Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Immediately after "the storm" at the start of Season 2
All standard disclaimers apply

A/N: I'm sure someone else has given AoS the Blue Lagoon treatment at some point, but here's my take.

The Island

He wakes on a beach.

Water laps at his legs, tugging, pulling at him with the receding tide. Salt and sand crust his eyes, his mouth. Groaning, he props himself up on shaking arms and vomits what feels like gallons of seawater. Salt stings his cracked lips, sand crunches in his teeth when he tries to swallow.

"Shh. It's okay. Just lie still for a minute."

That voice. He knows that voice.

"Maeve."

"I'm here."

He tries to roll onto his back but his head aches and his vision swims, nearly greying out with the effort. Panting, inhaling sand and salt water, he gives up for the moment, but reaches a hand toward the soft voice. Please. Please let it truly be her.

His fingers touch skin—a bare knee, warm and smooth against wet sand.

"It's okay, Sinbad," she repeats, and a gentle hand touches him, stroking the salt-stiff tangle of his hair. She brushes sand from his cheek with light fingertips; when her touch withdraws he protests, shifting his body, willing her hands to return. He needs the reassurance, needs to know she's here with him. "Just rest, sailor."

A shadow darkens the world behind his closed eyes. A moment later soft, velvet lips touch his forehead, his upturned cheek. He moans, his throat hoarse and rough. Gods, he needs her. He'd do anything for her—even jump overboard in the middle of a storm.

Doubar's horrified shout echoes in his head, his last image of his brother frozen in shock as he realized what Sinbad was about to do. But for Sinbad there was never any choice. Maeve, his Maeve, fell overboard, and a heartbeat later he followed.

She leaves slow, light kisses everywhere—his temple, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. The touch of her lips feels like the brush of a butterfly's wing, like rose petals warm from the sun. So, so soft. So incredibly sweet. Everywhere she kisses, the aches seem to vanish. He knows that's ridiculous and he doesn't care. This girl of fire, fierce and proud, angry and mistrustful, has his heart. He followed her into the storm-tossed sea because he can't be without her, because there was no other option.

Still, he's shocked to wake on land, in more or less one piece, with his fiery Celt kneeling by his head. By all rights they ought both be dead. Yet here they are, together, the rhythm of a gently ebbing tide as steady and sure as the beat of his own heart.

Moving carefully, slower this time, he turns onto his back. Maeve's gentle, smooth touch brushes sand from his eyelids. She shifts, her shadow playing against his closed eyes. Something wet and deliciously warm drags along his lower lip: her tongue. She licks his lips slowly, so achingly slowly, then turns her head and spits sand. A moment later her mouth returns and he moans helplessly, reaches up to touch her as she kisses him. His hand finds the smooth, graceful line of her throat, slipping under the fall of her hair and urging her closer. This kiss is salt and sand, the metallic hint of blood from either his cracked lips or hers. It's warm, so warm, and desperate, full of the knowledge that they shouldn't be here to kiss like this. They should be dead, at the bottom of the sea, bodies perhaps leagues apart—parted forever.

But they're not. They're here, alive and warm—hot, even, in the pounding Arabian sun. He inhales deeply, chest expanding with air, not water. Their mouths part, just for a moment. He can't stand the distance.

Squinting against the glare of the sun, he forces his eyes open. There she is, just a breath away. Her milky skin has pinked in the harsh, sea-bright sunlight and her hair is a riot of glittering red curls. She licks her sweet, plush lips, then kisses him again. And oh, she's everything a cold death at the bottom of the sea isn't: hot, fiery-sweet, vibrant as a flame. Alive. The exhilaration of defying death floods him with new energy and her sweet-hot mouth follows that with a deeper desire, a greater need, than he's ever felt before. They've come through the tempest together, binding them to each other in ways he doesn't understand but feels down to his core. He belongs to her now, and she to him. Understood or not, nothing will ever break this bond.

