#captain vane

Out here, sins were different. Freer. The distance from shore seemed to loosen all the rules, all the eyes watching, until only the waves and the wind were left to judge. It was like stepping into another world, one where you could slip off the weight of who you'd been on land and become someone new. Someone bolder. Someone who could want things you'd never let yourself want before. 

And Vane, goddamn Captain Charles Vane, was a siren call, a temptation that thrummed in your bones louder than any storm. He was the promise of all the dark, delicious things you'd denied yourself, the sins you'd been too afraid to claim. Out here, with him, you could almost believe that you were brave enough to take them.

Charles Vane leaned against the post opposite you, a bottle hanging loose from his fingers but barely touched. Broad shoulders caught the lantern light in stark planes, shadow carving along the hard line of his jaw beneath the rough scrape of stubble. His shirt clung loose but open at the throat, showing the suggestion of muscle and scars earned from a life at sea, the kind a man like him wore as trophies. His eyes were half-lidded and dangerous, watching you the way a man watches the horizon for sails, patient, predatory, knowing sooner or later they’ll appear. The silence stretched long and tight, filled only by the creak of timber and the churn of waves.

“You keep lookin’ out at the water like it’s got somethin’ to say,” he finally muttered. His voice was gravel, smoothed by rum and smoke. 

You swallowed and shook your head. “Maybe it does.” 

That earned the faintest curl of his mouth, more threat than smile. He stepped forward, slow and sure, his boots landing like the drum of an executioner’s march. He towered over you before you realised you’d let him close, tilting his head slightly, studying every twitch of your lips, your throat, your hands where they clenched the pen in your hand. 

“The Storm’s just noise,” he said, though his eyes suggested a different, darker belief. “Nothin’ to fear in here.” 

Outside, the harbour chains groaned under the storm’s pull, the ship rocking like something alive, restless. The lantern above you rattled in its swing, spilling wild slices of light across his face, across yours. The nearness of land meant nothing, the docks were a ghost through the downpour, no safer than the open sea.

“Storm ain’t half as wild as you look right now,” he murmured, voice close enough for you to taste the rum on his breath.

You cleared your throat, trying to force the conversation somewhere safer to the numbers in front of you. “We still haven’t tallied what you brought in. The manifests need checking, weights, coin—” 

A sharp roll of the hull cut you off, the ship lurching so violently you had to grip the edge of the table to steady yourself. The storm had risen faster than you’d realised, faster than any chance of leaving. Through the rain-warped glass of the stern window you could just make out the docks, flickering shapes in the distance, but the black water between might as well have been the breadth of an ocean. 

“There’s no goin’ back tonight,” Vane said, low and sure, as if reading the thought straight out of you. He prowled closer with the tilt of the cabin, all deliberate, until his hand pressed down over yours on the table: broad, calloused, inescapable. 

“Work’ll keep. Coin’ll wait. What’s in front of me won’t.” His eyes pinned you there, dark and lit with something sharper than hunger, the storm outside bowing under the weight of it. 

For a mad second you wondered if he truly meant it, if he could really look at you and see something worth more than coin, more than the plunder piled in his hold. But no, men like Charles Vane didn’t speak of want without another meaning knotted underneath. He was a predator; every word was a hook, every glance some calculated drag of the line. He couldn’t possibly mean you were what mattered in front of him. And yet… God help you, your body believed him more than your head would allow.

You tried to pull your hand from beneath his, but his grip only pressed firmer, anchoring you to the desk. “You think this is the time?” you snapped, though your voice cracked more under your own pulse than the storm. “Supplies, lists, coin, someone has to see it done.” 

“No one but you here to see a thing done,” he said, eyes narrowing, the faintest heat of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Crew’s long pissin’ their luck away on shore. Harbours ours tonight.” 

Your chest tightened, not in fear, not fully, not when the truth of it burned in your skin where he touched you. Alone. The word rang like a bell through the sway of the ship. 

