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Fandom: POTC
Rating: R (.au - equivalent to US NC-17)
Summary: Jack can recall spending the night with Black Maggie... but did it really happen?
Pairing: Jack Sparrow/OFC (Black Maggie)
Notes: Black Maggie is a character I've had on the simmer for a while. For those who know the "Open Seas" universe, this is an AU version of Maggie - or to be more exact, OS Maggie is an AU version of the one I write.
Disclaimer: The character of Jack Sparrow, and the ship "The Black Pearl" and other characters mentioned in the film franchise, The Pirates of the Caribbean, are property of the Disney corporation. No money is being made from or solicited for this work of fan fiction.


I've dreamed of her as long as I've known her. She's always been haunting me in my dreams, right from the first. Memories and flashes and images of Mark and Maggie float through my mind when I dream.

Wake up suddenly, see those eyes looking at me. Grey eyes like storm clouds, with a thin rim of black around the iris. Is it any wonder I yell? Think I've died, and someone come to claim my soul. Not that I wouldn't mind having my soul claimed by such a one.

Aye, that was the first one. Just the image of those lovely eyes, in the face of a lad. Mark Blackett, he said he was.

Look up, see those eyes and that face. Fine bones, pale skin despite the tan from working under the sun, and the hair. That hair. Black as night, curling a bit at the ends. Lips are chapped and dry, but look red in comparison to that skin. Oh yes, and the sound of the voice. Irish mixed with Scots, with a bit of the creole the blackamoors use. All of it nice and smooth. A voice the pope would want to sing to him, but instead it's speaking to me.

That was before I knew her to be Maggie, back when I still thought of her as Mark. Such a gorgeous lad, so very lithe and slender. Can't imagine how I missed the truth, even then.

O'course, even then, she was wearing black. It was a colour that went well with that dark hair, pale skin. Not much, at that age – just a black bandanna holding back the hair from his (her) eyes and face; a black felted cap when the sun grew too hot. Made her look twice as pale, so it did.

Those eyes meet mine, across a table in a crowded inn. I know her for what she is. She seems to be taunting me. Knowledge in those eyes, woman's knowledge and girl's high spirits. Put it there before me, taunt me to reach out and take it. The scent of her, sea and musk and lemon, tempts me further. Her voice got deeper, huskier over the years. Now it glides over words, like warm honey. How can I not want her?

Turn away from this memory, turn away from what follows. The way I treated her, the barney two days later – turn away from those, dream elsewhere.

Same eyes, same voice, same scent. Now the eyes are harder, full of pain, lessons learned from loneliness. Voice cracks a little when she gets emotional. Underlying the scent of her a hint of something woody. Sandalwood. A fine figure of a woman, inviting and lush. The feel of her hand under mine is enough to rouse me. There's fire burns inside her; I'm the only one can see it.

Oh yes, seeing her in the barnyard of that whorehouse. Furious with me, angry enough to hit me, then tricky enough to trap me into the task of getting her ship back for her. I think I fell for her then, well and truly, as if I hadn't fallen for her years ago. She reminded me of me – so fierce about her ship. Wasn't until later that I realised why.

Stands at the helm of a ship, veers away. She moves with the ship, one with it, her ship an extension of her. See her sail away, laughing. Joyous, unfettered, free.

Now I stand within touching distance of her, caught up in her joy of movement, her joy at the speed, the freedom. Her eyes sparkle like rare jewels, but no jewel can ever capture the happiness deep within them. Her hair, whipped by the wind, tangles around her neck, down her back, tears itself loose from the confines of the plait. She looks up at the sails, judging angle, line and direction. The line of her neck, of her jaw, is pure beauty. Her smile is unguarded. Feel myself falling.

She loves that ship so much. So very much. The Magpie is her heart and her soul, and in a way I understand it. Doesn't stop me being jealous. But this is the centre of Black Maggie – she's truly alive on her ship, flying free. I could spend the rest of my life chasing her little sloop all around the oceans, just for the sight of that smile every day.

In the cabin of the Pearl, I face her. She's angry. All it does is make her look more dynamic. Her eyes glitter like coins. I feel the life course within her.

"Are you sure you want to cross blades with a pirate?" The question attempts to provoke her. Feel the rush of the knife as it passes and look to see my sleeve pinned to the door. The sight makes me grin - she's sharp as a newly-honed blade. She's in front of me, the blade of her sword to my throat, a grin on her face. Feral.

"Now, Jack, ye should know by now not to try such with me. T'was yerself as trained me in the tricks, now, wasn't it?" Her voice is honey on sand; smooth and sweet and rough and scratchy all at once. She steps back, lowers the blade. I'm ready. Sacrifice the sleeve of my shirt, step forward, pull her toward the door. She's up against the door, I stand behind her, hold her to the woodwork.

Warm beneath me. Soft, struggling. It's hard for me to restrain myself. I lean forward, feel the curve of her rump beneath me, whisper in her ear, "Sloppy, Maggie-love. Very sloppy." I can't resist, I angle down, plant a kiss on the side of her neck. She tastes like she smells: sea, musk, lemon, sandalwood. I lose myself in it.

I fly through the air, hit the far wall of the cabin. Pain blazes through me. Look up to see her. Don't know whether it's pain makes me see an aura of black light around her. She snarls at me, "Ye're growing sloppy yerself. As well as forgetting our terms. Ye keep yer hands to yerself until I have my ship back." Stalks out of the room. I still feel the warmth of her against me. I know I'll dream of her tonight.

