Welcome to the emotional chaos, slow-burn pining, found family disasters, and the occasional criminal empire. Here’s where to find my major ongoing and completed works!
Disclaimer: my works are purely fictional and not in any way meant to represent those depicted within them
📁 K-pop Mafia AU wip | Yunho x Reader
🗡 Arranged marriage meets slow-burn romance in a world of power, loyalty, and very sharp tailoring. After discovering her late grandmother’s syndicate ties, the reader is offered protection through marriage to Jeong Yunho, head of the Jeong family.
💌 Themes: arranged marriage, emotional intimacy, forced proximity, genre typical violence with consequences, found family chaos, protective!Yunho
❗Rated: E
🔗 Read on AO3 | #silk and sidearms
Chapters: One, Part 1 | One, Part 2 | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
📁 Chimera AU wip | Yunho x Reader
🫖 What begins as a cautious friendship between a quiet human and a warm alpha becomes something deeper and beautifully unspoken. Set in a world where instinct meets intention.
💌 Themes: comfort, slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, trauma recovery, soft alpha energy, gentle trust
❗Rated: M
🔗 Read on AO3 | #something like safe
Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
Oneshot (rated E): Something Like Wanted
📁 Soulmate Pirate AU wip | Hongjoong x Reader
🧭 You were raised to be obedient, beautiful, desirable—anything but free. The sea has always known better. Now you live by its side, charting maps for coin and pretending the tide doesn’t whisper your name.
It all shifts when he arrives—a pirate captain with a soulmark like yours and a cursed ship that sings to your blood.
You thought you’d escaped your fate.
It was only ever waiting.
💌 Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command
❗Rated: M
🔗 Read on AO3 | #tidebound au
Chapters: Prologue | One | Two | Three
📁 Indiana Jones inspired AU | San x Reader
🗺 She’s been his voice in the ear for five years—steady, unseen, and very much in love. He’s a chaos professor with a knack for surviving collapsing tombs and ruining her emotional defenses. Everything works… until she ends up in his classroom, and he starts to recognize her voice.
💌 Themes: secret identity, slow-burn romance, academic tension, emotional pining, rooftop kisses, chaotic tech team support, fieldwork shenanigans, San falls first (hard)
📁 Vampire/Club AU oneshot | Mingi x Reader
🍷 It starts with your friends finally convincing you to go to the club they’ve been on about for weeks.
You didn’t expect Fantasy to be what it was—a supernatural lounge with glamour-laced walls, a no-bloodshed policy, and a bartender with honey-warm eyes and a voice like sin. You certainly didn’t expect him to take the kind of interest he did.
Mingi is trouble in tailored slacks, all easy charm and unapologetic hunger. You know better than to get involved.
Then again… maybe the sweetest encounters are the ones worth risking getting burned for.
💌 Themes: flirty bartenders, supernatural elements, upscale club setting, getting together, smut, nosy friends
❗Rated: E
🔗 Read on AO3
📁 Tattoo Shop x Cafe AU wip | Tattooist Mingi x Barista Reader
💘 He came in for coffee. You were just trying to survive your first shift. But from the moment your eyes met—nervous, flustered, already a little gone—it was over.
A slow fall. A shared blush. And one very chaotic crush that’s about to get permanent.
💌 Themes: Instant crush / mutual pining, blushy slow burn, awkward flirting, accidental sincerity, tattoo shop meets coffee shop, found family energy, domestic tenderness, emotional intimacy through physical care, soft boys with scary aesthetics
❗Rated: M
🔗 Read on AO3 | #ink me where you feel it too
Chapters: One |
📁 Pacific Rim au | platonic Yunho x OC (Ash Calder)
🛠 In a world where humanity’s last defense walks on steel legs, two pilots from opposite sides of the world must learn to Drift together. War trauma, found family, and the slow process of becoming something more than compatible.
💌 Themes: war prep, drift strain, haunted calm, broken systems, quiet loyalty, first blood, Jaeger pilots with issues™, complicated male friendships, Kaiju-slaying, drift-induced emotional crises, and soft moments in steel cockpits.
❗Rated: M
🔗 Read on Ao3 | #phase zero catalyst
Chapters: Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six
Extras: Vigil Hammer
🚨 Coming Soon: Pacific Rim AU- Part 2
📁 Phase One: Ghost Protocol | Mingi x Reader
⚠️ After the fall of Icebound Saint and the sacrifice that followed, the world’s survival may rest on a prototype Jaeger and the pair reckless enough to pilot it.
You’re no one’s first choice: a tech and Drift engineer. Mingi is too loud, too loyal, and too wounded to be anyone’s anchor. But the Drift doesn’t care about perception. It cares about resonance.
💌 Themes: second chances, broken soldiers, Drift intimacy, reluctant partnership to ride-or-die, survivor guilt, Jaeger tech mysteries, found family, slow burn with reckless loyalty and protective rage
🔜 Launching: TBD – post-Catalyst arc
💡 Teasers + WIPs tagged #phase one ghost protocol
📌 Tags to Follow:
#silk and sidearms
#something like safe
#tidebound au
#phase zero catalyst
#ink me where you feel it too
#voice in his ear
#oneshot
#Jay writes fanfic
#RoderickPrime
#Jay writes lore (for story extras)
Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command
2.1k words
Taglist: open
Dryness is a sensation you gave up when you came to Stormwind.
The port is perpetually bathed in seamist, woodrot, and treacherously slick cobblestones—each as much a part of the landscape as the people who dwell there. It’s a truly spectacular port—not as grand as your relatives would certainly prefer, but settled, and worn in a delightfully old way. The kind of age that endures.
Stormwind has stood long enough to watch kingdoms change hands, wholly indifferent to whose ass warms the throne. Those who’ve called it home for generations know the truth: themastery of men is little more than playacting in the face of the sea.
Its waters give freely—sustenance, trade, safe passage. Its fury is death.
And for all the court’s posturing, no king will ever rival it in benevolence… or capriciousness.
You walk one of the many docks, the harbor a cacophony of activity. Sailors haul merchandise to and from ships—some familiar faces, some not. Those who don’t know you take one look at your brown trousers and billowing white shirt and let out a low whistle. You’re clearly not one of the wenches who flit about the docks in hopes of securing attention or pay—but a woman in pants is just as likely to be noticed as one with her bosom threatening to spill from her corset.
The crew of the Seadog doesn’t leer or whistle.
They shout warnings, bark at you to move aside as they cart barrels and crates up and downthe slick wooden planks.
One of the many reasons you like sailors: they rarely have the patience for pleasantries.
The captain—a man whose sun-worn face makes him appear older than his thirty years—waits at the top of the gangplank, giving orders. When he spots you, he nods.
“Didn’t have to come all this way, lass. Coulda met ye at the tavern.”
You tilt your head back to look up at him, shifting the strap of your leather satchel with a shrug.
“I heard you had a tight turnaround, Captain. Thought it best to make the delivery.”
The captain waves you up the gangplank without ceremony, stepping aside as you pass. You move quickly, darting up to keep from delaying the crew’s work.
Inside the Seadog’s modest captain’s quarters, you pull the scroll case from your satchel—careful, even though it’s tightly sealed against the damp—and offer it to him with practiced ease.
“Your northern client’s chart,” you say. “Route options, tide overlays, and the hazards I couldmap from your notes. Marked the shifting sandbars in red.”
He takes it with a grunt of thanks, already placing it carefully on his chart table like it’s worth more than gold.
You know it might be. It certainly feels like it when he hands you a heavy purse—the second half of the commission pay.
“Yer wasted on dry land,” he says, not unkindly.
It’s not the first time a hopeful captain has made that sort of comment. You respond as you always do, your expression bland as you put the purse in your bag.
“Dry land pays me in coin,” you reply. “Not rope-burn and salt sores.”
He laughs, then jerks his chin toward the open door.
“Go on, then. Ye’ll have dock rats on yer heels if ye stay long. Or worse—drunken romantics.”
You hum in amusement, stepping out into the daylight again. Back down the gangplank and the dock, onto the mist-slick stones of the harbor proper.
You’re headed back toward the cartographer’s shop when you hear the whistle—the sharp, melodic trill that marks a rendezvous from the waterline. You change direction easily, cutting down a narrower dock that leads toward the older mooring posts—where the deep water curves in close to the pilings, and ships don’t always need sails to reach shore.
You kneel at the edge of the dock, crouched low as a sea-dwelling male surfaces—glossy dark skin, gill-slits twitching just beneath his jaw, golden eyes peering up with a touch of mischief. Inhuman and strangely beautiful, if one ignores the razor teeth peeking out from behind his thin lips.
He clicks softly in greeting, then speaks in that odd, wet voice of his.
“Chart?”
You pass him the sealed scroll, and he tucks it into the leather pouch slung across his chest. Afew coins, a polished shard of bone, and a scrap of weathered vellum change hands in return. It’s always intriguing to see what the sea-dwellers bring to trade. Their sense of value doesn’t quite align with those of the land-dwellers, but the more savvy ones know which shiny or lost baubles to trade for what they want.
You click in gratitude, the sound heavy in your throat, and slip the payment into your satchel. Your muscles tense as you prepare to stand.
A wave strikes the dock.