You turned back to the manifests scattered across the table, making yourself stare at the smudged ink, at anything but him. “Then I’ll take the night for tallying what’s owed.”  

The ship rocked again, harder, and he leaned with it, the breadth of him boxing you in. His fingers trailed from your hand to your wrist, up the line of your sleeve and over the boning of your corset. The scrape of callus against stiff fabric wasn’t the fire of skin to skin, it was worse, a torment, a reminder of how little separated you, how much he wanted to strip away the barrier. The restraint in it was maddening, his patience sharper than any force.

“You think buryin’ yourself in ledgers’ll keep me out?” he said softly. His mouth was so close you could almost feel the scrape of his beard without meeting his lips. “Go on, tell me you’d rather spend the night with your sums than with me.”

You swallowed, too hard, the lie caught and stranded in your throat. The storm pitched, rattling the lantern above, and you realised, shamefully, breathlessly, that you were already leaning into him just to stay upright. 

“Thought you were quiet, but you’ve got a little somethin’ in your eyes,” he murmured, his mouth barely a breath from yours. “I’ve seen ‘em following me, all dark and deep, like you knew I’d pull you under. You came here alone ‘cause you wanted this, wanted to sink or be saved from it. Which is it?”

You felt your cheeks flare with heat, the truth of his words burning holes through your composure. “You think you can read a want like that?” you countered, hating the tremor that snuck under your voice. “I’m here for—” 

“Ledgers and coin?” he finished for you, leaning in just enough to make the excuse sound smaller than breath. 

Your eyes darted to the smudged ink on the desk, clinging to the numbers like they might shield you. “Someone has to keep the count,” you said, sharper than you meant, though your chest rose too fast beneath the stays. 

“Aye,” he drawled, the sound low and amused, “and here you are, counting’ everything but what matters.” His thumb pressed lightly along your jaw as if keeping tally there instead, slow, deliberate. 

You swallowed and shook your head, the denial weak even to your own ears. “You’re seeing ghosts where there aren’t any.” 

You pushed suddenly back from the chair, the legs scraping over the planks as you stood. The movement was too sharp, too telling, though you forced steadiness into it, smoothing your hands over your skirts as if you’d simply grown weary of sitting. 

Circling the desk, you gathered the scattered manifests with exaggerated care, eyes fixed on the ink-stained pages, your fingers smudging over numbers you weren’t even reading. Anything to keep your gaze from him, to make this about cargo, coin, anything but the heat he left burning in your skin. 

Behind you, the floor creaked with the subtle shift of his weight, the sound of leather and boot heels moving slow, deliberate, a hunter choosing whether to let the prey wander a step or two more.

You busied yourself with the manifests, stacking and re-stacking, though the ink bled further with every nervous touch of your fingers. You could feel his presence behind you like a shift in gravity, the storm outside nothing compared to the pull of him closing the distance inch by inch. 

“Go on then,” his voice came low and steady, almost kind, though the weight of it pinned you more than any hand. “If you don’t want me in here, all you’ve got to do is say the word.” 

The paper crumpled faintly in your grip. You fixed your eyes on the crooked columns of numbers, but your mouth stayed uselessly shut. 

He moved away, the heat of him retreating so suddenly it left you swaying forward. You turned, confused, only to see him pulling out a chair and easing into it, the slow confidence of a man who knows he’s already won. 

He reached for the manifests you’d been fussing with, his fingers brushing over the ink as if he gave a damn about the numbers. But his eyes when they lifted to yours, amused, razor-sharp, told a different story. 

“You want to pretend?” he asked, the ghost of a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Alright. I’ll play. We can sit here nice and proper, just a man and his numbers.” He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. “But know this, you’re the one who’s going to have to ask for more. I won’t lay another finger on you… until you beg me for it.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, the echo of his words rattling through your skull. Beg me for it. The cabin felt too small, the air too thick with the weight of his promise. You fought to keep your breath even, your hands steady as you took a seat across from him, the picture of indifference. But your pulse wouldn’t quit its frantic rhythm, his words winding tighter and tighter around your skin. 