I keep remembering that incident. Took me ages to realise the reason she hit me was because she was scared she'd give in then and there; lose her bargaining chip. Don't think she knew I'd take her to her ship nevertheless... I could never stand to see her hurting that way. Not her. Not Maggie.

At the wheel of the Pearl. Storm at sea. I try to retain my grasp on slippery wood as waves and wind crash into me. Maggie's there. Lashes a rope to the wheel shank, runs it around me, ties me to my ship. Haven't time to think, or thank her. I feel her near me, feel her hands as she fastens the line around my waist.

"That should hold ye," she yells. A wave hits me, steals the breath from me. Then a second knocks me into her. Feel the swell of her breast against my hand. We tumble backward. She grabs me around the waist, clings to me so she won't get washed over the side. Even through the tumble of the wave and the fear of drowning, I enjoy the sensation of her body so close to mine. See her pull away, exhilarated from near-drowning, her shirt plastered to her body by the water. I almost grab her, clutch her to me, kiss the air out of her lungs. I want her. I want her so much.

Oh yes. Never told her how transparent that shirt got. I've a feeling she would've hit me again. But oh my, the view of her through the shirt would've been worth the pain. Comes down to it, the view of her through that shirt would've been worth dying for at that moment.

Another tavern. She sits beside me. I can't see her, but I feel the tension in her body, so tight she's ready to snap. Put my hand over hers, give it a squeeze. She twitches.

"I won't hurt you."

A smile, with the beauty of the sun reappearing from behind a cloud. Her hand trembles slightly. I move mine away.

I couldn't believe my luck then. I really couldn't. I couldn't believe how very hesitant she was, too.

Look over her, see the shape of her, the way her body moves, the curve of her. She's a beautiful woman, although she'll never believe it. She's too tied to the notion of beauty linked with femininity, docility. She doesn't understand: it's her very lack of those things makes her so much more than even the prettiest whore. A woman who thinks like a man. She's a challenge to keep up with. When she pretended to be a lad, she was something special; now she's beyond special, beyond unique. God placed her on the earth to provide a challenge to men, and it's me she's chosen. How did my luck come to tumble this way?

Couldn't believe she wanted me as much as I wanted her. Couldn't believe she'd been waiting all those years for me. Couldn't believe my luck.

She kisses like a man. Hard and demanding, wanting and needing, never yielding easily. It's a challenge to kiss Maggie, a challenge to live up to her. She's all the aggression of a man, all the shape of a woman. I'm in heaven. She's the best of both worlds.

Kiss her up against the wall, press her back against it. She fights with body, mouth, tongue. The movement of her has me hard. Struggle not to surrender to the desire to take her, here, up against the wall of the room. She reaches down, strokes me through my clothes. Break away.

Tear her shirt away, push it from her shoulders, nip, suck, bite my way down the line of them, down past the collarbones. She gasps, curses, clutches at my arms, my shoulders, my head, tries to drag me upward. I won't go. Not now, not now I have this treasure before me to explore. Taste her, kiss her all over, find out every secret of her body. Find a nipple, suck it into my mouth, tease it with my tongue. Hear the cry I bring from her mouth.

Her hands roam, make their way over me. Small like a woman's, calloused like a man's, and gentle, as though she skates her fingers over the edge of my body. I gasp. Look up and capture her mouth, stifle that throaty chuckle as she makes it. She breaks the kiss this time, moves to nip and bite at my neck, my throat, lick her way down my chest.

She's tattooed. I don't know why it's a shock - she's a sailor. A line down one shoulder blade, three birds in flight. A little knot on her ankle. The surprise is the dragon which coils its way along her left side, bending to breathe flames into her navel. Follow the line of the inking, lick my way along it. She shudders, gasps, whimpers. She turns, kisses her way along the lines of my own artwork. No brand on her. I'm one up.

Scars a-plenty; another thing that makes her different. Marks of a life set apart. Whip marks (from her years as a convent orphan), the scatter of a shotgun blast on the left shoulder, a sword cut across her right thigh. She says there are others. She kisses and touches me as she says it. I'm too distracted to look.

She takes me into her mouth. She murmurs between licks and sucks. I hardly make out the words. "Captain... rum ship... so happy... you did this to him... wanted to try it..." The soft murmur of her voice is beautiful, but even more wonderful is the way she tries to talk with her mouth full. I nearly spend as she speaks.

She tastes different here: more musk, more sandalwood, less of the sharpness of salt and lemon on her. She moans. I wonder whether I can make her climax from this. Redouble my efforts. She gasps, utters little shrieks of pleasure. Change from a lick to a nibble. A scream and she shudders beneath me.

She straddles me, lowers herself onto me. So close, so close. I want to make her scream again before I spend myself. Hold her onto me, move slowly, so slowly, try to wring out the sensation. She's silk and hot velvet. It's so damn hard not to just let go, but I want her to scream for me again, want to know I've made her touch the paradise she takes me to.

Oh God. Oh God!

In the drowsy half-life between the little death and the new life after, I take her into my arms, feel her warm and soft beside me. The warmth of her lulls me into sleep, and I hold her to me.

I wake to find myself alone in the bed. Was she ever here? It's hard to tell. There's no sign that I've been sharing my bed with another. No clothes on the floor. Nothing left behind her. Not even that faint trace of musk, sea, lemon and sandalwood in the air that shows she's been around. Did I dream it all?

I put my hand up to my hair, and pull off the bandanna tied there. Not red. Black. I smile, and make my way to the window, look down into the square below. There she is, walking proudly, and over her mane of black curls, she's wearing my red bandanna.

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