Archive: Yes. Help yourself.
Disclaimer: The Mouse is the owner. I only play with them. ;)
Rating: NC-17 for female self-pleasure.
Pairing: Elizabeth/Herself, E/W implied
Beta: Moonsalt

Notes: I've written fem fic...dear god, help me! I blame
flamedame, of course. ;-)

Summary: A married Elizabeth discovers she is, in fact, a woman.

Sitting in her bed, late at night, she draws a disappointed breath.

Elizabeth is disappointed in the reality of Pirates. Jack Sparrow was not the heroic figure she'd imagined. Barbossa was too terrifying. Will is... Will. A blacksmith, son of a pirate and still unable to truly square with it, as Will had confessed to her.

Marrying him had afforded the dream come true, giving them both the one thing they'd believed they'd wanted.

Perhaps the pirate she is looking for is herself, her own heart. Her freedom, her love of the ocean and the dreams of a young girl's fantasies come true on the high seas.

The unforgettable voyage from England all those years ago.

Anamaria. Now there was someone who could understand, possibly teach her what she wanted to know. It was about avoiding becoming a pirate's wife, and becoming a pirate herself.

To be captain not just of a ship, but of her own heart. To be truly free. Not a man's wife, or woman, or wench at some port of call.

She had been held hostage by Barbossa, but how is her relationship with Will any different? Held captive by his projections and needs for her to fulfill his romantic fantasy of the perfect beloved, the Governor's daughter? She is more than that, and longs to step off the pedestal Will and even Commodore Norrington had placed her on.

No one sees her for who she really is, none of the men in her life. Not the pirates she's encountered, nor her father, nor the boy who still believes in the dream of her. Elizabeth chafes at the restrictions that bind her: society's expectations, her father's wish for her true wedded happiness, and Will's desperate need to have her romantically fulfill his empty bed.

Of all her choices, none truly offered her any happiness. The only way she is going to find any of her own desires resolved is in an act of piracy: to run away and seek her own freedom. Her own destiny. She would have to bide her time. But perhaps she could take a cue from Jack Sparrow. For all his roguish, irresponsibly piratical ways, he was living proof that one could remain apart from anyone's expectations and be his own man.

Well, she would be her own woman.

When Will's hands move over her naked body in their shared bed at night, her heart breaks for him. She wishes he could find his own freedom. He'd confided in whispers for her ears alone that he'd found his manhood with Captain Jack Sparrow, during their first adventure to rescue her. She wonders if Will realizes just how telling his revelation is. So many secrets had been revealed to her through their marriage and subsequent consummated union. Secrets of love, of hearts and touch.

She knows she cannot be Will's captain, as much as he might tell himself that she is.

Elizabeth is rather surprised to find she doesn't mind as terribly as she would have imagined. And she cannot help blushing as she knows that as much as Will might find his own release with her, and help her to find her own, it is never enough. Her own hands move restlessly when she is alone, seeking something new and yet undiscovered. A hunger she cannot explain to herself or even to Will.

Will is working late, at night in the forge. His shop. She has been to see him and now no longer goes... There is something desperate that has been creeping into the furious pounding as he works the metal, beating the steel into shapes that reveal something long and slender and entirely male.

Maybe in a way, she really has been searching for herself. All these years, through all her dreams of pirates, and fancies of the ocean, beautiful ships, and billowing sails... The fragrance of the sea.

She needs no ship; she knows that now.

Another sad secret she can never share with Will; his hands really are too rough against her skin. She prefers her own. Being a good girl, she has never allowed herself to properly enjoy the strange luxury of the feel of her own soft fingers against her flesh, taking what delight she could instead, of the feel of her inner thighs against each other, beneath her skirts, and the surreptitious pleasure of silk.

Unbidden, the image of Anamaria springs to her mind. She wonders if the touch of another woman's hand might deliver the assuaging pleasure she craves. Female fingers, after all, might know the terrain better. Again, another thought she cannot share with Will, for fear of breaking his heart irreparably.

She would weep, only it is not sadness she feels, just a tidal wave of heat that makes her sigh. Somehow, the girl-child's fancies have grown into a woman's desires and she knows it cannot be long now before she will be forced to seek reparation in the wake of her marriage.

She'd always believed she knew what love was, what it is to feel it, and to seek it. She believed she'd find it in William's arms. She knows now she was mistaken.

For in the knowledge of coupling, came the horrifying knowledge of the nature of dreams; grasped too tightly, they float away like clouds, out of reach.

Her palms are busy now, sliding absently up her own upper legs, going to her hips. Under her nightgown, she can feel the heat of her own touch and it is not hard to imagine they are a stranger's. This time, she needs no face to put to the ghostly visitor. They are not rough, or demanding, but gentle and inviting. Giving, not taking. She does not want to be desired, she wants to be worshipped. Even with Will, she is still the woman who is wanted, not a queen.

As her fingers move closer to her waking heat between her legs, she feels no fear of surprises, only surety and need. She no longer wants a body crushing her to the bed, but the freedom of floating and flying in this dreamy darkness of her bedroom.

The scent of floral salt, subtle as the flowers outside her window, mingles with the sea air blowing in through her curtains.

Sightless, her eyes close and give in at last to that touch, the one she'd yearned for during all Will's gentle explorations and fumbling eagerness to please her. The certain hands creep softly downwards, sliding into places deep and silky, as a ship rejoins the shore in some hidden lagoon.

The sheer jealousy she's always felt towards Jack Sparrow for his love of his vessel, the Black Pearl, is swept away in the tide of pleasure that rushes over her. No ship needed, indeed, for her to find where her heart truly lies.

A hasty habit of believing what she is doing is wanton and terrible causes her to put a face to the pleasure, to imagine someone doing it to her. She thinks of her Commodore. She wonders if James had any idea, or if he too would place her on the pedestal. Yes, the perfect wife, the good marriage. She would have made his life a misery, by being miserable constantly. He doesn't know it, but she has saved him from… herself.

In the freedom of allowing herself to breathe, she finds now that the friction and the liquid and the heat are all part of a beautiful discovery. Real treasure, not the cold glister of gems or gold, nor a ship she can call her own. Something more akin to the sea, in warm folds and softness.

She mewls in spite of herself, the sparkling moving through her blood, and the waves of heat rising from her feet to her face, all the way up her body. Arching her back, she rides the crest, writhing helplessly and basking in the total lack of restraint upon her body. It is almost frightening, the way her limbs can move freely. The pure concentration of keeping her hands in place with dedication to seeing her through this passion is almost not enough.

Gasping, she keeps herself from crying out, not wanting to alarm the household or passing people down below her home. The open window allows the moonlight to break from the clouds and enter her bedroom. Blinking, she sees for the first time the true nature of her body through a woman's eyes, rather than a girl's, her pale skin shining silver like some mermaid illuminated in cave-light. She can see now what men desire, no longer dependent on their approval. She is beautiful, she realizes in wonder.

There is a fleeting melancholy now, following swiftly on the heels of her pleasure, for she knows this is something sacred and not to be imparted to anyone.

But the joy and exhilaration of her exploration is not overcome, and Elizabeth sighs rapturously, drawing the sheets up about herself once more.

She is asleep, and unaware when Will returns to their bed.

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