He let the silence hang, his eyes back on the manifests like he had all the time in the world. But the heat of his gaze branded your skin even without eye contact, a reminder that he was waiting. That every second you pretended was another second closer to breaking. 

Just numbers, you told yourself fiercely, ink and paper and sums. That’s all that mattered. Not the curve of his mouth, not the heat in his eyes, not the way his slightest touch seared through your every defence. Just. Numbers. 

But the numbers blurred and swam before your eyes, meaningless against the echo of his voice. I won’t lay another finger on you… until you beg me for it. Like he knew it was only a matter of time. Like he could taste you want on the air.

At last, he spoke, lazy, as if the silence hadn't been thrumming like a rope pulled taut. "Hand me one of those manifests, then," he drawled, tilting his chin toward the stack by your elbow. 

Grateful for the excuse to do something, you slid a paper across the desk toward him, your voice too quick, too light. "Didn’t take you for the reading type." 

One dark brow arched as he took the page, his mouth twitching with amusement. "Don’t let the cut of me fool you," he said, eyes lifting to burn straight into yours. "I’m a gentleman in some regards." His thumb dragged slow across the edge of the paper, suggestive even in the smallest motion. Then the grin sharpened. "But in others… well. I'm not all that gentle at all."

The words struck through you sharper than the storm outside. Not gentle. The edge of it curled hot in your chest, your thoughts scattering into sinful shapes before you could snatch them back. You gripped the folds of your skirt tighter under the desk, willing your face still while your mind betrayed you—dragging you down into the heat of what he meant, of what he didn’t say but let you imagine. 

A dozen images clawed up: his hand circling your wrist, the scrape of his belt hitting the floor, the weight of his body pinning yours against the table until the ink smeared and numbers bled useless in the dark. You tried to breathe through it, tried to keep your breath steady, but your every nerve hummed with the implication, the dare wrapped in his grin. 

Not all that gentle. The phrase throbbed through your skull like a bruise, equal parts terror and temptation, as though he'd lodged it there deliberately just to watch you come undone.

 You weren’t untouched, not some trembling maiden with only fanciful notions. You’d known the press of a man before heat, sweat, the rhythm of it. But with Vane, the thought turned darker, heavier. He was broader, harder, more dangerous in every line, and your mind betrayed you with comparisons you couldn’t stop. 

You imagined the sheer weight of him, how his size would swallow yours, pinning you to the desk or the bed without effort. The rough scrape of his callused palms against bare skin, nothing soft left to them, just grit and hold. His fingers digging into your hips hard enough to ache, leaving marks you wouldn’t be able to hide. 

Even the span of his shoulders in the lantern light made heat curl low in you, the idea of that strength driving into you until you couldn’t think of coin, ink, or breath, only him, only the storm of him moving through you like something you wouldn’t survive but wouldn’t refuse.

“Penny for your thoughts?” His voice cut through the haze, low and amused, and you realised with a jolt how far you’d fallen down the rabbit hole. “’Cause from the flush on your cheeks, I’d wager they’re worth more than the coin we’re meant to be counting.”

He watched you with a smirk that looked almost like satisfaction, as though winding you up was a game he’d been enjoying long before you realised you were even playing. You opened your mouth, to deny, to deflect, but the words caught in your throat, strangled by the flush crawling up your neck. You were caught, snared by his knowing grin and the too-late realisation that you’d given away every sinful thought in your head.

Your pulse hammered too loud in your ears, and you forced the first words that came to your tongue, anything to drag the air back toward safer ground. “The manifests—” you blurted, too quick, too thin. You seized a page from the pile and waved it faintly as though numbers could shield you, though your voice betrayed the tremor you tried to bury. 

His smirk only deepened, dark amusement flickering like firelight across his face. He didn’t bother looking at the paper, not really, his eyes stayed fixed on you, savouring how clumsy your retreat had been. Like a man toying with the line just to see how long the fish would thrash before it tugged the hook and caught itself.

