didn't mind, to which he shot back that he didn't either. Then you told him to pick, and he told you to pick, and you both bickered playfully back and forth until you got tacos.

Ugh, just like an old married couple.

"Can't you just accept when people do nice things for you?"

"No," you crossed your arms in mostly-mock-obstinance, "no, I cannot."

"I swear, you'd make me pay you back if I bought you a candy bar," San rolled his eyes playfully, fixing you with a fond smile.

Because if you're always paying for me when we go out, you wanted to say, I can pretend it's a date. I can get it in my fat fucking head what it would be like to have you as my boyfriend and never get it back out.

"Money is designed to be exchanged for goods and services," you actually said.

"This isn't a service," he replied, putting an arm you didn't care was sticky with sweat around your shoulders, extending the water bottle toward your hand, "it's me caring about you."

Hot from exertion as you were, you instantly melted under the warmth of his half-embrace, accepting the water bottle. "And you know I appreciate it. I'm just not used to getting cared for."

"Then I'm not doing my job!" Your best friend exclaimed, eyes glinting. "I'm always going to be here to take care of you, so get used to it!"

"I think I started figuring that out when you brought three different blankets and a plushie the first time I watched a movie with you," you told him with a teasing smile.

San's smile fell almost into introspection, getting a bit more serious, which you didn't expect. "You joke, but I mean it, (y/n)."

Almost against your will, your head nodded solemnly, though your own smile couldn't fade, in fact it widened dumbly as a side effect of your hammering heart. "I hope so."

And then, as if he hadn't said something so infuriatingly sweet, San patted your shoulder, stood up from his squatted position, and took your water-bottle-free hand in his, pulling you up, too. You could have sworn he gave your hand a squeeze, but it was so brief, maybe you imagined it.

"Alright, so are we dancing or what?"

Sometimes you wished you guys drank more. That you could hit the edge of blackout and do something you'd barely remember, nor regret, and butt so hard against the line it finally broke and reformed in less questionable territory. That some alien substance in your veins could be blamed for anything dubbed unthinkable, and you'd have already rehearsed any laughter necessary if San wanted to make middle-school ew, gross jokes as if your lips transmitted cooties.

But San was a lightweight, and neither of you enjoyed that scene. The two of you were more the types to get coffee twice in a ay and laugh too hard at stupid things like the word guava on a caffeine buzz.

"We're fun enough even without alcohol," San often joked to you.

So the drama-flick drunk confession, intoxicated makeout, was out. Best not to duplicitously offer a drink in exchange for-

"(y/n)? I think it's all done," San's voice cut through your mental spiral.

You almost had to shake your head out of it, vision having faded to a zoned-out blur, obscuring even the shape of his wide, tank-topped shoulders as he had bent over your car.

Now he was at your side, wiping his hands on a cloth like some sort of professional mechanic, not just your best friend who insisted you didn't need to pay someone like that just for an oil filter and a change. A change which had cost him the dove grey of his garment, something you could hardly help asking why he'd wear such a light color of for that.

"San, your top, it's all stained!"

As he tossed the rag aside, he tilted his head down, bobbing it in recognition of the black smudge marks. "Well, at least it wasn't expensive."

"I think I know how to get it out if you want. You could always go get a new-"

Before you could even finish your sentence, he was stripping, yanking the top off from the bottom hem and leaning against the knob of your garage door. Despite the clear invitation to go inside and, you know, do exactly what you just said you were going to do, surprised crossed your (very warm) face, effectively sealing you to the concrete floor. The only process your brain could perform in that moment was trying to figure out if you had the world's best or worst luck.

"Oh, uh-" Trying not to stare, your eyes very pointedly searched San's face.

Your best friend frowned slightly, expression halfway to the innocence you were used to, and somehow that almost made it worse. "What?"

"Just," you hesitated as you accepted his now inside-out tank top, skin-warmed fabric heating your hands, too, which you glanced down at beneath San's intent gaze, "didn't expect you to be this comfortable is all."

San crossed his arms, face falling first in shock, then shaping up into almost dark amusement as a different, more incredulous smile rose to his sharp features. "Are you kidding me?"