Sudden. Sharp. Not the slow lap of tide, but a pulse—a rush.
It soaks you.
Water drenches your shirt in a single pass, plastering the thin fabric to your skin from collarto ribs. You hiss, jerking back on instinct, but it's already done.
A compass rose, dark and clear, glares from beneath the wet fabric.
Your client sees it, blinks once—and dips beneath the water without a word.
Gone.
Cursing, you stand, pulling the drenched shirt away from your skin. A nuisance, but you don’t think anything of it. This happens sometimes. The tide pulls oddly near the deeper channels. Scowling, you wring out your shirt, feeling the unpleasant squish of your boots as you stalk back toward the cartographer’s shop.
You don’t notice the man seated on a crate a few piers down. His clothing is ragged and his skin sun-dark, but his eyes are sharp—and fixed on you. His breath catches, and then he slides off the crate and vanishes into the crowd with surprising purpose for a man who smellsof fish and cheap rum.
The cartographer—who might be as old as Stormwind itself—doesn’t look up as you pass. He moves with slow, careful precision, eyes fixed on his work. The same as ever. You can’t say you’re upset by the dynamic—not when privacy is such a rare commodity.
You climb the back stairs to the room above the shop, pushing open the trap door with a dull thud. As soon as it’s closed behind you, you peel your shirt away with a grimace, stripping it off and tossing it into the basin. You’ll need to wash it in fresh water before the salt has achance to stiffen it.
The rest of your clothes follow—pants, undergarments, socks. You shove your boots over next to the fireplace, where a low bed of embers simmers. Fortunately, you shouldn’t need to go out again today.
You wipe yourself off with a towel, then pause—gaze caught by your reflection in the slightly warped mirror above the washbasin, water still dripping down your sternum.
The mark is there.
Always there. Dark as spilled ink and sharp as a blade: the compass rose, etched over your ribs like a brand you never asked for.
You’ve stopped trying to ignore it. But you don’t talk about it, either.
Everyone knows what a soulmark is.
A sign of fate. Of destined bonds. A thread meant to draw you toward another—your other. Most believe in love at first touch. In harmony. In completion.
You’ve never been that romantic.
Your mark appeared when you were ten. Too old for innocence. Too young to understand the weight.
You’d hoped it meant adventure. But your minders were quick to dismiss and hide it. Nobility has little use for soulmarks when an advantageous marriage is in order. Unsightly, they called it. Unnecessary.
By the time you arrived in Stormwind, you had long since stopped paying it any mind. It was just a mark—a rare half of a whole you’d likely never see completed. The world is a wide place, after all. And who knows where the other half is?
You started paying it more mind after a night at the tavern.
You wouldn’t consider yourself friends with the barmaids there, but they seem to like youwell enough. At least enough to tell you a story.
You’ll never forget how the pretty blonde leaned across the bar, speaking in low tones, hereyes alight with excitement.
She told you of a pirate captain, doomed by his own ambition and greed. The master of a ship that never dies. A man who laughs in storms and sleeps with monsters in the hold. A man cursed—and seeking the one fate marked to help him break it.
“He’s looking for her,” the barmaid said, her expression alight. “He’ll know her by thecompass on her skin.”
Something cold curled along your spine at that.
She didn’t notice, giving a dreamy little sigh.
“Isn’t it romantic?”
You haven’t found it romantic in the least.
Knowing it might be the match to a crazed and supposedly cursed pirate makes you miss when it was simply unsightly.
You finish drying off and apply fresh wrappings. Then you reach for your spare shirt—a thinner one, soft from wear but dry and clean. You pull it over your head without fanfare, adjusting the sleeves and collar out of habit. The mark disappears beneath the fabric once more.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
You retrieve a pair of trousers from the hook by the door, pull them on, and pull a threadbare pair of slippers from under the bed. The chill in the air has less bite than it did earlier, but the smell of rain still lingers.
There’s work to do.
You settle back at your worktable near the window, your fingers already reaching for your compass and inkstone. A half-finished chart waits beside you, the edges still curling slightly where the parchment was damp the night before.
You let out a quiet breath and begin to mark a coastal line with slow, practiced care.
The harbor hums below.
The tide rises, quietly.
And somewhere out there, a message is already on its way—carried by a man you never saw, to a captain you’ve never met, about a mark you’ve long since stopped believing in.
But for now, it’s just you, the chart, and the sea.
The bird arrives just before dawn, as the sun kisses the clouds with the first hints of soft blue.
It lands on the railing of the quarterdeck, claws clicking softly against the salt-slick wood. Not a gull or a messenger hawk—but one of his. Lean-bodied, ink-feathered, eyes too knowing for a creature that shouldn’t speak but sometimes does.
It cocks its head at him, then opens its beak.
A scroll slips free—sealed with wax, marked with the crude symbol of one of the informants he pays to watch the edges of the world. The small roll of parchment falls onto the tablebefore him and rocks slightly.
He doesn’t rush.
Hongjoong finishes his tea, slow and deliberate, letting the steam warm his face as the first threads of morning creep across the horizon. Only once the cup is empty does he reach for the message.
He breaks the seal.
Unrolls the paper.
Reads.
Once.
Twice.
Then, slowly, he smiles.
Not the practiced kind—the showman’s grin he wears for tense deals and wary kings. No. This is sharper. Quieter. Almost reverent.
Compass. Female. Port Stormwind. Dockside. Sea-soaked.
His mark begins to burn. A low throb beneath his ribs—like a drumbeat waking up after too long asleep. The ship seems to shift beneath him, as if it, too, has heard something.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
A yes.
He looks out over the water, gaze cutting through the morning mist.
“Three days,” he says aloud. “You’ve been right under my nose.”
Footsteps behind him. Seonghwa steps up to the table, coat dark with dew, hands behind hisback.
“Was it her?”
“It’s her,” Hongjoong replies, folding the message neatly and sliding it into his coat. “At last.”
Seonghwa says nothing for a moment. Then:
“You’ve said that before.”
Hongjoong doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
“I’ve felt her before,” he murmurs. “But this time? The ship stirred when the bird landed. The mark burns like salt on an open wound. And the sea—”
He inhales, long and slow.
“—the sea feels still.”
Not calm. Not forgiving.
Expectant.
Below deck, ropes creak. The Delirium groans softly, like something old and dreaming beginning to wake.
Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command
1.1k words
Taglist: open
You were four the first time you slipped past your nanny’s watchful gaze.
You didn’t leave the estate—not really. Just clambered down the steep embankment to the beach, hands and knees scratched and scuffed, dress torn on bramble and rock. You ran for the sea, wild and unsteady. The sand ate at your steps, soft and slow and sucking at your ankles.
You hardly cared.
The water stretched wide before you—open, endless, promising something far better than stuffy shoes and itchy stockings.
You made it into the surf, laughing as the cold froth soaked through fabric and leather. It felt good, like a splash of freedom on a too-hot summer day.
And you could’ve sworn… you heard a voice in the waves.
“Come, come, come, come.”
Then your nanny’s shriek cut through the wind, and strong arms pulled you back from the tide. You struggled as she scolded you, her words unheard as she dragged you from the beach. The voices faded with the sound of the lapping waves.
The cage followed soon after, high walls and locked doors meant to keep small wandering feet from straying too far. The windows, too, were kept sealed after an attempt to scurry down the creeping vines lining the manor’s walls. When they tried to shutter them, you screamed and wailed until they left them open, just to appease you. You could no longer hear the sea, but you could see it.
It wasn’t enough.
You were seven the first time they made you wear corset stays.
The tailor pricked you six times and clucked every time you flinched. The fabric was brocade—gilded, itchy, stiff enough to stand on its own. You were told it was proper. You were told it would train your posture, your discipline, your beauty.
All you could think was that it made breathing feel like drowning on dry land. And when the maid pulled the ties and enclosed it around you, you were reminded of the death cages you had seen during your last visit to the city.
Later that day, you stole a pair of trousers from the stable boy, climbed a tree by the cliffs, and refused to come down until nightfall. Your minders and the manor guards circled the tree for hours, trying and failing to fetch you down. Time and again they were foiled, unable to reach the heights your smaller form had retreated to.
When your father demanded an apology, you gave him silence.
It wasn’t the first time he hit you—a slap that left a fleeting mark. It wouldn’t be the last.
When you were eleven, your family hosted a visiting scholar. She was there a week—just a week. Her face was wrinkled like old leather and her hands seemed as though they should creak when they moved. She wore a fine dress—without a corset, you noted. She smelled like old books and oranges and showed you how to draw maps by the stars.
You took to it instantly.
The sea had always spoken to you. Now, you were learning to answer back.
You were so often kept from the beach, but not when she insisted she take you to show you the stars over the sea. They catered to her, and she used that favor to give you a bit of freedom.
At night, as she would map the heavens, you’d press your palm into the wet sand and whisper, “Where should I go?”
The tide would rise around your fingers.
You never told anyone.
You were fifteen when they took you to court for the first time—a debutant, they called you.
You were beautiful. Of course you were. They made sure of it.
Your gown shimmered like sunlit foam. Your hair was a masterpiece of curls and lacquer. You smiled just right. You danced just enough. You said nothing of worth. That was the point. You still felt the sting of your father’s hand, fresh enough to serve as a reminder.