“We can sit here playing pretend all night,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the planks beneath your feet. “Or you could give in. Say the word. And I’ll give us both what we want.” 

The word ‘both’ hit you like a slap, forcing you to acknowledge the desire you’d been dancing around. The admission that he wanted this too, that he was waiting for you to crack so he could indulge his hunger, it set your thoughts spiralling down even darker paths, your skin prickling with the heat of his promise.

Your lips parted before you could stop them, the denial stuck somewhere in the wreckage of your chest. The storm rattled the cabin, but it was nothing compared to the quake inside you, the way every defence you’d clung to came undone with a single word. 

“Please,” you whispered, the sound thin, fragile, but out all the same. 

The moment it left you, heat flooded your face, shame tangled with relief, with hunger, with the dangerous satisfaction in his eyes as if he’d known all along it would end this way. A smirk ghosted across his mouth, sharp and certain, like a man who’d finally reeled in what he’d been toying with all night. 

He sat back in his chair, that wicked smile sharp on his face. “I want to hear you say it,” he said, his voice low, rough. “No one here but us. Tell me what you want.” 

Your heart stuttered, the directness of his command short, circuiting every thought. You glanced around like someone might have materialised in the cabin, but of course, it was just you, just him, just the words hanging in the air. 

He raised an eyebrow, expectant, and you realised he wasn’t going to let you out of this, wasn’t going to offer you an escape hatch. He wanted the words, wanted the truth of it laid bare.

Your pulse skittered wild, your throat dry as sand, but something sharper than fear broke through the haze. Courage, or maybe desperation, rose hard in your chest, steadying your breath. You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze full on, despite the heat in your cheeks. 

“I want you,” you said, the words low, shaken but clear. “I want your hands on me, your mouth on me. I want all of it, everything you’ve been holding back.”

For the first time all night, his smile faltered, the faint flicker of surprise cutting through his wicked composure, as though he hadn’t truly expected you to bare it so plainly. The pause was brief, gone in a heartbeat, but you saw it. Then the hunger returned full force, scorching in his eyes, his mouth curving slow and sharp again as if the storm itself had just answered him. The muscles in his jaw flexed, his dark eyes snapping with something fierce, like the storm outside had suddenly broken loose inside him. That wicked smile curved wider, satisfaction and hunger bound tight in its edge.

He rose out of the chair in one smooth motion, the slow, deliberate grace of a predator who's just been given the go-ahead. His eyes never left yours, the dark satisfaction in them tinged now with something wilder. 

He crossed the small space between you in two strides, his hands catching your waist and spinning you around to face the desk. The movement was rough but controlled, not painful, just a sharp jolt that sent a thrill shivering through you. He pressed in close behind you, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he leaned down to growl in your ear. 

"You've been driving me fucking crazy all night," he said, his voice low and ragged. "You sure you're ready for what you just asked for?" 

Your breath caught, your heart slamming against your ribs. "Yes," you managed, the word barely a whisper. "Yes, I'm sure."

Unexpectedly he twisted you back around, his hands gripped your waist, lifting you onto the edge of the desk with ease. Your breath caught as he pressed in close, his mouth crashing down on yours in a rough, searing kiss that left no room for second-guessing. You felt the scrape of his teeth, the burn of his stubble, the sheer hunger in the way he claimed your mouth, and then his hands were shoving your skirts up your thighs, bunching the fabric around your hips. 

You braced for him to take you right there, your heart pounding at the thought, but then, shockingly, he dropped to his knees instead. His breath was hot against your inner thigh, and you realised with a jolt what he intended, an intimacy you’d heard whispers of but never experienced yourself.

His hands were rough on your thighs, callused palms pressing your legs apart with a grip that brooked no argument. The scrape of his stubble burned against the soft skin of your inner thighs, each breath like fire as he nuzzled closer to where you ached for him most. You could feel the heat of his mouth hovering there, his lips barely a breath away from your most sensitive flesh, and it was all you could do not to arch off the desk entirely, your body thrumming with anticipation, with desperate, delicious want. 