Oh, no. You made it weird. This was it. Or maybe he just thought you were doubting his friendship, which he shouldn't. Everyone knew unironically doing the YMCA bonded people for life. Or sharing blankets. Or...ah, crap. Not now. "No, it's great, I'm really glad you trust me. I trust you, too, you know. Maybe I don't show that enough, but that's why you know so much about me, and I really appreciate you-" Your rant suddenly fell short as your eyes betrayed you, drifting down slightly and absolutely ramming your train of thought into a wreck. "You know, always being there for me and being so thoughtful and pretty much being my favorite person ever-"

“The only reason why I’m letting you get away with shit like this, with seeing me like this," he motioned over his, well, quite fit torso, "is because I like you, you dense fucking cabbage.” The moment the words left San, his face fell into his hand, out of frustration or embarrassment it was hard to say. Probably more the latter, knowing how sweet your best friend was. He didn't use strong language...well, almost ever.

Train wreck take two. Not a single word rose to your mind, only sensations, for a solid three seconds, during which all you could do was stand there wide-eyed, venture a step towards San, two steps. Finally you spoke, feeling like an idiotic teen sitcom character as your dumb response left your lips. "You like me?"

"Yes," San sighed, posture deflating a bit against the doorframe, "I'm sorry. Sorry for the language, and just...I hadn't really planned on how I was going to say it, but it definitely wasn't like that. You deserve way better than that. I just... sometimes I feel like you like me back, but then I wonder if you're pushing me away. And you have every right to do that, especially if I've messed up our friendship, I can just-"

You cut him off, harnessing the motion of his lips for greater purpose against yours. San responded instantly to the kiss, hands cupping your face and pulling it deeper into his like you were air and he'd spent his whole life underwater. Your arms wrapped around those broad, bare shoulders, hands resting at the back of his neck.

"Wait, you like me?" Ok, you felt better about how dumb you seemed, as those were San's first words out of the kiss.

"Yes, you, what was it? Ah, yes. 'Dense fucking cabbage'," you quoted back at him with a merciless grin, arms tightening their grip ever so slightly.

"Oh, no," he winced, "that's going to stick forever, isn't it?"

"Yep," you breathed, leaning in for another kiss, the feeling of San's lips a hundred percent better than you could ever have imagined, so much warmer and realer and this time sweeter, sliding against yours like he was coaxing it out of you.

This time, upon pulling away you gave the side of his face a light, playful slap, enjoying the touch of his sculpted features against your palm.

"You're stuck with me now, mon petit chou."

San shook his head at the return of your devious grin, and you reveled in the blend of utter bliss and what did I get myself into painting his face as his hands snaked around your waist, twirling you in a little impromptu dance and dipping you down.

He smiled lovingly this time, sending your beating heart melting and surprise turning to joy across your own face. "As long as you keep being you and you'll let me do nice things for you now- no, scratch that, spoil you."

Keep being you. Holy shit, what a balm for the soul.

Cocking a brow, you shot back, "You spoil me and I embarrass you? Hardly sounds fair."

"All's fair in love and war," San responded, eyelashes fluttering.

You most definitely forgot to wash his top after that.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez reactions #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #san #san x reader #san x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #best friends to lovers #fluff #humor #sort of #requested #everywhereandnowhere02

100 notes · View notes

ohyangchon · 9 months ago

Text

He sits in silence, an observer in these family festivities.

It wasn't like Jinhee had a point of reference about Chuseok. His family, scattered to the winds due to their niche being coveted in museums around the world, never made a point to celebrate. After he emancipated himself and left to Korea, he'd never gotten occasions to observe it either - in truth, the last time he'd gone for a Chuseok gathering was more a showing of solidarity on Woojin's suggestion, one he accepted.

Seeing the others playing board games (all the laughing, shouting, the chaos, it warmed him, but also hurt his brain with the volume) made him want to participate less. An unreliable body that tingled constantly with muted pain did not lend well to festivities, he'd found, and a miserable man h like him did not need to encroach on their happiness.