One lord asked if you played music. Another if you could embroider. A third asked if your mother had chosen a dowry yet.
Not one asked what you wanted. Nor what you enjoyed. A pretty, delicate flower—admired, but not seen.
You excused yourself during the fifth dance and slipped onto a balcony where the wind smelled of salt. The ocean was miles away, but you could feel it watching.
You whispered, “I hate this.”
And something in the dark whispered back, “Then leave.”
You were eighteen when you heeded that whisper. Three years spent honing your star-reading. They dismissed it as a hobby not quite uncouth enough to garner ire. At least it kept you out of the trees. They didn’t know how the stars whispered of direction. Nor did they know you had learned how to listen to their voices.
You left in the middle of the night.
Not with a dramatic farewell or a tearful letter.
You packed what you could carry, stole a coin pouch from your father’s study, and left through the servant’s gate in a cloak too big for your shoulders.
They would say you were kidnapped. Or disgraced. Or bewitched.
Let them.
You had the stars overhead, salt in your lungs, and sand beneath your boots by dawn. You didn’t know where you were going yet. Only that the sea had called you.
And this time, you answered.
It’s been more than a year since you put your family’s manor behind you with no intention ofreturning. Months since you came to a place called Stormwind, where the sea is a source of life and fear and respect. You live in a room above a cartographer’s shop on the edge of the docks.
The bed is hard. The ceiling leaks when it rains. But the window looks out on the sea, and theair smells like salt and possibility.
You’ve spent the last year learning the shape of wind across canvas sails, the names of passing ships, the way dockhands speak when they’re lying. You chart maps in exchange for coin—some drawn by request, others sold quietly to captains who seek new routes to forgotten places, and some even drawn on cured sealskins from the north and slipped into the hands of creatures with fins rather than legs, who pay you in lost and secrets.
Your hands are calloused from work. Your clothes are plain. Not a thread of embroidery to befound.
And you are free.
Not as the bards sing it—not wild and endless and weightless—but grounded in a life that is earned and real.
No one stops you from listening to the way the sea calls. No one stops you from replying. The wise ones only warn you of its capricious fury.
It’s dark when you finally snuff your lantern, your hands stained with ink and a new chart left drying on the worktable. The quiet is strange, disarming. And it’s only as you settle beneath your blanket that you realize—
Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command
3.8k words
Taglist: @shownumiss @ninjakitty15
You wake stiff and aching, like you fought off the tide itself in your sleep.
The dream clings to your skin—salt-heavy and unwelcome. You scrub your face with cold water, hoping it will wash the memory from your eyes. It doesn’t.
The air is thick with fog again, the kind that eats sound and steals distance. You listen to the city stir below your window: creaking carts, gulls calling, the muffled bark of a dockhand too early to be that angry.
Your new cloak is gone, left behind in your mad scramble through the window. Your skin is bruised from the flight through the city. And your mark—
Still hot. Still quiet.
He’s waiting.
You go about your morning as best you can. Water for your tea. Bread with a scrape of hard cheese. You dress with steady hands, braid your hair tightly, strap your knife into your boot like always.
But there’s a weight pressing between your shoulder blades. The awareness of being seen, even in your own space. You feel it when you reach for your satchel.
You left your last delivery at the tavern, along with the cloak.
That’s coin, gone.
Reputation, damaged.
Routine, cracked.
You curse under your breath. You’ll have to retrieve it. Or salvage what you can.
You’re down the stairs and halfway across the front room when you see it.
The note is tucked neatly between the latch and frame of the shop’s door. Not crumpled. Not rushed. Placed. You still, warily eyeing it. Then you crack the door just enough to pull it free, eyes scanning the street.
Nothing. Not even the pirate from the night before.
The paper is clean. Folded with precision. No name. Just a compass rose inked on the front in elegant, practiced lines.
Your fingers hesitate. Then you unfold it.
A location. A time.
The tavern.
No tricks.
No chase.
Not a demand.
An invitation.
You close the note, fingers pressing along the creases to fold it again. The compass rose glares up at you in stark black- your mark. His mark. The symbol of that thread of fate that binds you. How often has he traced it to be able to reproduce it so well?
It doesn’t matter.
You don’t sigh. You don’t panic. You simply set your jaw and lock the door behind you.
He knows where you live. He knows where you run. And now, he wants you to walk.
You don’t know yet if you’ll go. But you do know one thing:
He won’t stop until you answer.
You scuttle back up to your room, shoving the note into your pocket. It’s halted your plans, delayed you as you work to accept this new development. His move on the proverbial chess board.
The tavern. No tricks. No chase.
Just… a time. An offer.
You pace the room once. Twice. Then stop, arms folded tightly over your chest. It’s not that you’re afraid. You’ve dealt with threats before. Men with too much coin and too little sense. Noble sons with entitlement in their mouths and cruelty on their tongues. You've stood your ground against storms and smugglers and sleet.
But this?
This is different. Because he is different.
The stories say he’s mad. That he doesn’t age. That his ship never anchors for long. That he once bargained with a sea god and won.
Or lost.
You’ve heard whispers that his crew are shadows. That his blade sings when it tastes blood. That no woman has ever refused him and walked away unchanged. You’d dismissed it as tavern fodder. Superstition. Romance-drunk nonsense.
And yet.
He chased you. Hunted you. Cornered you. And smiled like he already knew how it would end.
Still, you’re not afraid of him. You’re afraid of what he means. Of what the mark means. Of what it would mean to go.
Your gaze falls on the corner of your worktable. The map you’d left half-finished is still there. Unrolled. Waiting. Like everything else in your life.
You sit beside it slowly. Not to resume your work. Just… to breathe.
You press your fingers to the edge of the parchment. The lines blur for a moment, unfocused through the sheen behind your eyes.
And then, quietly, you reach for your knife. You don’t take the large one. Just the narrow-bladed one with it’s thigh sheath, easily hidden under the folds of your cloak.
You strap it into place.
You haven’t decided if you’re going yet. But if you do, you won’t go unarmed.
You smooth your shirt. Rebraid your hair. Check your boots. And then you sit back down and wait.
The clock ticks. The city stirs. The mark beneath your ribs begins to warm again.
Not a burn.
Just a heartbeat.
The tavern is busier than the last time.
Voices rise and fall over half-finished drinks and steaming bowls of stew. A fiddle plays somewhere near the hearth—too fast, too bright. Rain slicks the windows from where the stormhead finally broke, making the lanternlight glow soft and uncertain. It’s lunch time, but it may as well be evening under the darkness of the clouds outside.
You find him too easily. He sits in the back corner, where the shadows curl just enough to be intentional.
Black coat. Boots polished to a high gleam. Silver rings on every finger. A chain at his throat, glinting beneath the open collar of his shirt.
He hasn’t ordered food. Just a glass of something amber-gold and expensive. He doesn’t drink it.
He waits.
When you enter, you don’t pause at the threshold. You should. Your instincts tell you to. But if you hesitate, he wins something—and you’ve already lost too much ground.
So you walk in like you belong. Like you’re here for a drink and not to stare your soulmarked in the face. Your old cloak sways gently behind you, dusty and patched. Your knife is tucked in its hidden place. Your pulse roars in your throat, thunder-heavy.
You feel his eyes before you see him. They drag along your shoulders like a tide pulling at your bones.
He doesn’t move when you approach. He just watches—and smiles when you stop at the table.
“Mapmaker,” he says, all velvet and danger.
You don’t sit. Not yet.
“Captain.”
His smile sharpens at the title. No denial. No correction.
He gestures to the empty seat across from him with two fingers—lazy, confident, like he already knows you’ll accept.
You glance at it. Then at him. Then back at the door.
One exit. One you. One him.
You sit. Slowly.
He watches every inch of the motion with the care of a man cataloguing a star chart.
“Thank you for coming,” he says.
You fold your hands on the table, still inkstained and plain. Especially in comparison to his gaudy decoration.
“I haven’t decided if I’m staying.”
He laughs, low and warm. Like thunder rumbling just beneath the horizon.
“Fair enough.”
For a moment, neither of you speak. Then:
“You left something behind,” he says, reaching onto the chair beside him.
Your scroll case, cushioned by your new storm-grey cloak. Untouched. Returned without damage. He sets them in the space between you, tapping the case once. You look at it. Then him.
“That’s not why I came.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it makes a good excuse.”
The moment holds.
You should leave. You should want to leave, but you don’t.
Not yet.
Because even as your mark burns—even as his smile sends ice and fire through your spine—you want to know what he’ll say next.
He lets your belongings sit between you like a peace offering. You don’t touch them. Your fingers drum lightly against the wood grain of the table. Not impatient. Just steady. You’re still deciding if this is a negotiation or a trap.
Hongjoong watches with interest.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
“Pity.”
That makes him smile again—wider this time.
“I didn’t say I was disappointed.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You chased me across the city.”
“I walked,” he counters. “You ran. Beautifully, I might add.”
“You still chased.”
“I still caught up.”
Your jaw tightens. You don’t rise. But your hand shifts slightly toward the knife at your thigh. His gaze drops to the movement.
“I didn’t bring anyone,” he says. “They’re nearby, yes. But they know better than to interfere.”
You don’t respond.