And right now he needs her—needs the reassurance of her body, the reaffirmation of life after so close a brush with death. With one hand he holds her to him, not breaking their kiss. The other slips between her kneeling legs, pressing them apart, urging her on top of him.

It's a huge imposition for two people who insist they're only friends and normally he'd expect a slap and worse for such an offense, but not today, not after the storm. She complies willingly, sliding one long, slim leg over him, straddling his groin. The heat between her legs presses his trapped cock, hard and aching, and he nearly weeps with the sensation as she settles that gorgeous body on top of his, breasts pressed to his chest, mouth hot as she kisses him. He groans, thrusting up helplessly, hand on the tight curve of her buttock as she meets his movement, pressing down as he pushes up. He aches for touch, for friction, for the deep fulfillment of connection.

She bites his lower lip with a sharp little nip as her hands undo the laces on his sirwal, quick and sure. She lifts up slightly, just enough for his hands to slip between them. He grasps the base of his hard cock and slides a rough hand up her inner thigh. No fabric interferes. She's hot and slick between her legs, molten-sweet, and the little moan that escapes her as he strokes her wet heat makes his cock twitch. He guides her swiftly down, heart pounding as the head of his cock touches those slick, swollen lips, pressing in, pushing, insistent. She sucks in a deep breath, hands on his shoulders, eyes fluttering closed. He can't take his eyes off her, the look of intensity on her beautiful, delicate face, somewhere between pleasure and pain, lost in the sensation as they come together for the first time.

She's so tight around him, hot-slick, as he presses deep, deeper, his hands on her buttocks up under her skirt, pulling her down on his cock, urging her to take it all. There's no hymen to tear and he has no expectation that she's untouched anyway, but still— "Are you hurt?" he manages to gasp, stroking that taut, firm cheek under her skirt, kneading gently. They're still both fully clothed.

"Shit, no." Her eyes drag open, dark with want. She licks her lips, then lowers her head and nips the sharp line of his jaw. Her inner muscles clench and release around him, making him moan. "Don't stop," she begs, sweet and breathy.

Never. He squeezes harder with his hands and thrusts up as she presses down, then withdraws slightly. Slowly their rhythm builds, rough and needy, hips rolling, his fingers digging into her flesh, her teeth at his. Every third or fourth thrust he reaches deep enough to hit her cervix, and her muscles tighten around him. It's dirty and carnal and fantastic. He kisses her mouth punishingly hard, cock thrusting deep, desperate to be as close to her as possible. Her hands pull at his hair, curl around his shoulders as she returns his kisses with bruising intensity. This vital, animal need to be alive, to perform the act of life after so close a brush with death, thunders through them both as the surf pounds the shore, in and out, ebb and flow.

A desperate, high whine leaves her mouth, pleading as she tilts her pelvis, her muscles fluttering around him. She's close, on the edge, desperate to climax. He releases one buttock, slips a hand between her legs. There, nestled sweetly in that lush, velvety softness, he finds the hard little jewel of her clit. He strokes it gently with his slick thumb, her wetness coating his fingertips. Gods, he wants to flip them over, spread her legs, and lick and lick as she writhes below him. He can smell their coupling, almost taste it on his tongue, heady and visceral. His thumb swirls around her clit, slow, almost lazy, as she keens above him, wordlessly begging, putting her pleasure in his hands. It's all too intense and he knows she'll take him with her when she climaxes. He can't last. Liquid heat coats his fingertips; he speeds up his swirling circles just a little, just enough. Her breath catches in her throat and her whole body tenses above him for a long, perfect moment. She clamps down on him and he shoves deep, deeper, and erupts in a blinding, exquisite orgasm. Her body pulses around him, milking the seed from his cock, prolonging the pleasure as he fills her. An image flashes unbidden into his mind: his Maeve, belly swollen with his child. Reckless possessiveness fills him; his primal instinct is to fill her womb, to create life here, now, where they've somehow cheated death.