Nevermind that he'd been invited. Setting foot again in the Lees' mansion after so many years was surreal, what with all the adjustments the chairwoman had made for her once-again-living husband - it'd been at least a decade and a half since he'd been a part of their gatherings on that woman's insistence, shadowing her husband and mingling with high society.

He would find himself getting lost in the montage of family photographs that led further up the house - the stern, familiar figure of Lee Changjoon, the smiling visage of Lee Yeonjae, and their daughter Soojung, who seemed chipper despite the weight of what she carried - until a quiet squeak indicated a door had opened near him.

Jinhee raised a brow, accepting the invitation and meeting face to face with the young mistress of the house, seemingly also avoiding such festivities.

"Assemblyman Seok," she greeted, a smile upon her face even as her gaze subtly drifted towards his nosebridge, "It's been a long time since you last visited. What brings you here?"

Not even a mention of how much he'd changed - how pitiful and craven he'd become. He forces a smile at the title, glancing around the comfortable bedroom as he took a seat and put his crutches away. "Associate-- Jangil, he invited me here. He's my boyfriend." A light remark, the truth, drifted from his lips, and Soojung nods without resistance.

"That means aunt Jooyoung and aunt Dankyung are your girlfriends," Soojung inferred, slightly jealously but with a tone that clearly indicated she meant none of that malice, "It means you're Uncle Jinhee again. I remember your stories about your archaeological trips when you came by. Do you still go?"

It's an innocent enough question, but he bristled visibly at it. A retort tore at the base of his throat where the trach (a haunting sign of his failure to end it all) rested - in which world did you think I can still go, but he held his tongue. Why feud with a child? "No. Not after I returned from the last trip," he responded instead, looking to change the subject, "You've grown so big now. The last I saw you, you were barely about to start school."

"I wasn't that small, but you're right," Soojung had strode away to start browsing through some cups to find one with a ear, "I'm happy to see you again, uncle Jinhee. Do you need a cup for your drink? You've been nursing that soju bottle for a long while now."

He startled, looking down at the bottle in his hand - it was true that he'd absently been shuffling around the house, avoiding most of the celebration even despite the drink he'd picked up. He nodded silently, and watched Soojung dispense ice from the cooler in her room to slide it over to him.

"What are you up to now, then? Still studying?" he ventured, before grimacing to himself (gods, he really was getting old, and if it didn't highlight how he was as old as her father, this would've), "I'd assume you'd be inheriting Hangjo once you were of age."

"Nuh-uh," Soojung had sat back down, propping a sketchbook on her lap as she pulled her legs up to hug her knees to start drawing, "Graduated, but teaching art at a small art studio for now. Umma said that I can do whatever I wanted, and that's fine by me."

Interesting. Did they never bring up inheritance? "Your grandfather seemed to beg to differ. Though I suspect he never expected the daughter he looked down on to inherit," he admitted, relaxing slightly knowing he was talking to someone who understood what she meant, "He did enjoy his parties. It was a show of force, to remind people who truly were in control of the government."

"They were loud and boring," Soojung shrugged, even as her eyes followed the papers she was working on, "Do you still do woodworking? I know what happened - I think it would be sad to give up on your craft."

"Life doesn't give you a choice," Jinhee's response was bitter - but when her earnest stare fell upon him once again, he sighed and rested his hands on the cup's side, "I could try. What are you looking for? I should try to get my hands busy too."

"A penguin," Soojung's reply was thoughtless, all while she continued to sketch something unseen.

"Still?" Jinhee scoffed, reaching into his pouch to pull out some whittling tools and a small block of wood, "I should say that I'm surprised here, but I really shouldn't be."

"You've changed, but not really," Soojung's tone remained quiet, almost a nonsequitor punctured by the quiet scratching of her piece of charcoal against the canvas, "There was always a sadness in your eyes. It grew more profound - like appa's did when he began to get depressed - but I see hope in them too now."

Jinhee stiffened, abruptly straightening his posture at the incisive comment. Truly she was Lee Changjoon's crotch spawn, being able to so quickly read people without being entirely offensive doing so. At his silence, Soojung sighed dramatically and dusted the canvas off with her hand, reaching for her eraser to make some edits.

