Never thought I would see the day that I would actually be receiving requests, but since I am I figured I would give an official record of things I am interested in writing/will write and what I'm less inclined to!
What I write:
✎ Oneshots, self-determined aus, and the occasional sequel
✎ Genres like fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slice of life, etc
✎ R18+ material when I'm feeling adventurous
✎ Requests when they catch my fancy
✎ Combo requests
✎ Characters of my choice when I feel comfortable with my grasp of them!
What I don't:
✎ Multi-chapter fics, sequels (for the most part)
✎ Genres like cheating, noncon, dead dove, and any form of "-cest"
✎ I don't write for all characters!
✎ Headcanons, they just aren't inspiring for me and I would rather write a oneshot. Join a mutual community and you may see me drop a random list of them sometimes though!
My posting will be limited to 1-2 times a week MAX due to my intense course load, so please be patient~
Requests are currently [ closed ] any existing requests will be answered at my discretion and inspiration. Kiss mommy goodbye, she’s switching over to the dark side (Lord of the Mysteries)
Thank you for all the love and support on my work up to this point! 💋
genre: medically induced nonsense, fluff, sfw, take it easy on me guys I’ve been out of practice and wrote this in a state of sleep-deprivation
summary: you didn’t intentionally try to kill him, but his medical maladies work in mysterious ways
wc: 1k
It was rare for you to be rendered speechless, a sentiment even more profound when applied to your dearest companion who now had his back to you, slender shoulders hunched awkwardly over the kitchen sink.
The running faucet was enough to drown out the dialogue of the documentary you had been half-watching, but not enough to ease the gnaw of embarrassment settling so deeply in your gut it made your insides flip unpleasantly. You were truly dumbfounded as you shuffled to his side, leaning your hip against the counter as your hand trailed gently across his back in some odd but hopefully soothing manner, eyes staring down the little metal canister wrapped in red plastic still firm in his grip.
“I’m sorry,” your tone was forlorn as the events of the last few minutes replayed in your mind.
As a fellow long-term HSO member, you and Asaba Harumasa were not strangers. Sure, you worked in opposing sections that didn’t always see eye to eye, but deep-rooted rivalries were never really your thing. He had always been cordial and you found his humor pleasant, solidifying your status rather effectively as friends.
Perhaps you had been toeing some social line of professional relationship-death for a while now and intentionally ignored it, the lines between casual conversation blurring with good-hearted flirtation. Standing a little closer than is conventionally acceptable, subtle brushes of your hands under tables or in crowded elevators, the one time you swore he was leaning in to kiss you just to pause and sneeze over your shoulder with an apologetic grin.
But….you weren’t looking to be the reason the entire section got a lecture on romantic relationships with coworkers, and from what you had pieced together from various late-night snack runs and early coffee escapades he wasn’t looking for anything past a casual friendship.
Just friends.
Friends. Only.
Friends that do friendly things like having meals and watching movies together on the weekends, or making out like horny teenagers on the couch.
You doubted it was anything as superficial as blaming it on the “mood” of the situation. There was nothing remotely enticing about a documentary on the camouflage methods used by octopi, and you weren’t the image of eroticism in your baggy sweats and H.A.N.D bootcamp crewneck sweatshirt.
Unless he was just into that kind of thing, which you still held your reservations about despite the way your cheeks flushed with warmth at the recollection of exchanged sloppy, open-mouthed kisses and wandering hands that made your heart race and your head dizzy.
He was an embarrassingly good kisser, or maybe it was the combination of his teeth nipping your lower lip and his cold fingertips teasing your skin with fleeting touches that sent a shudder of anticipation down your spine.
You know, before his breathing grew harsh and he broke away wheezing with futile, short bursts.
His attitude was shockingly nonplussed despite the way his brow drew tight in frustration. He seemed much less bothered by how things had transpired than you were as you tried to jump to his aid with little success as he kindly—yet firmly—redirected your efforts in favor of rifling through the spare drawer in his kitchen.
Nothing screams “blossoming romance” like a couple hits off an emergency inhaler after all.
The tension had grown somewhat strange, your hand still awkwardly patting his back as he rinsed the sterile taste of medicine off his tongue, your mind racing for some way to salvage the moment before settling unceremoniously into your favored deflection skill.
“I, uh, didn’t mean to take your breath away.”
The words slipped off your tongue before your mind fully processed them, your brain jarring itself with surprise at the ridiculous nature of what had just passed your lips as you forced an awkward laugh.
