A/N: Damn, it's been a while since I wrote Sparrabeth! AND it's the first time I write Sparrabeth-smut! And even though it's nothing hard-core, I'm giddy like a five year-old!

A/N#2: This is technically a songfic, even though the lyrics aren't printed out. I know that the song, Prove It All Night, wasn't sung in the seventeen hundreds, but still!

Disclaimer: I don't own the song or the movie. Sucks, doesn't it?


When Elizabeth was a child, she used to love bedtime stories.

Her father used to sit next to her bed. The silk in her nightgown was soft and smooth against her skin, the lace on the edge of her blanket was rough against her neck.

Her father always told her stories about fair princesses and brave princes. And even now, nine years later, she remembers, even though she doesn't really miss, that calm, warm feeling of safety that she was always lulled into by seeing her father's wrinkled smile, how his fingers were curled around the corners of the storybook, how the candle painted his face with shadows.

She remembers that even now. Even now, when her life is usually as far away from that safety as physically possible.

But something she remembers even clearer is what always happened when her father had left. Her mother sneaked in, on light little feet, feet that now were squeezed into dainty little shoes, but that Elizabeth knew once had stomped around in big, heavy pirate boots.

She remembers her mother's glittering, black hair, her friendly green eyes. And she remembers that she'd always been jealous, since she hadn't inherited any of that appearance.

And then, she got another bedtime story.

A bedtime story that was true.

A story about her mother's adventures on the seven seas, a story about dragons and sea monsters, a story that swept every trace of that calm security away and replaced it with a childish thirst for excitement that made Elizabeth's heart ache, until her mother became silent, took Elizabeth's face between her gentle, warm hands and said the words she always finished her stories with, heavy with care, laced with hidden knowledge. A mantra. A promise.

"Elizabeth," she said while Elizabeth disappeared in the swirl of green in her eyes. "Everybody's got a hunger, a hunger they can't resist. So when you grow up, you'll become the respectable young woman that your father wants you to be, because that's what your sensibility will say."

Then, she always made a pause, always looked a little sad, like it pained her to think that her own daughter would be so unlike her. But then, her face always cracked in a smile, displayed her teeth that were brown from the cigarettes Elizabeth knew she was smoking when her father didn't see her.

"But after a while," her mother said and touched Elizabeth's nose with her fingertip, "you won't be able to resist that hunger. And then, you'll get on a ship. And you'll become a pirate."

Then, she made another pause. And then said, with a small smile, but still with that sadness in her gaze:

"Your father's going to try to stop you. I'll stand on the beach and wave my goodbye."

Then, she kissed Elizabeth's forehead. And left.

Her mother hadn't been right. When Elizabeth found a ship to hop on, her father did try to stop her, sure. But her mother hadn't stood on the beach and waved. In fact, when Elizabeth was eighteen, it was three years ago that she'd seen the pneumonia wringer her mother out, empty her of powers, until that final, tortured breath dropped from her lips. And she died.

But her words are still alive.

They echo in Elizabeth's head right now. Because it isn't until now that she realizes their true meaning.

Now. When she feels that breath, heavy and sweet with rum, warm against her neck, tickling against her earlobe, like precious little threads of silk, something valuable she doesn't own, wants.

"What are you dwelling on, Lizzie?"

She doesn't turn around.


Lie. He knows it, chuckles merrily when she feels those rough, yet light hands on her hips.


She scoffs and tries to ignore the fact that his hands on her body make the threads of silk in his breath transfer into her blood.

"I think you're the biggest liar of the two of us, captain Sparrow."

"Ah," Jack says, and she feels the heat of his body when he moves up right next to her, right next to her. "I was the biggest liar of the two of us. But you've taught well. I'm proud of you."

One of his fingers finds the hem of her shirt, sneaks in there, touches the soft skin. His lips brush over her ear, and Elizabeth knows he smirks when he hears her sucking in a breath.

"Plus," Jack says and moves his entire hand in there, touches her warm waist, dangerously close to the place where she desperately wants him, but that she in the same time wants to keep away from him more than anything in the world. "Even if you weren't a liar, why would any woman think of a eunuch when I'm here?"

Elizabeth gives him a look from the corner of her eye. He's right, she knows that and he does, too, and right now, when every cell of her traitorous body seems to turn around, struggle to reach him, it's even harder for her to conceal it.

But somewhere, from some place in her clouded mind, she still finds the presence to close her eyes for a brief second and then say, almost completely without sounding like she tries to convince herself:

"Because I love him, not you."

Jack laughs softly, it trickles down her neck, and now, his other hand has also slides into her shirt to touch her naked skin, now, they're both under her arms, right next to her breasts.

"I don't love you, either," he says sincerely, and she can't help from getting a little disappointed.

But then, he leans even closer, his nose is buried in her hair, his words are dripping with lust, it turns that faint tingling in her stomach into a hot, deep, heavy beat that makes a warm beam pulse between her legs.

"But I do want you," he hisses, his hands are finally on her breasts, rub them like a dough, his fingers are rough and his rings are cold, she never wants him to stop, never. "And I know that Will can give you a life full of butterflies and roses and stuff, but he'll never know what it means to steal, to cheat, to lie… What it's like to live and die…"

His nails rakes lightly over her nipple, she wants to moan but she will not, will not let him win, even though that warm, dull ache in her lower body that gets worse with every brush of his fingertips is a sure sign that he already has.

"And I do."

Then, it gets too much.

Then, she turns around.

Then, she manages to catch a glimpse of his eyes, black like coal and brilliant with lust, before their noses bump together and their teeth rattle against each other, their tongues meet in an ocean of repressed desire and warm, sweet saliva.

And she understands.

It's this hunger that she'll never be able to resist. It's this clawing, raw craving that's burned into her flesh that she doesn't want or can resist.

It's not a wish. It's not like her reasonable attempt to find Will.

It's pure lust. It's something she wants but doesn't need, it's something that her body will regret later and that her head regrets now, but also something that eats away at her sensibility and makes this knowledge completely worthless.

It's a hunger.

The desire she feels for Jack's hardness that's pushed into her, for his hands that roam every part of her body, securing her, claiming her, tainting her, for his tongue that disappears from the deep cavern of her mouth to run over her neck and her breasts…

It's a hunger. Nothing else.

You likes? You hates? Well, review no matter what!