As the high of pleasure slowly fades, so too does the image. He groans and pulls out of her, his own senses returning, hands now gentle and reverent as he urges her to stay on top of him, stroking her hair as she rests her cheek on his chest. They're both panting, and sweat-sticky under their clothes. He tugs at the neckline of her dress, exposing one creamy shoulder, but she pulls the fabric back over her skin quickly.

"No way, sailor, not in this sun." She squints up at the sky, then raises herself and kisses his mouth gently. She's gorgeous like this, hair wild where his hands have been, lips swollen and dark from his kisses. "I refuse to look like a boiled lobster just because you're curious."

She slips off of him and offers him a hand. "I found some fresh water back in the shade before I found you."

Fresh water and shade are both vitally important. Now that his senses have returned, Sinbad can admit that. He takes her hand and they pull each other to their feet, leaning against the other's body weight like comrades.

Because that's what they are, first and maybe foremost. They're shipmates, captain and crewmember, allies and friends. They trust each other, look out for each other.

Maeve steadies him at first when they stand; he's dizzy. After being pitched around in the sea for hours, anyone would be. He's probably also dehydrated and needs to get out of the sun's glare. He won't burn like Maeve's delicate Irish skin, but too much sun can still make him sunsick.

As his head steadies, he wraps his arms around her. She hugs him back just as tightly. "Thank you," she whispers.

"For what?"

"For coming after me." She pulls away, gives him a sardonic look. "Come on. You didn't think I'd believe the master of the seven seas accidentally fell overboard, did you?"

He touches her pink cheek—she needs to get out of this sun, too. "Sweetling, I couldn't lose you."

The smile she rewards him with is impossibly tender and her warm cheeks turn from pink to red. That's adorable. She's adorable. "Let's go find that shade." She offers him her hand. "Doubar's going to be so mad at you when he finds us."

Sinbad laughs as he takes her hand and squeezes gently. Together they start up the beach, away from the surf, toward a thick snarl of jungle. "He is," he agrees. Poor Doubar. He remembers all too well his brother's horror-stricken expression when he realized Sinbad intended to go after Maeve. "And finding us may take a while. There are a lot of tiny islands in this area."

"Inhabitants?"

"Not that I know of, though Firouz might know better."

They enter the forest, pushing past glossy, thick underbrush. At least with plant life like this there must be an ample supply of fresh water, and hopefully food as well. Maeve easily finds her previous track through the greenery and they follow it on a gently curving route, never too far from the shore. After about twenty minutes they emerge in a mossy clearing, a clear pool of fresh water before them, a narrow waterfall about twice Sinbad's height spilling into the far end. He spies Maeve's blue woolen cloak crumpled on a bed of moss, proving she was here before.

"Perfect! Well done, firebrand." The large pond surrounded by tumbled rocks and moss heartens Sinbad. They won't die of thirst, at least. Even in the shade his skin radiates heat, stinging slightly; it tells him he has, indeed, had too much sun. He shucks off his shirt and boots and jumps into the water.

It's deliciously cold, which tells him it must come from an underground spring somewhere on the island. He swallows mouthfuls of cool, sweet water before coming up for air, hearing Maeve's laughter as he shakes his wet hair.

"Come here," he urges, holding out his hands. He can't touch bottom but he can see it, smooth and pebbly, through the perfectly clear water.

She sits on the edge of the pool, dangling bare feet in the water. Long fingers undo her belt. Setting leather aside, she grasps the white hem of her linen dress and lifts it and the overskirt over her head in one fluid motion, dropping the fabric and diving gracefully under.

Sinbad's eyes widen. Under the water she's a pale blur. His hands reach for her as he treads water, touching smooth, warm skin. She surfaces in front of him. Water drips from her eyelashes, her wet hair auburn-dark. He reaches for her mouth with his, one arm snaking around her waist, pulling her against his body. Her mouth is warm, the water cold; he kisses her hard as his hand drops lower, palming her ass once again. She's slender and strong, long, firm muscles and the softest skin he's ever touched, just a touch of feminine softness to her breasts and buttocks. He's addicted to that ass and he hasn't even seen it yet.