His body tensed under your hand as he shut the faucet off, head whipping in your direction as his eyes narrowed with faux suspicion, tap water still dripping from his chin.
“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting you to try to suck the life out of me either—ow!”
You reflexively swatted his arm, the salacious nature of his phrasing not lost on you.
“Don’t be crass, Asaba.” You chided, hand retracting as you crossed your arms and half-turned away from him. Your lips drew into a thin line for a silent moment, thumbs brushing absently over the peeling fabric of your well-worn shirt.
“Are you alright?”
You swore he snorted under his breath, his lungs sounding clearer despite the light warble to his voice as he wiped off the end of his inhaler before tossing it back in the drawer.
“You hurt me, you think a little asthma attack is enough to keep me down?” His mirthful tone relaxed, voice lowering gently as he shifted to your side, body warm against your side as your shoulders pressed together.
His words were laced with the same molten honey that burned behind enviously dark lashes as he canted his head back into your line of sight, pale cheeks glowing with a softened, boyish grin that left his pronounced canines teasing the plush vermillion of his lower lip. His fingertips were cold and ticklish as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.
“I’m fine, so don’t worry about a thing.”
The way your eyes fluttered briefly from his eyes to his lips before shying away wasn’t lost on him as you cursed your needy and perverse mind for even considering how kissable he looked when his gaze warmed as invitingly as it did. You practically deprived him of oxygen mere minutes ago, this was not a normal response but who was to blame you when his fingers guided your chin back in his direction, his nose mere millimeters from your own as his wild hair and warm breath tickled your face.
You sucked in a breath, fleshy cheek pinched between your molars as his soft grin turned devilish.
“You got me good the first time,” he teased, head tilting ever so slightly as the space between you rapidly diminished, his lips ghosting playfully over your own.
genre: slice of life in the office hehe, reader works in the surveillance department, part one of “how many fics does it take for ao3 to recognize a tag”, this is super niche and it shouldn’t be bc he is FINE, also idk anything abt horoscopes, no beta we die like E rank hunters that aren’t sung jinwoo
summary: he thinks horoscopes are bullshit, but you find them to be the spice of life
wk: 2.4k
It was his birthday.
Truly just any other day according to his calendar, he didn’t deign to circle it in red pen like it was some great accomplishment to have been born into the world. Just a blank square printed in black ink, the date burnished in matching block lettering under some ridiculous picture of kittens that changed with the month (it was a new years gift and he was not so proud to not use a functional gift even if it was given for laughs).
Just as every year previously there would be no mystical sign of good will: his coffee would taste just as bitter and laden with a plastic aftertaste from a cheap coffeemaker, his meetings would still drag by painfully slow, and the weather wouldn’t miraculously clear up and render him feeling silly for carrying an umbrella in with him today.
Just another twenty-four hour cycle, a drop in the bucket of a year.
He hadn’t even turned his computer monitor on before you sauntered into his office, pausing just a foot into the door to rap your knuckles against the frame for good measure. There was a newspaper tucked under your arm, your purse still dangling from the crook of your elbow.
“Goodmorning, manager!”
The daily ritual had begun in earnest with your arrival. It hadn’t been an existing routine of much note prior to you being hired into the Surveillance department a little over a year and a half ago, he simply arrived early and began working on extraneous paperwork that would otherwise force him to clock out late (which was unacceptable in his book). He had exactly forty-five minutes of quiet to get as much work done as possible, then the first of the others would begin to filter in and take their seats until the office grew to buzz with life.
It was a sacred moment of peace until you took the habit of arriving early as well…just not to accomplish any work. You said it was your “self-help” time to formulate your “daily affirmations”, but that was absolute bullshit and he called you on it as soon as he had gathered ample evidence.
For example, you would stow your purse and kick back at your desk perusing the newspaper you bought on the way to work which based on the title was more of a tabloid laden with cheap gimmicks and a hearty coupon section. Then of course there were your “daily affirmations”, sticky notes pasted to the edges of your monitor that were more like to-do and not-to-do notes based on your mood or observations of coworkers.
You weren’t even the slightest bit ashamed when he passed your desk and paused just to read aloud that you should “really ask Manager Woo what hair product he uses because his hair always looks so shiny.”
He would never admit that he was more mortified by it than you, as your face simply lit up as you swiveled in your chair to face him and ask, “So what is your secret, manager?”