Partway through his whittling, Jinhee had abruptly realised that he'd been roped into an impromptu art trade. Crafty bitch, he'd muttered to himself (was this Lee Yeonjae's handicraft, having a child that seemed almost childishly innocent but trapped people into doing what she wanted?), but he'd by then made a basic shape of a bird, and there was no way he could turn the wood back into a block.

His hands ached and whined, unable to do the complex motions he'd once been so used to. Even then, he persisted, unwilling to transmute a perfect penguin figurine for this woman - if she had to work her part of the trade out, he would too. It had been some time before he had made a crude image of the penguin she was looking for, and once he was done refining the rough edges, Soojung had returned bearing her sketchbook in front of her chest.

"Yay," she cheered, plucking the figurine out of his hands, "I'm going to paint them with acrylics and lacquer. They can live with the rest of my penguins on a shelf, I'd be sure to let them know who made them! Also, here you go."

The paper held his own face - staring off to the side, with every detail clearly outlined despite the stylisation. Even the beaded sections of the strings holding his glasses in place had been carefully added, and he hid a quiet smile to himself. How vile, the way he seemed like now, but who was he to refuse a gift he'd been suckered into accepting?

"Thank you," he managed, rolling the paper up gently with his stiff hands, "I didn't know you enjoyed art trades."

"No, thank you," Soojung returned, placing the penguin on her desk, "I haven't gotten a wooden penguin yet, so I'm happy to receive one! Maybe one day I can make my own penguins through crafting. I've been trying out clay, but that hasn't been working out."

"I work with clay very often. If you want to come by, I can probably show you how to mold a basic one," he found himself offering, before Soojung turned towards the door at the knock.

He watched her exchange conversation with an unseen person before leaving the room - and from the ajar door stood Lee Yeonjae, though visibly dressed down for the quiet occasion and seeming quietly relaxed seeing him.

"Yeonjae," managed Jinhee, eyeing her with curiosity as he continued to sit with the paper in his hands.

"Jinhee," Yeonjae's reply was clipped but seemed almost relieved in some way, "Thanks for keeping Soojung company. I was concerned about what she was up to."

She trotted over, casually pushing one of the penguin cushions aside to take a seat. "When Jangil mentioned inviting you, I was surprised. I didn't think you'd come," admitted Yeonjae, almost in an act of vulnerability, "Happy Chuseok. I hope I've been a good host."

The unspoken apology hung in that balance. "What would Woojin think of me sitting here, cordially chatting with you after everything," he quipped, immediately on the defensive, "Life is fleeting. I've wasted enough time - and you two aren't the subject of my anger. You know why I resent her."

"She's still my friend," Yeonjae sighed, almost like he was forcing her into making a choice, "Don't worry - we've done our house-hopping this year. This is a quiet gathering meant for Soojung primarily, since she doesn't like the ones Father used to host. Better for us anyway."

Jinhee didn't pursue the matter. It was Chuseok after all. "Thank you for inviting me," he managed stiffly, glancing around the room, "I'm...at least relieved Prosecutor-General Lee is unscathed. It always remains refreshing to cross swords with you both in an official capacity."

Yeonjae seemed to relax at this, like a load had been eased from her shoulders. "I'm glad you're not bringing professional hostility into this. And...welcome to the family, if you intend to stay on," she continued, though the gossamer smile she had hid an edge of malice, "I won't abide by anything that befalls Jangil. You should know that."

"I don't intend to," Jinhee smiled a secret smile to himself, quietly victorious despite the threat, "I however intend to make myself comfortable - so, thank you for welcoming me in."

"Great," Yeonjae's smile did not waver as she gestured to them to both leave, "I hope you find what you need here with us then."

An implicit threat - he would never be freed from Hangjo no matter where he fled. He understood now why Young Iljae's daughter had appeared here, and with a sneer, he joined her.

#tadprompts #continental crusher #borderline confidante #just vibing and writing #electrified apprentice

3 notes · View notes