"Spread your legs wider," he ordered, his voice rough and guttural, and you complied without thinking, your body responding to his command before your mind had even caught up. His breath ghosted over you, hot and ragged, and then, finally. Finally, the flat of his tongue dragged slow and filthy up your centre, wrenching a gasp from your throat at the shock of it, the slick, searing heat of his mouth on you, tasting you, devouring you like a man possessed.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight as he worked his tongue against you, his stubble scraping your thighs, the wet sounds of his mouth obscene in the cabin's quiet. He licked into you like he was starving, like he'd been waiting for this moment as long as you had, each stroke of his tongue winding the tension tighter, pushing you closer to an edge you'd only brushed against on your own in the dark. 

His hands held you open, thumbs pressing into your softness, opening you further to his ministrations. The world narrowed to the feel of him, the slide of his tongue and the rough grip of his hands, your hips rocking to meet him of their accord. And then his lips closed around the bud of your pleasure, sucking hard, and you came undone with a cry that bordered on a sob, the pleasure crashing over you in waves that seemed to go on and on, his tongue drawing out every last shudder until you were left gasping, your thighs trembling, your fingers still clenched in his hair.

He stood slowly, his hands trailing up your body as he rose, and you couldn't help the shaky exhale, the whispered "*Fuck*" that slipped out as you tried to process what had just happened. 

He grinned at that, a sharp, satisfied flash of teeth, and leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "Soon," he promised, his voice rough with anticipation, and then he was kissing you again, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself in his mouth as he claimed you all over again.

His hands moved to the front of your dress, expertly opening it to reveal the corset beneath. He began to unlace it, his movements slow, careful, drawing out the anticipation as he took in every catch of your breath, every shiver of your skin. His eyes darkened as the corset came undone, revealing inch by inch of your flushed skin, his gaze like a caress that left trails of heat in its wake. 

"Please," you whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop it, your body aching for his touch. But he just smiled, that wicked, knowing curve of his lips, and continued his leisurely exploration, his fingers tracing the lines of your body like he was committing every curve to memory. He was in no rush, savouring your impatience, your need, the way you trembled beneath his hands like a plucked string.

His palms slid slowly up from your waist, rough hands mapping over the sudden vulnerable heat of bare skin, tracing the edges where fabric had finally given way. He bent to press his mouth to your collarbone, dragging his lips down the curve of your chest, the scrape of stubble making you shiver. His teeth caught lightly at the swell of your breast above the loosened corset, a rough nip softened by the warmth of his tongue. 

"You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this," he growled against your skin, his breath hot and ragged, one hand curling possessively against your thigh. He sucked at your breast through the loosened stays, pulling a broken sound from you, then lifted his head just enough to catch your flushed, desperate gaze. 

"I’ll take my time," he promised, dark and wicked. "Make you feel every bloody second of it."

He pressed his hips against yours, letting you feel the hard length of him through the fabric of his breeches. A shudder ran through you at the promise of it, your body responding instinctively to his nearness, his heat. He rocked against you slowly, deliberately, his eyes dark with promise as he watched your every reaction. 

"Feel what you do to me," he growled, his voice low and rough. "You've had me like this for hours, aching for you, dying to be inside you. And now I'm going to take my time with you, make you feel every inch of how much I want you." 

His words sent a shiver through you, your hips rocking forwards to meet his of their accord. He grinned at that, a sharp, satisfied flash of teeth, and leaned down to nip at your lower lip, sucking it into his mouth for a searing moment before pulling back. 

"Greedy girl," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. "You want me to fill you up, stretch you wide with my cock until you can't think of anything else, is that it?" 

You nodded frantically, beyond words, beyond anything but the desperate, aching need he'd built inside you. 

"Fuck, yes," he growled, and then his hands were on your hips, lifting you just enough to slide his breeches down his thighs, the hard, hot length of him pressing against your core. He rocked against you once, twice, letting you feel the slide of him against your wetness, teasing you with what was to come. 