He gave up after that, integrating you into his morning routine wordlessly, or at least he attempted to before you decided that he may also be in need of some of your “self-help” in the form of the daily horoscopes finished off with a coupon clipped from the centerfold usually for some cheap noodle place or a supermarket.
The only reason you even knocked on his door anymore was because he scolded you for it once, your mood terribly lax as you unceremoniously flopped into the chair across from his desk, the newspaper snapping to attention.
“Will you tell me what your birthday is today, or shall I read you all the predictions?”
“You could skip reading them at all today.”
You flipped the paper down momentarily over your lap. “But if I did that you would certainly be crawling with curiosity before lunch break.”
“Doubtful,” he countered, not sparing you a glance as he typed something on his computer, “if you aren’t to be swayed then by all means, continue.”
Your smug expression was hidden behind a thin veneer of black and white print as you dutifully began to share the horoscope of the day. It was largely as droll as the weather, many struggling to find the light at the end of the theoretical tunnel as it quickly began to sound more like you were unearthing a curse. It seemed even your lauded astrologer could have bad days, or maybe they just anticipated hating the whole world except the very select few whose birthdays happened to align within the weeks around his own.
You groaned loudly, head flopping over the backrest of your chair. “What a downer, looks like luck isn’t on my side today.” Your head rolled up just enough to peer across the space at him, “Any auspicious wishes coming your way, manager?”
He shook his head. One white lie couldn’t hurt you, even if it crossed his mind that you would be fuming all day at his luck that on the one bad day he had managed to walk out of it unscathed according to this cheap newspaper horoscope. What you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you in this case, but what you did know certainly seemed to have a tangible effect.
The horoscope was like the tip of an iceberg, or the event that triggered a butterfly effect. He blamed it first on the weather, half the department slogging in soaked from the rain and late by fifteen minutes. Then the power flickered and crashed all the computers on the floor, the elevator got stuck between floors, and another woman broke a heel.
The mood of the office was quickly deteriorating, your expression souring with each passing hour before you declared to him at lunch that the day was unsalvageable. He simply took it as proof that your ridiculous horoscopes were horseshit, whatever auspiciousness meant to shine down on him like a blessing from the heavens was out the window with the first incident of the day, the office more like a runaway train than a well oiled machine.
He hadn’t seen the department clear out as quickly as it did today, everyone anxiously watching the clock so they could abandon ship in hopes of a better day tomorrow. He would be a liar if he claimed he didn’t wish for a quiet evening himself, he didn’t consider himself a control freak but the organized chaos of the day had rendered him feeling like one from the mounting migraine he could feel throbbing behind his eyes.
Maybe he should write to that stupid newspaper you liked and tell them to fire that astrologer, as he found himself wishing to blame them for the foul luck that had rolled back onto him.
Speaking of that cursed paper, it now hung limply from your fingertips, waterlogged pages dripping down onto the tiles where you stood by the entrance door to the Hunters Association. Your brow was drawn in frustration as you paced back and forth speaking to someone on the phone before you ended the call with a huff.
“Oh hey manager, heading home for the night?”
Your tone was laced with poorly masked irritation, cheek drawn between your teeth. It wasn’t often that you got worked up like this, an admirable trait considering the strain of your job.
He nodded, eyes darting to his car in the parking lot, the downpour of rain shielding in a sheen of gloomy grey.
“I’m surprised you’re still here.” He noted, watching your expression shift uncomfortably for a moment as you let out an awkward laugh.
“Yeah my uh, car won’t start.”
How this would be something that would render you embarrassed was beyond him, but perhaps it was just your exhaustion getting the better of you as you shuffled in place and toyed with your phone.
“I called for a rideshare service but they said it will be an hour because of the rain, so I won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
A sigh blew through your lips. “What rotten luck.”
Rotten luck attributed to a rotten day based on the rotten assumptions of some person who made up a fortune for the day. You were lucky he was a generous manager, even luckier that he was feeling spiteful over the ridiculous nature of the day and determined to make you question your choice in reading material.
“Would you like a ride home?”
You perked up immediately.
It was a short walk to his car, slightly longer when dodging the standing water that puddled in deceptively shallow appearing pools. The rain thundered against the canvas of his umbrella, your body warm where you pressed close to his side to fit beneath it compared to the cold chill of water that soaked his opposing shoulder as he favored keeping you covered.
You thanked him profusely as he opened the passenger door for you, sliding into the front seat. Your mood had managed to shift dramatically in the time it took for him to round the car and join you, your face sheepish.
