#swann!reader

You hastily finish your tea and get up when you see James leaving the room and the house. You enter the garden through the back door. Your feet carry you past the meadow with the horses to the border of the property. But you are too late. He's already too far away. Dejectedly, you stamp one foot on the ground and walk back. Your chance to speak to him was gone.

A few days later you are standing in front of the fireplace. The fire played a pleasant melody. James Norrington is talking to your father again. You just stand there, almost bored.

You almost lost hope. Even when your father calls you to you. With a polite smile you step closer. Elizabeth's words reach your ears. As soon as you are close you stop. You close your eyes and put your index and middle fingers on your forehead.

"Are you not well, darling?" asks your father.

Decorated with flowers and trimmed with gold, the cup slips out of your hand. It breaks on the ground and the contents spill over the floor.

"I..." you want to answer, but immediately you give your knees the command to stop holding your weight and you sag down. With a reaction of lightning you are caught.

James had turned you in the air so that you are now in his arms. He's kneeling on the ground with one leg holding you. You recognize the outline of his face through your half-open eyes, which now close completely. With a jerk he lifts you completely in his arms and follows your father to your room.

He carefully put you down there. There was always a servant by your side. And James. Your father told you that he came back after the first night and insisted on watching over you until you were awake again. You took advantage of this opportunity and only moved through the house when no one noticed. A whole week later you open your eyes.

Mr. Norrington?” you ask weakly, recognizing him.

"Correctly. Y/N, how are you?” he asked immediately and had a glass of water brought. When you sit up, he hands it to you.

"I think better. You don't have to stay here any longer. There are definitely more important things.” You try to placate him.

James sits on the edge of your bed. "Y/N. May I be honest?"

You look up from the glass you were about to drink from. "Naturally." He grabs your free hand with his hands.

"Y/N." you like the way he pronounces your name. "I was worried. I only realized it after I carried you to your room and you don't wake up for the day."

“We hardly exchanged words. What makes you think that?” you wonder. James clears his throat.

"I noticed you. You were always there. But I didn't recognize you. Like a blurred image at sea. A piece of land in a storm.”

Silence. His eyes are glued to your hand in his.

"I was afraid you would never wake up again and I would not have taken the chance to get to know you better."

You say nothing and put the glass away. "I don't know what to say."

"Do you have any sympathy for me? Even affection and attraction?” he throws in questioningly. "Because I can't sleep for fear of you. My lips have longed for yours ever since I watched you. You.."

"James." You cut him off. "You are blind because you never realized how much I admired you. How much I watched you, every time you were there. I've felt the way you describe it for a long time."

He smiles. He gently lifts your hand to his lips. "Then let me speed it up. Let me ask your father for your hand.”

He scoots closer to you. "But only if you want that too." He remarks,

You bend slowly. "That would make me happy."

James bridges the distance and kisses you. For this moment, time stands still. His lips nestle against your soft lips and send a shiver down your spine.

He breaks the kiss and rests your forehead against yours.

bingo squares — stranger sex and CMNF additional content warnings — 18th century purity culture and oral (f receiving) 

CAPTAIN KARLSSON’S touch is assured and unhurried.

His weathered fingers are devoid of the girlish trembling that so plagues yours, thwarting any attempt to glean a bit of pleasure. As if your body were rejecting the sin outright.

Absent is the fear of being discovered by one of your maids or, heaven forbid, your lord father; your captain vowed any who dared to enter his quarters would be measured for the chains.

—and he had done so with his fingers idly exploring your untouched mouth. The very ones stroking the walls of your once-untouched cunt, your peak on the horizon.

You are finding it quite difficult to reconcile the desire you feel with the sight of the filthy scoundrel granting it to you. It would be confounding any evening, but none more than this, with your mind as murky as the sea rocking the ship.

What you do know with certainty is it feels infinitely better than your own hand, or the host of downy pillows bunched on your floor; the ornate bed frame your late mother imported slams against the wall otherwise. And you’re equally as sure your stern governess would have a conniption—as well as your head, if she were privy to the ease of your seduction.

The captain’s arms, a map of hardship and violence, curl around your bare thighs. The juxtaposition of his skin and yours is significant, and with his corded forearms tight to keep you still, the jagged scar that brands him an enemy is, for your rational mind, inescapable.

Your conscience burns as fiercely as the hearth in your belly.

His touch—a most lovely distraction indeed—reaches new depths, and your vision is ornamented with constellations of your very own.

Your hands clutch the edge of his stately desk so tightly that there’s sure to be dainty crescents imprinted in the varnish.

The captain spies your paled knuckles in his periphery and affords you a far better place to find purchase.

He groans into your heat when your fingers weave through his unruly mop and softly tug at the dark mane. The captain captures your gaze without slowing or ceasing his delicious torment.

A gentle redness has blossomed on his cheeks and the tip of his nose since you last glimpsed his handsome face; the mark of a pirate who drunk ardent spirits to excess.

But, it is your essence with which his lips glisten.

You are just as affected by the unforeseen thrum of vibration as you are by the knowledge that you have somehow managed to please him in any way, perhaps more so.

With his calloused palms, Captain Karlsson, the fabled King of the Pirates, draws you nearer. Your hips roll against his relentless suckling, all of which is presently concentrated on the sensitive spot a little north of your entrance— a pearl, he’d called it.

He divides his attention between sucking the gem swollen and tending to the pulsating hole below it with a broad, flat tongue. Too enraptured by his mouth, a wicked finger delves into your softness when you’re least expecting it.

A most indelicate sound fills the candlelit chamber. A lewd squelch unlike any noise you have yet to hear, from yourself or otherwise, wilts what little nerve you possess.

Aghast, both hands clamped over your mouth.

The heathen knelt between your parted thighs gives a hearty chuckle; that particular sensation must be exhilarating for a pretty, sheltered thing leading such a regimented life.

Perhaps, he shall keep you. To entertain his mind and warm his bed.

Nay, that be the rum talking.

It would seem he's loaded to the gunwales. 

You fail to see what amusement could possibly be found in such obscenity, so unbecoming of a lady of your station.

Captain Karlsson nips your inner thigh and grins.

“Don’t get shy on me now, Duchess.”

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