“You’ve earned that,” he adds, quieter now. “The space. The control. You ran like someone who’s had to.”
You flinch—just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice. But he sees, you can tell from the way he tilts his head just slightly. And then he chooses not to press it.
He sits back a little, folding his hands in front of him. The rings on his fingers catch the light.
“I’m not here to force you onto my ship,” he says. “I’m not here to drag you anywhere.”
You say nothing. He laughs again, a soft, wry thing.
“You don’t believe that.”
“I believe people who don’t want something,” you say flatly, “don’t chase.”
He nods.
“I do want something,” he admits. “I want to talk. I want to know who you are. What you are.”
Is that what this is? Some strange attempt to get to know you? The work of a man desperate to complete his soulmark?
You stare at him. “You already know.”
“No,” he says, and this time, there’s nothing playful in it. “I know your mark. I don’t know you.”
You look at him for a long moment. At his coat. His hands. His eyes.
He doesn’t look like a madman.
He looks like the eye of a storm—centered, still, and full of teeth.
“What if I don’t want to be known?” you ask.
“Then you won’t be,” he says simply. “But I’ll still try.”
You sit with that. Not because you trust him, but because he hasn’t lied yet. Because the mark beneath your ribs has stopped burning.
It hums, now. Low. Soft. Like a sea current—constant, inevitable.
He tilts his head.
“There’s a place I saw yesterday,” he says. “Safe. Neutral. No sails. No crew.”
You eye him carefully.
“Neutral ground, you said.”
He gestures loosely to the space around you, catching your line of thought instantly.
“This place has history,” he says. “Yours, not mine.”
You glance toward the bar. The barkeep is pretending not to watch. A few regulars shoot you cautious glances between sips. The old dog by the hearth hasn’t moved, but its ears flick toward your table every now and then.
“Hm. Smart,” you murmur.
“Rarely appreciated,” he replies, smiling faintly. “But while I thought public would be… wiser, I do hope you’ll be considerate enough to afford me the same benevolence.”
You narrow your eyes. “If I screamed right now…”
“Someone would probably punch me in the jaw.”
You don’t smile. But you don’t leave, either.
“And you’d deserve it.”
He inclines his head. “Likely.”
A long moment passes. He doesn’t press. You don’t bolt.
“…Alright. Where is the place?”
The captain smiles, eyes crinkling.
“That crumbling old church on the outskirts. Do you know it?”
Of course you do. You doubt anyone who has spent any significant time in Stormwind doesn’t know the old church. Rumors surround the place like a collection of swooping bats. You’re fairly certain it was simply abandoned when the newer, larger church was built- not that the ghosts of priests past had cursed it, no matter what the fishwives say.
You nod.
“Excellent. Meet me there in an hour. I’ll provide food. Something less…questionable,” he shoots a dry look at a nearby sailor, who pokes at his stew with a mildly concerned frown.
You wonder if he’ll be bringing his crew as well. You don’t voice that thought, only stand and collect your things.
You leave the tavern without looking back.
The scroll case rests under your arm, the new cloak draped over your shoulders in place of the old one. The mark beneath your ribs thrums with every step—not painful, not urgent. Just present. A reminder.
Rain spatters gently from the sky as you cut across the square, weaving through the midday bustle like a ghost. You don’t stop at home. You don’t stop anywhere. Not with his words still circling your thoughts like gulls over churning water.
The old church isn’t terribly far, but you take the long route anyway. Down alleys that smell of ash and wet stone. Past shuttered stalls and crooked lamp posts still strung with faded festival ribbons. Fog hangs low—soft as breath and just as smothering.
You catch sight of one of his men beneath an awning, accepting a hot drink from a stall proprietor. He doesn’t smile when she hands it over—just nods his thanks. His eyes meet yours for a brief moment. Awareness, but not the intensity you expected. Watching. Not chasing.
It only makes you feel a little better.
When you finally reach the church, it’s exactly as you remember—if not worse.
The gates hang crooked on rusted hinges. Ivy chokes the stone façade, winding through cracks that spiderweb across the foundation. The bell tower lists slightly to one side, the upper window broken and left unrepaired. One of the stained glass panels near the entrance has shattered completely, leaving jagged edges like broken teeth.
A shame. You would’ve hoped someone had the intelligence to strip and sell the expensive panes.
The building shouldn’t be standing. But it is.
You hesitate at the threshold, wondering if the stories about hauntings came from the silence… or the people who sought it out when no one else would.
The wooden doors hang slightly ajar. No guards. No lock. No sign. You could turn back.
You don’t.
You step through the arch, the wood groaning softly under your hand, and cross the threshold into a place forgotten by gods and men alike.
Something inside you shifts. The mark beneath your ribs hums with a quiet, patient thrum. He’s coming. Not here yet. But soon.
You settle on one of the fallen beams inside and wait.
Your eyes drift over the dusty interior—long stripped of anything valuable. Even the wall arches stand empty, only stone bases suggesting statues once stood within them.
Why here? Why call this neutral ground?
Maybe he saw something you didn’t. Maybe he just likes old churches.
The creak of the gate outside draws your attention. You stand, moving back to the door.
Hongjoong approaches at a leisurely pace, eyes sweeping the ruin’s façade with quiet interest. A sack hangs from his hand—the kind the café uses for take-away orders.
He was following you closely the last few days, then. Close enough to know where you enjoyed having lunch.
You open the door fully as he nears, stepping back in silent invitation.
He doesn’t enter. He pauses on the crumbling step just outside and looks at you, rain clinging to his lashes like silver.
The tavern meeting went better than expected. No storming out. No shattered glass. No blade drawn—though he’d seen it, and meant to ask later where she learned to use it.
She’d spoken. Questioned. Met him eye for eye. And, most importantly, she had listened.
She was every bit the storm the bond promised. Sharp as lightning on the sea, steady as a tide line, and just as likely to pull him under.
He’d watched her leave with her shoulders square, her expression unreadable, her presence still lingering in the air like salt. He hadn’t followed. Didn’t need to. She would come.
And if she didn’t? The pull would only get stronger. Until she ached just as badly as he did, following that pull with a desperation known to only a few.
He didn’t return to the ship, not with only an hour until their next meeting. He stood outside the tavern for a time, watching the rain, feeling the way the curse tugged at the edges of his mark. A pull back toward the Delirium, a demand for his return. He wondered if she had felt it yet—if the ship’s nearness, and her tie to him, had introduced her to that dark pull.
He’d gone to the café just after the lunch rush and traded three coins for a hot meal wrapped in linen and wax paper. The staff had offered wine. He declined. He didn’t want her to think this was a seduction. It wasn’t.
It was something far more dangerous.
By the time he reaches the church, the rain has softened to mist, the sky smeared in bruised grey. Fog clings to moldering gravestones. The crumbling structure looms ahead, more ruin than holy ground, half-forgotten by time.
He sees her silhouette near the door, drawn by the creak of the rusted gate. She’s already here, waiting. Good.
He tightens his grip on the parcel of food and ascends the steps.
One. Two. Three.
Then—
He stops.
The threshold yawns before him like an open mouth. Nothing visible bars his way. No magic circle. No warding glyphs. Just old wood and worn stone.
And still… he cannot pass.
His boot pauses just shy of the doorway.
Something presses against him—soft, but immovable. Like the weight of deep water. Like breath caught in the lungs. The curse winds up his spine and tugs—quiet, invisible, absolute.
Not here, it says. Not this place.
The pull to the Delirium yanks once—hard. A warning. A tether straining.
Hongjoong breathes out slowly. Looks up. She stands just inside, watching, the door held open for him.
How polite of her.
His smile is faint—wry, almost. “As holy as expected.”
He doesn't step forward. Doesn’t try to force it. The curse has its rules, and one of them is clear: he does not go where he is not welcome. And the houses of the gods no longer welcome him.
So instead, he stays at the edge. One step below her. One breath removed. Close, but not touching. Just like the dream.
You stare at him from just within the doorway, the old hinges groaning faintly under your hand.
He doesn’t try to step forward. Doesn’t ask why you haven’t come out. He just… stands there, a breath below the threshold. Calm. Composed. So very sure of himself.
Until he glances at the worn stone steps beneath his feet and says, with a quiet tilt of his head, “Would you join me out here?”
Your brow furrows. Not in suspicion—well, not entirely—but in confusion. The church looms behind you, crumbling and still. There’s no obvious danger here. Nothing overtly magical. It certainly provides better protection from the misting rain.
And yet he hasn’t crossed the doorway.
“Why?” you ask, cautious.
He smiles, slow and sharp as a blade half-drawn.
“Because I can’t come in.”
You blink. “Can’t or won’t?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Both. But mostly can’t.”
You hesitate. Just for a breath. The fog shifts around the ruined arches. A gull cries in the distance. The mark beneath your ribs hums softly—low and steady. Not warning, not urging.
Simply waiting.
You could close the door. You could leave him standing there.But something about the way he said it—no smugness, no command—makes you pause.
So you step forward. Carefully. Warily.
You cross the threshold and descend one step. Then another. And when you reach the third, you stop. Close—but not close enough to touch.
He offers the space beside him with a small tilt of his head.
“It’s not much of a sanctuary,” he says, “but it’s quiet. And mostly dry. And neutral.”