“I am so sorry.” You squeaked, earning a raised brow before you presented your sin before his eyes.
His sunglasses were cradled in your presented palms, the frame bent and one lens cracked down the middle. His hand quickly patted the breast pocket of his jacket as if surprised that his glasses weren’t nestled within it. He had pulled them from his pocket this very morning and tossed them into the passenger seat without second thought convinced he wouldn’t need them on such a dreary day.
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
But it was obviously not fine because now you felt like you had intruded too far into his space and were wishing to be incinerated where you sat from the shame of crushing his sunglasses under your ass after he had been kind enough to offer you a ride home.
You further wished to die when he opened your door for you once you arrived, shielding you from the rain all the way to the entrance to your building. God, this horoscope was really kicking your ass in the worst way, and you had no lucky stars to even dream of thanking.
“Thank you again, Sir. And I’m really sorry about your glasses.”
He huffed, expression as stoic as ever, more miffed that you refused to drop the issue at hand. “Don’t worry about it, I can always buy another pair.”
“Here, before you go,” you fished a slip of paper from your purse as you pressed it into his palm. A coupon for a fried chicken restaurant from the newspaper insert, the edges crumbled from being in your bag. “Forgot to give you this earlier, hopefully it brings you a little luck today.”
He thanked you as he put it in his pocket, knowing he would certainly forget it there in favor of just showering and calling it a night, bidding you farewell as you parted ways.
Just as expected, his birthday was little more than a dreary day of underwhelming circumstance. Leftovers for dinner, whatever tv program he set to record failed to air from a power outage, a new suit to add to the stack for dry cleaning. He congratulated himself on another year of keeping his expectations low, and cursed that his tolerance to alcohol was high as the single beer he let himself have on a weeknight wasn’t nearly enough to ease the stress of the day from his shoulders before bed.
Delightfully forgettable, a single day in a grueling week of little import. Or at least he was under the impression that it was until he came back from lunch break a few days later to a small case sitting on the edge of his desk, a highlighter pink sticky note that looked suspiciously like the ones decorating your desk pasted on top of it.
He knew immediately what the case was, having thrown away an identical one a few nights prior after you broke his sunglasses on accident (the same glasses which he suspiciously couldn’t find any evidence of in his car after the fact). What he didn’t know was how the hell you figured it out, your curling script wishing him a belated birthday in black ink.
Woo Jinchul was not the manager of the surveillance department for no reason. He was a problem solver, that much you knew for sure the moment he rapped his knuckles against your desk when you returned from lunch and told you that you needed to have a talk. You genuinely thought you had done something wrong, as did all your coworkers based on the grim expression he wore as he told you to shut the door behind you as you entered his office.
“Who told you?”
You were practically perched on the edge of your seat. “Who told me what?”
“Who told you that it was my birthday?”
The conversation was oddly intense for such a dull topic to be the subject. Your eyes drifted to the side as your face pinched in a strange fashion. “You mentioned it in passing.”
His fingers drummed on the surface of his desk for a moment. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Your shoulders slumped. “I know, but I’m sworn to secrecy so I really can’t tell you.”
“So the Chairman told you then.”
“What, no—“
“You can drop the defense. He’s the only one who tries to make a big deal out of it.”
You propped your cheek into your palm, a halfhearted, “but you’re making a big deal out of it too,” muttering from between your lips.
“I don’t want it to be a big deal, because it isn’t one. So this conversation,” he plucked your pink sticky note off his desk and crumbled it up in his fist before dropping it into the trashcan, “never happened. You’re dismissed.”
You discreetly rolled your eyes as you stood from your seat, sauntering to the door before you paused, door cracked half open as you glanced at him over your shoulder. He was right to be wary of the dangerous look in your eye, as you both were keenly aware of the level of voice projection required to keep conversations private in the crowded space.
“Hey Manager Woo?”
He winced in anticipation, your tone loud enough to draw the attention of those nearby.
Your grin was wicked. “You smell so good today, what cologne do you wear?”
He pinched his brow between his fingers with a heavy sigh.
“Get out.”
“Of course, Sir,” you hummed as you pushed the door fully open.
“Cute cat calendar by the way.”
His eyes were narrowed on your back as you returned to your desk. You were feeling emboldened based on the fortune of the ridiculous horoscopes you recited for him first thing this morning.
He really should write to that newspaper and get that astrologer fired.
