A/N: Many thanks to True Romance for inspiration, to Polaris for feedback and to savysparrow for editing.

Comments are - as always - greatly appreciated!

Poor Lizzie

Title: Poor Lizzie
Author: ladyofthesilent
Genre: Romance/PWP
Rating: R
Warnings: Spoilers for both movies, UST (Unresolved Sexual Tension)
Disclaimer: Jack and Lizzie to themselves, everything else to the mouse …
Status: One-Shot

'This is definitely one of the very few advantages of having Barbossa on board', Jack Sparrow mused, taking a hearty bite from an apple he had just pinched from his old enemy's personal supplies. He didn't care much about food as long as there was enough rum available, but when his ungrateful stomach requested something solid, an apple was undeniably more appealing than the rotting oranges the chickens they kept in the hold used to shit on.

Enjoying his nightly meal, he amused himself by watching her. Though it was already past midnight, Elizabeth Swann was out on deck, standing at the rail. She stared at the pitch-black sea like she'd done yesterday and the day before as though she were searching for answers in the salty breath-like spray of the sea. Oh yes, he smiled to himself, he knew all too well what she was searching for; not because he possessed a thorough understanding of the female sex, he never pretended to have it, but of all the members of her sex, he had always found her behaviour unusually transparent, as though he alone possessed the knowledge to decode her vast mysteries. It puzzled him how much their habits mimicked each other of late. Currently, they were both suffering from insomnia – and for similar reasons, he presumed.

He had observed her for days, watching with veiled interest and an occasional seductive swagger that had gone unmarked by her. Ordinarily, she at least rewarded his efforts with a sharp frown that puckered her smooth brow into tidy creases. It was her overall distracted demeanour that betrayed her. Every move she made, her changing postures, the way her fingers ran anxiously over her forearm when she felt she was unobserved; the grave looks she reserved solely for Will – everything she did told him that she was indeed --"ready".

Perhaps not "ready to be married" as she'd once confided what seemed like a lifetime ago, but certainly ready to end a singularly depressing existence marked with the bone-chilling, unwavering fear of dying without first tasting the joys of the flesh. Truth be told, he wasn't keen on dying before he'd tasted the joys of Elizabeth's flesh, which was what kept him awake most nights.

He loathed admitting he lusted after a woman who had sent him to his death and had done so without so much as blinking a luxurious curl of one of her dark eyelashes. Among the many exciting, ingenious and exotic things he'd done in bed, and elsewhere, his desire for her appeared to be a strange, unspeakable perversion. Surely Gibbs knew about one or more superstitions that regarded a warning about bedding your murderer.

But then, he remained convinced that this bizarre perversion had absolutely no impact on the way he felt about her uncalled for, brutal betrayal. He was infuriated by her actions and though her appearance was undeniably pleasing it did not change the slow burn of his anger. He held no tenderness for her person or for the lightness of her voice as it spirited across the wind when she consulted Gibbs, which, incidentally he had observed she had done frequently of late. In no way did he desire to reconcile and make peace with her--he wanted to fuck her. These desires were the most natural desires in the world, given the set of circumstances her decisions had created and Jack was convinced there was nothing more to worry about except in the devious planning of how to utterly seduce her.

Gazing at her solitary figure in the moonlight, he decided that the task at hand was probably not as difficult as he'd imagined. She was avoiding him and they had barely spoken to each other for weeks, but the whelp had been foolish enough to ignore her blatantly obvious advances--she was prey for every man who lurked—he paused mentally to amend his choice of leers--cared to wait for the opportune moment. His eyes rested on the fluttering length of hair caught and held prisoner by the whipping wind. She seemed unaffected by it, as though made of hearty stone. Well, perhaps it wouldn't be that easy--Nassau Port might have been easier to sack but still, it was worth a try.

He reached around his head to tighten the scarf he'd wrapped around his forehead, took another judicious bite from his apple for fortification and walked across the deck to join her at the rail. Though he was certain she must have heard his footsteps and the nearly imperceptible jingle of the countless artefacts he had braided into his hair, she didn't acknowledge his approach as he casually sank against the rail.