Still wary, you settle onto the stone—not beside him, but near.
Hongjoong sits as well, one arm resting casually across his bent knee, the other still holding the wrapped parcel from the café. The scent of it filters through the rain—warm bread, cured meat, something faintly spiced. He doesn’t offer it. Not yet.
You fold your arms loosely across your lap and glance sideways at him.
“Why here?” you ask, nodding faintly toward the church.
He exhales, slow. Thoughtful.
“Because it won’t let me in,” he answers. “And it’s always easier to show something like this than try to convince.”
You lean forward slightly, elbows braced on your knees. Your fingers knot together. It’s an odd thing to say—but not, you suppose, when you remember what the barmaid told you that first night.
“When you say ‘demonstrate’…” You glance back toward the church doors. “…you mean the building itself.”
He nods. “It’s as good a visual as any.”
“And the reason you can’t go in?” Your voice is level. Careful. “It’s the curse the stories talk about?”
His expression doesn’t flicker. Not with amusement. Not with denial. He just says, “One of its symptoms.”
You study him for a moment. The man beside you doesn’t look like someone tethered by fate. There are no chains at his wrist. No stormcloud over his head. No madness glinting in his eyes. He looks like a captain who’s always a step ahead. Like a man who can—and will—go wherever he pleases.
Except here.
“How does it work?” you ask.
His jaw shifts slightly. “Poorly.”
You narrow your eyes, half tempted to withdraw entirely in response to the non-answer.
He sighs, not in frustration, but in that quiet way people do when they’re about to share something they rarely say aloud.
“I can’t go where I’m not wanted,” he says finally. “Places. People. Doesn’t matter. If the curse is at odds with whatever or whoever it comes into contact with—it stops me.” He lifts his hand and taps the center of his chest. “Like a tether. Or a leash. Or a blade. Depends on the day—and how strong the resistance is. To the curse. To me.”
You tilt your head. “So it’s not just doors.”
He shakes his head. “Doors, yes. Homes. Temples. Sometimes a ship. Sometimes a person.”
You turn away, looking out into the mist. The city is quiet from here. Distant. As if you’re sitting just outside of its reach—like the sea before a storm.
“That’s what it does?” you ask, voice low. “Your curse?”
“Some of it.”
“How long have you had it?”
He shrugs slightly, eyes distant now. “Long enough.”
Silence stretches between you. Not uncomfortable. Just… uncertain.
It’s never a conversation you imagined yourself having. You’ve seen enough magic to know curses are as real as sea-folk—but you’ve never spoken to someone who carries one. You certainly never thought you’d be talking about a curse with a pirate captain- your soulmarked.
You ask, “What did you do to become cursed?”
That makes him smile again. But it’s not like before. It’s not gleaming or amused. It’s tired. Crooked. Sad.
“I took something,” he says, “that wasn’t mine to take.”
You frown. “What?”
He looks up, meets your eyes.
“A talisman,” he says. “A fragment of an old god."
Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command
2.8k words
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The tavern is half-full when you step inside, the warmth of the hearth rising to meet the sea-cling still soaked into your sleeves. You shove the hood from your head, shake out your damp hair, and head toward the back with the kind of practiced confidence that comes from a hundred quiet transactions.
Your presence doesn’t turn heads. Not anymore.
A barmaid waves you toward the end table near the window—your usual meeting spot for deliveries that don’t need to be traced. Then she’s bustling back to fetch your usual order. While you’ve never trusted the tavern’s food, the drink has always been satisfying.
The client is already waiting. A narrow-faced man with a navigator’s squint and a trader’s posture. He’s damp from the sea, ink-stained fingers drumming against his mug. Once upon a time, these sorts of men made sure you knew just how much they doubted a woman could do what they required. Those days have long since passed.
You drop the wax-wrapped scroll onto the table without preamble, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Three-day turnaround,” you say. “Depth marks along the jagged coast and the channel you asked about. Tides in red. Margins tight—you’ll need a good helmsman.”
He opens it, scans it, and nods.
“Good work.”
He hands you a pouch. You don’t count it before putting it away.
It’s not the first time you’ve done business. Not the first time you’ve sat in this exact chair. But something feels… off.
The dog by the hearth—a big, lazy thing that sleeps through fights and fiddle reels—sits up.
It stares at the door. Its ears twitch. It whines.
A draft rolls through the tavern that doesn’t match the door’s movement.
“Odd breeze,” your client mutters, folding the chart. “Storm out to sea?”
You shrug and sit back, letting your gaze drift across the room. Someone’s playing a slow tune on the fiddle. The fire crackles. A barmaid laughs at something bawdy as she sets your mug in front of you.
Ordinary.
But your ribs itch. Not from salt or damp. From something deeper.
You press your palm briefly to your side—right over the mark.
Still.
No pulse. No burn. Just that unsettling itch.
Frowning slightly, you pick up your drink, asking your client about the recent weather patterns on the sea recently. He lights his pipe. His voice is a low rumble as he replies. The business is done, but there’s no rush to leave. Not when it’s this kind of easy talk that did away with those doubtful days.
He stays long enough to tell you about odd storm patterns between Stormwind and the next port. Then he glances outside and mutters something about ‘ill winds here, too’. You don’t exchange farewells as he departs.
By the time you rise, the tavern is fuller. Sailors and townsfolk alike have crowded in at the end of the busy day, seeking respite and camaraderie. If it’s that late already, you’d best move along. You have errands to run.
You slide your coat back on, nod to the barmaid, and slip out the back door—the one near the kitchens, down the crooked alley that leads back to the ink vendor you like.
You’re halfway down the stone steps when you pause, just for a second.
You glance over your shoulder.
There’s no one there.
The door swings shut behind you and you pause, looking at it. You could have sworn…
You shake your head and continue on. Must be those ‘ill winds’ your client mentioned. Judging by the darkness of the clouds, he wasn’t wrong about the incoming stormfront.
You hug your coat tighter and pick up your pace, jogging through the backways of Stormwind in hopes of outpacing the rain you can already smell on the horizon.
The tavern is louder than he expected.
Crowded, warm, filled with bodies and breath and the scent of salt-damp wool. Someone’s playing a fiddle too fast for the hour. Laughter rolls between tables. A fire crackles in the hearth, where a dog lies down again with a huff, tail thumping once.
Hongjoong steps inside last.
His crew filters in before him—Wooyoung already scanning the barmaids, San drifting toward the table in the corner, Seonghwa hanging back near the door with his coat still dripping.
Hongjoong stands at the threshold for a moment too long.
His eyes sweep the room.
She’s not here.
But she was.
He knows it.
His mark thrums beneath his ribs, not burning but echoing—like a bell still ringing long after the hammer has struck.
Something in the air is wrong.
Too warm. Too full. Too recent.
He steps forward, boots echoing faintly against the worn floorboards. A few heads turn. The regulars don’t look twice, but those with sharper instincts go quiet. They know the sound and scent and look of pirate. Wariness hums, then, a familiar aftertaste.
Behind the bar, a young woman pauses, eyes flicking toward the back door. Just a heartbeat too late to be casual. Checking the exit? Or ensuring someone already left through it?
Back door, he thinks. Damn it.
He reaches the spot instinct pulls him toward—an empty chair by the window, still slightly warm. The table smells faintly of salt and ink. He runs his fingers along its edge.
Wooyoung slides in beside him with two mugs, one already half-empty.
“She was here,” Hongjoong murmurs.
“How do you know?”
“Instinct,” Seonghwa says, joining them without needing the full explanation.
“The sea held its breath,” Hongjoong adds.
He sets his hands flat on the table. The wood pulses beneath his palm, faint but undeniable.
She was here. Close enough to reach. Close enough to call.
He exhales slowly, then taps the table twice—soft. Not frustration. Something closer to reverence.
“She’s in Stormwind,” he says. “We’re finally in the right place.”
Yunho joins them at last, settling into one of the chairs and stealing a mug from Wooyoung. The younger’s protests go ignored. Yunho sips, gaze fixed on the back door.
“Then we wait.”
The gods know they have enough time.
Stormwind breathes differently today.
It’s not the weather. Not really. The clouds overhead are slow and swollen, but no rain falls. The scent of it remains, a subtle threat on the horizon. The air isn’t warm, but it isn’t cold either.
Still, something in it presses against your skin like static—like the sky is waiting for someone to make the first move before unleashing its deluge.
You cross the market square with your satchel slung across your shoulder, coins tucked into your sleeve for errands. The fishmongers shout. Children dart between carts. A street fiddler plays a song that can’t quite keep its tempo. Familiar. Known.
But beneath it all, a feeling builds.
Tension. Like the moment before a wave crashes.
You run your errands as planned.
You barter for fresh parchment, inspect a shipment of glass map cases that arrived cracked, exchange a few tight words with the vendor who delivered them.
All routine.
But the feeling doesn’t go away.
It gets worse when you pass the dockmaster’s steps.
You pause there out of habit—checking the board for incoming ships, scanning the tide tables. You don’t even realize your hand drifts to your ribs, to where the compass rose rests hidden under linen and leather.
Still no burn.
But you feel watched, and the itch from the night before remains.
You glance down the dock, and that’s when you see the first one.