"You want this?" he asked, his voice low and rough, his eyes dark with promise. "You want me to fill you up, make you mine in every way there is?" 

You nodded frantically, your body aching, desperate for him. "Please," you whispered, the word barely more than a breath. 

He grinned at that, a sharp, satisfied flash of teeth, and then he was pushing inside you, the stretch and burn of it making you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you clung to him. He moved slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every second of it, every inch of him claiming you, making you his.

He pulled back just as slowly, making you feel every inch of him dragging against your sensitive flesh, before slamming back into you with a grunt that was almost pained. He set a rhythm that was just as relentless, each thrust deliberate and deep, his hips snapping against yours with a force that had you clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapped tight around his waist. 

The desk creaked beneath you with each thrust, the sound obscene in the quiet of the cabin, mingling with the wet slap of flesh against flesh and the harsh rasp of your breathing. Sweat slicked your skin, your dress clinging to you in the most obscene places, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere, his chest rubbing against yours with each movement, his breath hot against your ear. 

"Fuck, you feel so good," he growled, his voice rough, his breath hot against your ear. "So tight and hot, like you were made for me." 

His words sent a shudder through you, your body responding instinctively to his dirty talk, to the raw, almost animalistic need in his voice. He shifted his angle slightly, hitting a spot inside you that had you seeing stars, your back arching off the desk as you cried out his name. 

"That's it," he murmured, his voice low and guttural, his hips slamming into yours with even more force. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how much you love this, how much you need it." 

You were beyond words at this point, beyond anything but the desperate, aching need to come, to feel him lose control inside you. You angled your hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, your nails raking down his back as you pulled him closer, needing more, needing everything.

You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside you, your body straining towards the release you so desperately needed. He seemed to sense it, his thrusts becoming even more forceful, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. 

"Come for me," he growled, his voice low and rough, his breath hot against your ear. "Let me feel you come apart around me." 

His words sent you hurtling over the edge, your body shattering into a thousand pieces as you came with a cry that was almost a sob. He followed a moment later, his body shuddering against yours as he spilled himself inside you, his face buried in your neck as he groaned your name. 

It took a long moment for the world to right itself, for the ringing in your ears to fade and the trembling in your limbs to subside. He pulled back slowly, his hands gentle now as he brushed your hair back from your face, his eyes dark and soft as he looked down at you.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his voice rough with approval, and then he was inside you again, his thrusts just as forceful as before, his hands just as rough.

It took a long moment for the world to right itself, for the ringing in your ears to fade and the trembling in your limbs to subside. He pulled back slowly, his hands gentle now as he brushed your hair back from your face, his eyes dark and soft as he looked down at you. 

Your lips parted on a shaky laugh, still breathless as you managed, "That… was good." The words felt too small for what he'd just wrung out of you, but it was all you could find with your lungs still heaving. 

One of his brows arched, his mouth curving into that wicked, sharp-edged smile. "Was?" he echoed, low and rough, like a dare wrapped in a word. The single syllable sent another shiver down your spine, a warning that he wasn’t finished. "I'm a pirate, love. You think one battle is enough to tire me out?" 

His words sent a shiver through you, your body responding instinctively to the promise in his voice. He grinned at that, a sharp, satisfied flash of teeth, and then he was lifting you off the desk, carrying you through the door to the bed beyond. 

"I'm going to take you again and again," he growled, his voice low and rough, his eyes dark with promise. "Until you're so spent you can't move, until you're begging me to stop. And then I'm going to fuck you again, just to hear you scream my name." 

He dropped you onto the bed, his body covering yours, his mouth claiming yours in a searing kiss that left you breathless and aching for more. You knew you should protest, should ask him to stop, but your body betrayed you, arching up to meet his touch, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his voice rough with approval, and then he was inside you again, his thrusts just as forceful as before, his hands just as rough. You didn't want him to stop.