"Poor Lizzie", he chuckled, pretending to be completely unmoved by her distant behaviour.

"Save your pity. Reserve it for those pirates who have none." Her voice was cold and piercing, her eyes still fixed on the sea below and Jack found himself wondering if this was the moment to beat a hasty retreat. He'd expected the route to seduction to be blemished with rocks, but he hadn't anticipated capsizing on the first volley.

"Incidentally", she continued before he could organize his wits for a spirited retort, "to you and you alone it will always be Miss Swann!"

"My apologies. Very well, allow me to rephrase--Poor, poor, querulous and miserable Miss Swann. How appropriate..."

Not as sharp or cutting as he'd wished it to be, but it had been to the point and surprisingly it was enough to arouse her interest. She whirled around to face him, and offered him a deep, well-placed scowl. Jack smothered a self-satisfied smirk.

"Pray, enlighten me as to what it is that makes me querulous and miserable – for I don't know myself and you'll speak relentlessly on the subject until you've annoyed me with your futile attempt to make use of your shockingly limited vocabulary."

"True enough", his smirk broadened to a cheeky smile as he threw the remains of his apple over her head and into the sea. He was in fine form tonight -- it wouldn't be much longer.

"My dearest Lizzie – apologies, Miss Swann -- you're querulous because there's something you very much desire but can't have."

"And the desire in question would be?"

"You desire to be-", he paused pompously as though he were a town squire prepared to make a grand pronouncement. "- a woman."

"Jack", she laughed mockingly, her face lit with bemusement, "I'm sorry if the fact escaped your, relentless powers of observation these few months. Though I'm momentarily wearing breeches, I am in fact a woman — so sorry to disappoint."

"No, you're not. You're a girl."

The wicked grin adorning his face from ear to ear ought to have explained everything, but it took her a few seconds to realise all of the implications.

"You … you …" she stumbled when she finally understood his full meaning, completely robbed of words.

"I know, I know. I'm right. As I always am and if I may be so bold as to add--Captain Jack Sparrow never miscalculates."

She opened her mouth to say something but he interrupted her completely, continuing his analysis of her current state.

"This brings us to the real reason behind your unhappiness. Oh, don't attempt to deny it—you and I know you want to be a woman – but unfortunately, our dear, beloved, painfully naïve William does not. Or perhaps he does know but is otherwise incapable to help you with your … request."

"There is nothing wrong between Will and me! Will is perfectly capable…" Elizabeth snapped.

"Oh, but I never implied there was anything wrong. Interesting that idea seems to have sprung to your mind so quickly. When I said that the eunuch – sorry –whelp is incapable of helping you, I merely meant to suggest that he doesn't know all the necessary details."

"And you do?"

He could hear her fury, exactly the way he wanted her. Smiling inwardly, he bent forward, whispering: "As a matter of fact – I do."

"What you want is …" He got closer, until their bodies almost touched. "…this."

Smiling wickedly, he let the back of his left hand run over her throat, just above the collar of her shirt. He felt her draw a sharp breath when his rough, weather-beaten skin met hers—he marvelled how it had remained soft and smooth despite all the months she'd spent at sea.

'Temptation hidden behind the mask of innocence', he mused, savouring the irony behind it all.

"…Perhaps this …", he cupped her face, feeling her tense under his touch when his thumb brushed across her lower lip, not tenderly but firm and demanding. Studying her face, he could see the battling emotions; an epic struggle between her body and mind though the latter was bound to lose sooner than later. It aroused him to imagine all the rich details that the thick blanket of darkness had deprived his eyes from seeing; her cheeks, flushed and heated, her knuckles white from the force with which she was clutching the rail behind her, trying in vain to maintain some sort of proper distance between them.

His grin broadened, revealing a sliver of gold in the pale silver moonlight.

"… And this, I'd wager…" He forced his eyes away from her bewitching face, so seductive in its state torn between fear, bewilderment and lust, and allowed them to travel downwards, taking in her lean figure, bereft of its female attributes, no doubt, by several layers of cloth she'd wrapped around her breasts.