A tall man near the edge of the harbor, hands in his coat pockets. Lean and quiet. His dark eyes sweep the crowd like he’s reading every soul that passes.
You don’t know why he catches your attention, but he does.
His gaze slips right past you, leaving you with an unpleasant shiver along your spine.
You move on, trying to disregard him.
Only a few minutes later, you see another.
Different man. Shorter, broader, a braid wrapped around one hand. He’s talking with a dockhand, but the conversation is stilted. Wrong. Like his words are just a formality while his eyes scan the crowd.
Another one appears an hour later, seated near the outdoor cafe where you pause to eat. This one reads a book upside down.
You start to feel watched, even though none of them so much as look at you twice. Then you shake your head firmly, as though to dislodge the sensation.
You tell yourself Stormwind always has newcomers.
You tell yourself not to be ridiculous.
You tell yourself you’re just tired.
But when you stop by the tide markers just before sunset, the sea doesn’t speak. Not even in rhythm.
It’s waiting.
And you don’t know what for.
The mark doesn't burn.
It pulls.
A soft, steady ache beneath his ribs—less like fire and more like gravity. A sense of this way, and not much more. Not loud. Not urgent.
Just sure.
The others fan out across Stormwind.
They move quickly, each in their own rhythm. Wooyoung is charming, too charming. San asks questions with a smile that makes people forget he’s dangerous. Yunho blends in until he doesn’t. Mingi remains on the docks, a silent and observant sentry near the gangplank.
But Hongjoong?
He walks.
Unhurried.
He lets the city speak, keeping an open ear to the secrets it divulges.
The paper vendor is first.
He steps beneath the awning and lets his gaze drift over the stall—neat rolls stacked beside hand-bound books and pots of ink sealed with wax. The scent is jarring against the salt-soaked air. A woman nearby is arguing over a shipment delay, her words crisp with quiet authority.
He listens. Doesn’t interrupt.
She departs before he asks a single question, but she leaves behind a ledger. He skims it—briefly. A name. A commission. Sea-chart vellum.
Freshly bought.
He smiles, faintly.
She maps. Good.
He moves on, like a hound following a scent. The trader with the broken glass comes next.
Hongjoong leans beside the crates, folding his arms, watching the man fumble with the fragments. His curses are creative. His story is louder than it needs to be.
“Some girl damn near tore my ear off earlier. Wants her coin back for these.”
“Why don’t you give it to her?” Hongjoong asks, tone light.
“Not until she brings the rest of the set back. I got my pride.”
“Clearly.”
He leaves without pressing, the man already forgotten.
The café is quiet by the time he gets there.
He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t eat. He only stands, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair.
There’s a water ring on the table. A single crumb where bread was torn and eaten. Faint traces of ink and salt still cling to the wood.
She sat here. Recently.
He breathes in, slow. There’s something else, too. Not perfume. Not flowers.
Just… presence.
Like the pause before thunder.
He doesn’t chase it. He lets it settle. Lets her path unwind. She’s not trying to be seen. But she’s not hiding either. Her route follows logic. Routine.
“You’re meticulous,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I like that.”
Hongjoong moves on, fingers dragging over the back of the chair before falling away. He walks with the same unhurried pace as he has all day, ignoring the looks of those who recognize a pirate for what he is. Down a side street and between the buildings until the pull strengthens with nearness.
The trail ends where it should. Not at a tavern. Not at the sea.
But here—on a quiet stretch of cobbled street tucked just far enough from the market’s noise to offer privacy, but close enough for convenience. Practical, smart, and undoubtedly occupied.
The cartographer’s shop sits low and wide, older than it looks. Salt eats at the stone around the corners. The sign is faded, but the windows are clean. The ledgers are stacked. A weathered old man works at the desk, slow and intentional.
Hongjoong lingers just across the street. He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t step inside.
Instead, he lifts his gaze, following that pull.
There—movement in the upper window. A flicker of shape behind thin, sun-warped glass. Not enough to see her clearly. Just enough to know:
She’s here.
Alive. Moving. Working.
He watches for a moment. Not to intrude, just to observe.
He sees the outline of a hand press briefly to the windowpane—an ink-dark smudge on the glass—and then retreat. A shadow moves past. The silhouette of a desk. A stool.
She’s back at her worktable.
Of course she is, he thinks.
He stays until the light begins to change, until the sea-salt wind picks up again and the sound of evening footfalls returns to the street.
Then he turns. Not defeated. Not impatient.
“Soon,” he murmurs, more to the street than to himself.
Approaching her here—her home, her chosen place—would only unsettle her. The sea didn’t lead him this far to make her feel cornered.
He will wait. Let her see him first. Let her decide.
Like Yunho said- they have time to wait.
The captain carries on at last, strolling down the cobbles and toward the harbor. A jaunty tune follows in his wake, made haunting by his choice of key as he hums. He has a feeling that the wait won’t be long.
The ink dries slowly tonight.
The mist outside has thickened into a weight, the kind that creeps into bones and warps parchment edges. You shift the chart you're working on toward the lantern’s light, brow furrowed in concentration.
The tide overlays aren’t cooperating.
Neither is your focus.
There’s a hum beneath the quiet—something not quite audible, but present all the same. A pressure in the air. A pull beneath your skin. Your ribs itch again.
You don’t know why.
You set your compass down, flex your hand, glance out the window. And freeze.
The harbor is still visible from your room—just barely, framed between two crooked shops across the street. The light is fading, but not fast enough to hide the silhouette that’s settled at the docks.
A ship.
Black sails. Dark hull. Sleek. Silent.
Unfamiliar.
Wrong.
It shouldn’t be there, and you don’t know why you know that. But the sight of it sends a shiver up your spine so sharp you nearly knock your ink pot over reaching for the sill.
You lean closer, breath held.
The ship isn’t moving. It rocks gently with the current, but no crew walks its deck. No banner marks its name. No noise rises from its hold. It squats in the water, framed perfectly by the view from your window.
And the sea?
The sea is quiet.
Too quiet.
Like it’s holding its breath.
Just like you.
You straighten, slowly.
The rational part of your mind—the part that catalogs tide shifts and calculates coordinates—tries to write it off. Just another ship. Just another docking.
But your fingers have curled into the window’s edge, and your mark has started to sting.
Faintly. Dull. Like an echo from somewhere deep below the tide.
You draw the curtain and step back, the ship now hidden from view. Even then, the feeling of being watched lingers. It remains after you blow out the lantern and crawl under the blankets. Unsettling and unwavering, like eyes in the darkness.
The ship is silent.
That’s the first thing you register. Not the sway beneath your feet, not the chill in the air, not even the unfamiliar slant of lantern-light against water-dark wood.
Just the quiet.
No gulls.
No waves.
No crew.
Only the sound of the ship breathing—in with the tide, out with the wind.
You know where you are before you turn.
Black sails. Weather-worn deck. Masts creaking like old bones.
The ship from the harbor.
You stand at its center, barefoot on damp planks, heart hammering behind your ribs. The air smells like sea brine and something older. Deeper. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from peace—but from waiting.
You don’t know why you walk toward the bow. Only that your feet move of their own accord, carrying you past closed doors and shadow-draped railings. Every step lands too soft.
Like you’re not meant to be heard. Like you’re not alone.
Like there’s something just out of sight.
You feel it more than see it. Like the heaviness in the air before a lightning strike. Like a hand at your back that hasn’t touched you yet.
Your soulmark pulses.
Once.
Twice.
Harder.
You stop.
You don’t want to look. You don’t want to know.
But you hear it.
Soft.
Slow.
A breath, right beside your ear.
“I’ve found you.”
You wake with a strangled gasp, tangled in your blankets, breath fogging the air around you.
Your skin is cold.
Your ribs are burning.
And outside, though you can’t see it through the closed curtain, the black-sailed ship rocks gently in the harbor.
Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command
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The sun filters through the fog in fragments.
It paints your windows with pale gold, but the warmth doesn’t reach your skin. You sit at your worktable with your tea cooling beside your elbow, eyes scanning the parchment before you. Your gaze traces the same three lines over and over.
You aren’t reading the tide data.
Not really.
Your eyes keep flicking up. To the edge of the window. To the gap between the two crooked buildings across the street. To the sliver of harbor barely visible beyond them.
The ship is still there.
It hasn’t moved.
Not an inch.
You’ve checked three times since dawn. Once by candlelight. Once before dressing. Once now.
Its silhouette looms, as it did yesterday. Still dark. Still wrong.
You draw the curtain closed with more force than necessary.
Enough.
You finish your tea—watery, too-light to be satisfying. You dress. Braid your hair. Rub your teeth with a charcoal stick. You clean your compass. Sharpen your quill. Roll two charts and seal them in fresh wax. One to deliver later. One to mail.
Routine.
You check the coin pouch in your bag. Not as heavy as it was, but still acceptable.
Today was meant to be a day of just mapping. Not client work. A single delivery and time to focus on the projects that always get pushed aside. With that damned ship lingering beyond your window though, you can’t focus enough to do them.
Your skin crawls. Your mark itches. Your leg jumps restlessly. Fine. Fine. You’ll go out. Yesterday was for shop errands, today can be for personal shopping. You could certainly use more than a few things.
