a/n: dipping my foot back in sparrabeth for a split second, just for Mila's sake (and a little late night inspiration). this one's a little weird for me because it acknowledges the end of AWE (which i usually try to deny or upend completely).

He was glad he had been convincing enough – and why wouldn't he be, a swashbuckling, dashing pirate like himself? – to convince her majesty – or was it his? Bollocks with the pronouns – the Pirate King that her proper place was on the violet throne with the gold tassels in the midst of a treasure trove at Shipwreck Cove.

It was much more easier for him to admire the rum-like beauty of the bird from here, even if she was supposed to be chastely pining for her half-dead dandy on the Dutchman – though, decidedly, Miss Swann – damn, Mrs. Turner – was no longer chaste, if one acknowledged (as a certain Captain Sparrow was forced to) the squalling thing she had brought with her to the hidden pirate lair.

Forget the runt – Elizabeth seemed to like him enough, which was natural and not worrisome – the worrisome thing was her lack of pining for the blacksmith boy – well, that was worrisome to poor William's soul, Jack supposed, but not to Jack himself: after all, he was the one exchanging sultry, dark-lined looks with her no-longer-flowered Kingliness, and since the particular barrier that made Jack wary of women – since an incident in a convent – was removed, he was less reserved and more – er, -

"Unreserved," he stated aloud; matter-of-factly.

"Unreserved concerning what, pray tell?"

Her melodic voice echoed across the empty chamber, bouncing off gold and reverberating against lapis lazuli and jewels of immeasurable worth. The throne sat haphazardly in the middle: the gaudy construction of a flamboyant pirate species, reserved for the elected monarch of the pirates and he – her – alone. She spent much of her time locked in here, even when audiences were over and the night was old – and he prowled around in her down time – testing the waters, teasing her, pushing her – ruminating.

"Unreserved," repeated Jack, strutting among goblets on the ground and making his way to her throne, "concerning the parameters of witchcraft plaguing your marriage," he said, with a mock bow.

"Rise," she drawled, her eyes flashing at him playfully.

She lifted her hand and examined a ring there, and then rested her fingers in her long, messily braided hair. The Captain of the Pearl rose, and he swept his hat off.

"Witchcraft," she snorted. "There's no spell work or sorcery in my marriage, Jack," she laughed.

"There's a certain discernable wickedness in binding a woman as fierce as a tropical storm to a man in a manner that determines the eternity of his soul."

Her lips pursed, and Jack smirked devilishly.

"This again?" she asked – she sounded bored, but her eyes sparkled. "If you've come to me with intimations that buggery isn't debauched adultery, I shall send you back to Calypso's books."

He laughed, and looked at her through heavy, lidded eyes.

"Is the mite asleep?" he asked, changing tune smoothly.

The formerly debutante daughter of a Port Royal governor nodded her head quickly, a soft smile touching her lips.

"He's not a mite," she growled lightly.

"Small human. Infant," said Jack flippantly, waving his hand. "Lizzy, as your spawn is asleep and your throne is unburdened at the moment by the festering fleas that call themselves pirates 'round this cove," he began gallantly approaching –

He sat on the arm of her throne, looking down at her, and she tilted her head up, unfazed, expectant, her tongue between her teeth. He grinned, and she moved her fingers as if to give him leave to go on –

"It seems I may have found a hole of the loop persuasion," he remarked in a low voice, his words tickling her ear.

"I doubt a jealous biddy like Calypso included a caveat in her dead man's curse," the King said curtly.

"Ah, and there you are wrong, Miss Swann."

"Turner."

"For the purposes of tonight, we'll compromise with Sparrow."

"Didn't know you were the marrying type, Captain."

"'M not."

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling in amusement, and she crossed her legs – she wore different clothing now: tighter cotton, shorter – cut at the knee, cut low at the breast – her hair was always braided – she said it was easier to nurse the runt with lower necklines; he knew it was just to tease him.

His lips found her ear, and his hand slipped down the edge of the throne towards her knee.

"Do you love me, King Elizabeth?" he asked mockingly.

"God's teeth, no," she murmured simply.

"Your heart is faithful, then."

"Soul, mind, heart," she drawled.

"Womb," Jack said.

Her brow went up.

"The four things Calypso's spell book demands be faithful to the captain of the Dutchman."

Elizabeth tilted her cool head, and Jack knew he had her. His hand moved from her throne to her thigh, and she didn't object; she licked her lips, and waited.

"You may give to me, in the long, lonely, bare ten years meantime, any part of you which you have not claimed as faithful to your blacksmith."

She leaned forward some, her face closer to his – she understood well his meaning; she was William Turner's bride, yes; her heart was his, her soul was his, her mind was committed to his – her child was his – but her body was her own: her body was the sovereign property of the Pirate Throne –

"What part of me are you angling for, Captain?" she asked quietly. "A child by you is a betrayal of the worst kind, and I've yet to find a tasteful way to prevent such a thing."

He grinned at her, and she reached to touch his beloved hat, running her lithe, pale fingers around the tri-corn before she pulled it off and set it lightly on her own head, her enticing eyes blazing a little.

He pressed his lips to hers like he hadn't done it before – he had, of course; kissing was an old game, a child's game: Elizabeth was married and alone but she wasn't dead – and it was a sad, sorry game for a man to open this world to a woman and leave her to ferry the dead for a decade.

Jack pushed her legs apart, and she tilted her head back. His hat fell off, and she broke their kiss and looked at him frankly.

"In terms of swords and sheaths, consider yourself disarmed," she warned cryptically.

He understood, but he smirked.

He whirled to his knees suddenly, genuflecting before her, placing his rough, tattooed hands on her thighs, and sliding her dress up.

"Did you, my English bird, ever wonder how England's greatest mistress kept her King for nine years without losing her chastity?"

Elizabeth licked her lips and arched her brows. She watched his hands move her skirt, remained still while his fingers stroked her thighs, explored higher, probed flesh – but he leaned forward and kissed past her knee, and she jumped, reaching out and touching his forehead, tilting his head up.

"Jack," she said, stern suddenly – wary, alert.

"Lizzy," he said smartly.

She went silent, and she just stared at him.

"What is it they tell you corset coquettes upon your deaths – betrothals, I mean – lie back and think of England?"

He winked at her wickedly, and then he resumed his kissing – tentatively, then firmly, when she didn't resist – and her hand slipped from his forehead into his black dreadlocks, twisting and gripping.

Thus, the Pirate King, the once prim Princess of Port Royal, had her dress around her waist and her legs around the neck of the worst pirate the Caribbean had ever heard of – though, on this particular evening, the whole Caribbean heard Elizabeth Swann.

sounds like a lot of semantics and circumlocution, but how else would jack sparrow convince her? ;)

-Alexandra
story #207