His fingertips trailed down her side, barely touching her, up and down, while he brought his body closer to hers, finally bridging the gap. She didn't fight him but when he dared to look up again; he could see her clenched teeth, astonishingly white against the blackness of the night. There was a strange glittering in her eyes, her voice low and raw, hissing: "You're despicable!"

"Sticks and stones, love—Miss Swann." He quickly amended.

Like this, she reminded him of a lioness but before she could drive her claws into his face, he grabbed her shoulders and pressed his groin against hers, making her feel his hardness. And then, very slowly, he dropped his grin, bending his head until his lips barely touched her jaw line.

"… Lastly, you long for this …" he whispered, finally closing his eyes and planting feathery kisses along her sensitive skin. He felt her inhale deeply, while her body gradually succumbed to his. Breathing hard, she bent her neck to allow him better access – an invitation he gratefully accepted, lips trailing down, sucking in the tender flesh and leaving small bite marks all over her throat.

A hoarse sound escaped her lips, inarticulate and wanton, but to him it seemed she'd just said: "Yes, this …" while her hips met his, urging him on to complete whatever he'd begun.

Hesitantly, he tore himself away from his sweet pursuit which had meanwhile reached her collarbone; lifting his head, he couldn't help but admit, if only to himself, that her face dripping in languid moonlight was one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen. She was panting, mouth slightly opened; eyes clouded with lust and – was it possible? There seemed to be something else in their dark glint he wouldn't dare allow his fragile soul to interpret. He'd made that mistake once before, and it'd led to certain death.

They were almost breathing in unison, their lips barely an inch away; he was close – so very close – to kissing her, ravishing her mouth until neither of them could bear any more of it. He could have her, tonight, right now and maybe even here, out on deck under the starlit sky.

Which would be a shame, he suddenly realized. Not because she was the governor's daughter or Will Turner's fiancée –all trifles he didn't give a fig about --but taking her now would mean the end of their thoroughly promising game. There would be no more sparing, no dark frowns to delight in, no verbal jousts or moonlight trysts. She'd disappear when the game was completed.

'Certain death, that.' Jack's mind commiserated darkly as he stiffly recalled his painfully throbbing body. His body pulsed with a strange sort of over exuberant life, and the heat that had steadily spread from his loins had reached his face, until he felt deliriously over heated. Worse than what he had experienced when he had been marooned on the island. At least in this instance, the company was infinitely better. Undoubtedly the scenery had much improved.

Relieved that he was not an over-zealous youth anymore, he let go of her shoulders and set up his most pirate-like smile, mischievous and inscrutable. Realization didn't come to her until he stepped back, breaking the contact between their heated bodies.

"You", she spat, trying to catch her breath, "you're completely…shameless. You have no sense of decency--no pity... "

"Pretty much." he interrupted, taking a quick step backwards so he was out of reach of her slapping hand, grinning from ear to ear. "What a shame that I didn't reserve my pity for the pirate that needs it, eh? Sleep well, cantankerous Miss Swann."

With a last glance at Elizabeth's shady figure, dark against the night sky, he turned on his heels and walked away, heading towards his cabin. What a pity he hadn't been able to see her face – 'frustration' probably written all over it, he was certain. Though, he had the strangest sense that he had seen a ghost of a smile from her as he turned round to retreat, accompanied by the slightest hint of a tinkling, triumphant laugh, followed by an equally faint 'Poor Jack' that smacked of smug superiority. The sound gave his feet pause, but he didn't bother to question it—not in his glorious moment of triumph. He'd conquered the unflappable Miss Swann at last!

"Poor Lizzie", he chuckled to himself. He actually felt guilty for leaving her primed, but not unbearably so. In the end, he couldn't help but smile, thinking about the things he intended to do to her and for which 'shameless' was probably too feeble a word.

After all, he was Captain Jack Sparrow. He rose to invade Barbossa's cache of apples with the mind of stockpiling a large supply. It was going to be a long night.