Socks. Oil for your boots. A new cloak, perhaps. One not patched twice over.
You deserve that much.
The sea is quiet. The shop is quiet. The city is yours.
Or so you tell yourself.
You step outside into the cool mid-morning air. It smells like salt and something older. Something deeper. Something distinctly Stormwind.
The street is damp from an early fog, but the sky above is brightening. You tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the cold. You tell yourself the ache beneath your ribs is nothing.
You don’t look back at the ship again.
Not yet.
The streets are no busier than usual.
Vendors shout the same deals they always do—fresh dates, soft leather, cured fish from the northern trawlers. The cobbles glisten faintly where the fog hasn't lifted. A cart creaks past, piled with dyed wool. You dodge it without thinking.
It should feel normal.
It doesn’t.
You stop at a tailor’s stall first. Socks. Two pairs, plain and sturdy. The woman selling them asks if you’d like something nicer, softer. Still nothing near the quality you once wore. You shake your head and pay.
Then oil for your boots. The same vendor as last time. He doesn't recognize you—he rarely does—but gives you a better price than he should, never raising his gaze higher than your chest. You mutter thanks, tempted to poke him in the eye.
Next, a new cloak.
The selection isn’t broad, but you find one that will do—storm-gray, simple, thick enough to ward off the mist on colder days. You trade two silver and a brass token from a past commission. The vendor eyes it, shrugs, and takes it.
No one notices anything unusual.
But you do.
Your mark is thrumming now.
Not painful. Not urgent.
Just present. Persistent. Like a whisper brushing the inside of your ribs.
You press your palm to your side as you pass a spice vendor, trying to will the sensation away. You’ve walked these paths a hundred times. You know these streets. So why do you keep glancing over your shoulder? Why does the market feel off?
You pause under the awning of the parchment shop, one hand on the counter. There, you realize:
You’ve walked this circuit before. But today, someone’s walking it behind you.
Not close enough to see.
Just close enough to echo.
You inhale. Exhale. Push away from the counter and keep walking. If you stop, you’ll look suspicious.
If you run, you’ll be chased.
You step into a shop that reeks of fish oil and force yourself to breathe. Your ribs throb with every beat. Your soulmark has gone quiet. Then it pulses, suddenly enough that you wince.
Quiet. Pulse. Quiet. Pulse.
Like a second heart beating independently of your own.
That’s when you know, without a doubt: he’s here.
She wears her cloak tighter today.
Brown. Unmarked. Practical. The color suits her, in the same way as her worn boots.
So does the way she moves—purposeful, not rushed. She weaves through the market with practiced ease, pausing here and there. Socks. Boots. A new cloak. Each stop tells him something more.
She’s not a girl who waits to be adorned. She’s a woman who prepares.
He keeps his distance.
He knows how to move in crowds—when to blend, when to step aside, when to let the flow of bodies carry him. His crew searched in spirals around her, but he doesn’t need to. She’s already leading him.
She’s predictable. Not in the way of the foolish. In the way of the disciplined. Her route is methodical. Efficient. But something in her gait has changed. It’s slightly sharper, tighter in the shoulders.
She’s begun to feel him.
She glances back once near the spice stalls. Doesn’t see him. She wouldn’t. Not unless he wanted her to.
You’re clever, he thinks. But I’m patient.
She presses a hand to her side—right over where the mark should be. He doesn’t need to check his. He feels it in every step.
At one point, she cuts into a shop—an oil merchant—and stays longer than she needs to.
Hongjoong doesn’t follow her in.
He stands across the way, beside a weaving vendor’s cart, pretending to consider a roll of indigo thread. His eyes never leave the doorway. He sees her silhouette pause behind the glass. A flicker of hesitation.
She’s trying to decide if she’s imagining it. Good. That means she’s not ready to run.
He waits, trading the indigo for crimson. A few slow minutes pass.
She exits with her jaw set. Keeps walking. North now. Away from the tide markers. Closer to the taverns.
He hums under his breath, quiet, rhythmic.
Soon.
Your mark settles.
Not entirely, but the pulsing thrum eases—softens into something dull and distant, like a distant drum. You step out of the oil shop with your shoulders less tense than when you entered.
You glance over your shoulder one more time.
Nothing.
No strange men with too-sharp eyes. No trailing footsteps. No weight pressing into your spine.
Just the crowd, thick and shifting.
Just the smell of spice and woodsmoke and salt.
You must have imagined it. Or at least, nothing came of it.
You head for the merchant’s street next.
It’s a tighter stretch of road, more familiar. The sun has burned off much of the morning fog. The cobbles are drying. The baker’s bell chimes faintly in the distance, a sound that always marks the start of the lunch hour.
You breathe a little easier.
The glass vendor is where he always is—near the edge of the square, half-hidden behind hanging nets of colored baubles. You find him red-faced and swearing under his breath as he tries to arrange a new display of map cases.
“Back for a refund?” he mutters when he spots you.
“Back for the rest of the set,” you reply. “Still cracked?”
“Still annoyed,” he mutters, but waves you in. “You want the replacements or not?”
You step inside the shade of his makeshift stall, already adjusting the strap of your satchel to make room.
The wind is quieter here, the noise of the city less pressing. The silence of the sea no longer crawling up your spine.
You were wrong, you think. He’s gone. Or never there at all. Just a remnant of a dream.
And for a moment—a brief, flickering moment—you believe it.
The settling is enough to let you focus on negotiations for the replacement map cases. The merchant still isn’t particularly pleased, but the deal is made. With that done, you make your way to the tavern for your singular drop-off. Your last one for a while, unless a new commission comes in soon.
The tavern is quieter than it was two days ago. No fiddler. No rowdy sailors at the hearth. Just a few locals clustered in booths near the front and a barmaid sopping up a spilled cup behind the counter. The scent of smoke lingers beneath the tang of stewed vegetables.
You step inside and feel your shoulders ease. Not because it’s safe, but because it’s known. There’s a rhythm to this place. A predictable one. You find the familiar corner table near the back and take your seat without hesitation, placing the scroll case gently on the table. And if the scent of iron and night winds lingers there, you dismiss it without thought.
The barmaid brings you a glass of fruit juice, the last bit of spoiling you’ll allow yourself today. Your client is late, which is unusual for him. But that’s all right- you don’t mind the wait today.
You survived the morning. The mark is quiet. Nothing happened.
You let out a slow breath. Your new cloak slips from your shoulders to the bench beside you. You sip the juice, sighing softly at the sweetness.
For the first time all day, you let yourself feel good.
The bell above the tavern door chimes. You don’t look up at first. You’re not expecting to.
Until the air changes.
Subtly.
Heavily.
Your fingers tighten around the glass.
You lift your gaze—
And meet his eyes.
The man standing just past the tavern’s threshold is not from Stormwind. That much is obvious.
His coat is black, but not ragged. His rings flash, but his stance is still. Controlled. His features are sharp—too sharp, too precise, like someone carved him from stormlight and daring.
And he’s looking straight at you.
Not at the barmaid. Not at the hearth. Not at any of the figures who file in after him.
At you.
You don’t know his name. You don’t need to.
The mark beneath your ribs burns.
Your pulse stumbles, your breath stutters—and still, you don’t look away. Neither does he. He steps forward.
Calm.
Measured.
Like a man approaching something he’s already claimed.
And he smiles.
It’s not the polite smile of a nobleman, nor the roguish smirk of a dockside flirt. No—this one is slow, certain, laced with the kind of satisfaction that settles in a man’s bones when he finds something long sought.
Like a compass needle finally clicking into place.
Got you.
No.
No no no—
Your bench groans as you shoot to your feet. You don’t think. You move.
Your satchel is already on your shoulder. Your coat left on the bench. The scroll stays behind.
The glass hits the floor, shattering
Someone shouts—maybe the barmaid. Maybe the a regular. You don’t stop to hear.
The tavern is too narrow. Too full. The front door is blocked. You can’t push past him. So you pivot to the left. Toward the window near your table. It’s round and narrow—meant for light, not escape. But you’ve always had a knack for getting into places you weren’t meant to be.
You leap.
Your boots hit the table.
Cutlery clatters. Someone curses behind you.
You grab the windowsill, fingers scraping damp wood. You brace one foot on the wall beside it and shove yourself through.
Your shoulder snags—your satchel nearly catches.
You twist.
Breathe scrapes your throat. Your ribs burn with squeeze and your hips ache as they grind into the wood.
Then you’re through.
Out.
You land hard in the alley.
Your knees sting. Your palms scrape. You don’t stop.
You run.
The city opens before you—alleys and paths and dockside turns you know better than most men know their wives. Behind you, voices rise. A door slams. A boot hits cobblestone.
He’s following.
They’re all following.
But you were never going to make this easy.
The moment their eyes meet, he knows.
The soulmark beneath his ribs surges—full, hot, certain. It settles deep in his chest like an anchor finally dropped.
It’s her.
She looks exactly as he imagined and nothing like he dreamed. Steady hands. Ink-stained fingers. Eyes that narrow instead of widen. A storm-gray cloak and a spine stiffened by instinct.
She’s already moving.
She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t freeze like he expected.
She runs.
Straight over the table. Onto the bench. Into the window. Her fingers grasp the porthole’s wooden rim. She hauls herself through it with a scramble that’s more instinct than grace, legs kicking, elbow catching on a splintered edge.
Wooyoung lets out a choked laugh.
“She’s— She’s actually doing it—”
“Get her!” San barks.
She wriggles like a determined eel, finally slipping through and tumbling out the other side with all the elegance of a sack of potatoes.
And then—
Gone.
He stands there for half a heartbeat longer than he should, blinking.
The barmaid gasps behind him. Someone starts to shout.
Wooyoung pushes past him, still laughing.
“Did she just—”
“Yes,” Hongjoong snaps. “Move.”
He’s after her before he’s done speaking.
The door slams against the wall as he barrels into the alley. She’s gone. But that doesn’t mean he’s lost her..
He’s never lost her.
Not now. Not when the bond is singing in his veins like a storm tide.
The tavern window slams shut behind you with a wooden clack and a puff of sea-damp dust. Then you run, ignoring the ache of your body from that impossibly tight squeeze.
Your boots slap the cobblestones. The narrow streets of Port Stormwind twist like a sailor’s knot—alleys, stairwells, bridges between buildings that shouldn’t be connected. It’s chaos to outsiders.
To you, it’s home turf.
You burst from the alley and turn sharply onto one of the better-traveled roads. Across the street, a fishmonger catches sight of you sprinting past, shirt torn, hair wind-wild.
He gives a sharp whistle, then casually knocks over a barrel of eels in your wake. Slippery chaos ensues just as two of your pursuers round the corner after you, skidding into a sudden mess of tangled limbs and half-hearted curses.
You don’t stop to look back.
You duck down a side lane and twist through the gap between a bakery and an inn. The scent of spice bread clings to you as you slide beneath a drying line of sheets and leap over a low garden wall. The hard thud of boots behind you is enough to tell you that one of them is catching up. You lead him into the market square, lungs burning.
You dive between two wagons, splinters tearing at you, and disappear into the crowd.
By the time Yeosang reaches the square, heart pounding, you’re gone.
“She was just here,” he growls.
An old sailor leans against one of the carts wall, pipe between his lips and a faraway look in his eye.
“Girl?” the sailor echoes, squinting. “Nah. Just a cat ran through, far as I saw.”
Yeosang looks him up and down. He knows he’s being lied to, but the man simply puffs on his pipe, utterly unbothered. Behind him, Yunho and San come from the alley, reeking of eel, slime clinging to their clothes.
“Where is she?” Yunho demands, as thunderous as Yeosang has seen him in a long while.
“I lost her,” he replies.
San swears lowly, eyes scanning the crowd.
Somewhere farther back, Hongjoong slows to a stop. The bond pulses once beneath his ribs—then flickers.
She’s getting farther away.
Good, he thinks. Let her run. It’s more fun this way.
Soon enough, they regroup. He motions them back to the alley, the stones still smelling of spice bread and eel slime.
San’s boots are soaked. Yunho’s collar is wrinkled from where someone grabbed him during the pursuit. Wooyoung is winded, lips pressed into a line that can’t decide if it wants to frown or smirk.
They’re not used to losing.
And yet—
“She vanished,” Yeosang says, quietly. “Slipped the net like she knew where every gap was.”
“She does,” Hongjoong replies. Calm. Not breathless like the rest of them. “This is her city.”
“She shouldn’t’ve made it this far on her own,” San growls. “She shouldn’t’ve run.”
“She should’ve,” Hongjoong says, turning to face them fully. “She’s exactly who we’re looking for.”
He gives them each a look. Sharp. Clean. Directive.
“Seonghwa—watch the cartographer’s shop. Don’t approach. Don’t scare her. Just see. Wooyoung, back to the tavern. Charm the barmaid. Buy a drink. Find out what she left behind. Yunho, you’re on anchor duty. Keep your eyes on the quieter roads. Look for movement where there shouldn’t be. Yeosang, market square. No disguises this time. Let her see you if she comes close. See if she tries to bolt again.”
“San—rooftops.”
San blinks. “Seriously?”
“She took the ground. So take the sky.”
“And Mingi,” Hongjoong says last, glancing toward the sea. “The docks.”
Mingi nods once. Nothing else needs saying.
The crew shifts, disperses. Not as loudly as before. The crew shifts, disperses—not as loudly as before, nor as confidently. This isn’t about being fast anymore. It’s about being thorough.
Jongho lingers behind, given no orders and needing none. Hongjoong tilts his head, silently telling him to follow.
His mark thrums again, steady now. Not a flare, not a pull. Just a presence.
You’re still in the city, he thinks. Good.
He lets out a breath and tilts his head to the wind.
“Run as long as you like,” he murmurs. “We’re not leaving without you.”
Jongho makes no comment.
The bell tower is old, older than most of Stormwind.
Its steps groan beneath your boots as you climb, muscles trembling from the run, lungs still stinging from the abuse you’ve put your body through. You don’t stop until you reach the narrow window near the belfry—a place meant for observation, not escape.
You brace both hands on the stone ledge and breathe.
Outside, the city rolls beneath you. The harbor gleams faintly where the mist has lifted. Carts move like insects through the streets. The shadows grow longer. Evening is coming.
You made it. You lost them.
At least for now.
Your hands shake. You curl them into fists to stop it. The sea remains silent. No whispered warnings. No lapping reassurance. But your mark hasn’t pulsed in several minutes. It’s gone quiet—still hot, but not present. Not hunting.
You slump against the wall, finally letting yourself exhale. You’ll wait until nightfall. You’ll take the rooftops home. You’ll be fine.
Then something shifts.
You don’t hear footsteps. Don’t hear a creak or breath or voice. You just feel it.
You lean forward—reluctant, but compelled—and glance down to the square below.
And there he is.
Black coat. Hair catching the amber light. One hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the base of a cracked statue.
Looking up at you.
His expression is quiet. Not angry. Not surprised. Just—pleased. And then—he smiles.
You go still. Your breath catches. Your hand clenches the edge of the stone so hard your knuckles pale.
He lifts his chin, just slightly. Not a wave. Not a call. An acknowledgment.
Got you again, that look says. You’re clever. But I’m patient.
Slowly—deliberately—he turns and walks away.
He doesn’t need to give chase, now. He already knows how to find you.
The sun is setting by the time you find the courage to leave the belltower. The journey back home is slow. Careful. You double your turns, cut through two markets you didn’t need to pass, and circle the block twice before daring to approach the cartographer’s shop.
You climb up the crates and through the rear entrance—silent, controlled. Then up the creaking stairs, wincing at every groan of the wood. Warily, you peek through the trapdoor leading into your room.
Inside, the room is still. Nothing out of place. Charts undisturbed. Hearth cold. But you don’t breathe easy yet. Not until you creep to the window.
You draw the curtain back just enough to see the street below.
He’s there.
Not the captain. Not one of the loud ones.
The quiet, terrifying, too-beautiful one.
He stands beneath the corner lamp, half-shadowed by its flickering glow. Arms folded. Eyes cast toward your window. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to enter. Doesn’t make a show of being seen.
He only waits.
And you know what it means.
You didn’t outrun them. You only ran out of day.
You fall into bed without washing. Without changing. There’s no comfort in sleep when it finally takes you. Only exhaustion. Only quiet.
You’re back on the ship.
Dark wood. Silent deck. Black sails catching no wind.
You don’t stand on the deck this time. You’re at the rail, looking over the side.
The water below glows silver, rippling with something beneath the surface.
You turn—
And he’s there. The captain.
Hongjoong, your mind supplies, unbidden.
He’s not close enough to touch. Not this time. But he’s watching you. As if this sliver of dream is all he needs to feel content.
His expression is unreadable, save for one thing.
He’s glad you’re here.
You aren’t.
You step back, but your feet won’t move. The deck holds you steady, cradling you in a stillness that feels too much like surrender.
He doesn’t reach for you. He only lifts a hand.
Beckons.
Just once.
And the dream ends before you can say no.
He wakes with the scent of her still in his lungs. Not perfume. Not salt. Just presence—that impossible, unmistakable pull.
The dream was brief—too brief—but she was there.
And she felt him. Even if she hated every second of it.
Hongjoong sits at the edge of his bunk, spine straight, bare feet braced against the creaking wood. The Delirium rocks gently beneath him, the only sound a low groan from the hull and the faint rhythm of waves lapping against the harbor wall.
She’s angry. She’s afraid. And still… she came, even if only in sleep.
He smiles to himself, running a hand through his hair.
He could have Seonghwa bring her in when she returned home. He could have half the city’s eyes watching every alley. But that’s not how this ends. She isn’t prey. She’s a storm. And storms don’t come when called.
They arrive when they choose.
The next morning, he walks alone.
No coat. No flash of rings. Just quiet clothes and a folded scrap of parchment in his hand. The streets are waking. The market hasn’t opened fully. The cartographer’s shop still has the shutters drawn.
Hongjoong doesn’t knock. He slips the folded note between the doorframe and the latch, tucking it where it won’t be missed.
No name. No seal. Just an inked compass rose on the front.
Inside: a location. A time.
Not an order. An invitation.
The tavern.
No tricks.
No chase.
As he walks away, he doesn’t look back. If she comes, she comes. If she doesn’t…