Still. Coupling on the beach was one thing. Overcome with shock and relief at surviving the storm, they let their bodies do what came naturally. Once can be explained away.

But not twice. They have no further excuses. Twice means something, something he's not sure either of them are ready to admit.

"Maeve." He treads water slowly, one hand rising to cup her sunburned cheek. So beautiful. She's the prettiest girl he's ever met, and she means more to him than he knows how to say. He's a man of action; words are not his forte.

"It's okay, Sinbad." One dripping arm slips around his shoulder, her hand curling at the back of his neck, bringing their bodies once more into contact. She kisses his mouth gently.

"You don't have to—"

"I know. I don't owe you anything. I just want you."

He melts. Never would he have expected her to admit such a thing. Not out loud. Not to him.

"I always want you." He's rock hard again and knows she can feel it despite his clothing.

"Then what's stopping you?" She nips his lower lip. "No one's here. It may take a while for Doubar and the others to find us."

There's so much they really ought to be doing instead of fucking. Creating signal fires. Foraging for food. But when she's so close, that milky Celtic skin hot against him, he can't think straight and doesn't care. Later. It can all wait until later.

"Come here, then." He propels them to the pebbly shallows where he can stand, then spans her sleek waist with his hands and lifts her to the mossy bank. "You're mine now, firebrand."

"We should probably get up." It's a terrible suggestion. Even as he says it, Sinbad tightens his hold on Maeve's waist. She's warm in his arms, head on his chest, one leg bent and tossed carelessly over his. He shifts his head on the soft moss blanketing the ground and strokes her side slowly with gentle fingers.

"Mm." The noise low in her throat is one of repletion; she's liquid in his arms, satisfied and spent. "You're without a ship at the moment. I think that means you can't order me around."

"Like hell it does, woman. I'm still captain." He grins as he says it. Maeve never listens to him when she doesn't care to, anyway.

"Ah, but captain of what?" She laughs, slow and lazy, then stretches her whole body languidly, rubbing against him in the process. His body sparks yet again, but he's too tired for another round right now. They'll both be sore in the morning, he suspects. But oh, it was worth it. Her strong, slender body is so devastatingly beautiful. All that creamy fair skin, the parts often exposed to the harsh southern sun kissed with gold. Nipples like berries, more red now than pink from the attention of his mouth and hands. She's sleek, hairless save for a small patch of red curls on her mound. This isn't something he's encountered before, and he loves it—such silk-smooth skin, only the lightest dusting of white-blond peach fuzz, disappearing entirely between her legs, where she's slippery-sweet, plush and wet.

"Why haven't we been doing this all along?" He's musing more than asking, but she chuckles and responds.

"Because your ship, oh captain, is full of nosy sailors who gossip worse than old aunties."

Sinbad laughs. She does have a fair point. Doubar, Firouz, and Rongar are the worst, but even hired hands usually join in. On a ship there's little privacy and on his especially Sinbad has no expectation of any. It's too small and their lives are too closely bound. Working on ships since the age of twelve, he's used to this. Maeve values her privacy highly, though, and Doubar's constant teasing does get old.

"I'm worried about Doubar." Neither his body nor his mind want to be dragged away from this long afternoon of incredible sex, but the thought of his brother sobers him. Doubar is capable of running the Nomad, of that he has no fear. But he hates the thought of his brother's worry. Doubar will be frantic, terrified that Sinbad has drowned, when he's actually perfectly fine. More than fine. Maeve is his now, and he's never letting her go.

Maeve rises slightly to hover above him, tilts her chin up, and kisses him sweetly, her mouth both sensual and soothing. One hand caresses his cheek, her thumb stroking his skin. "You love him," she says, her voice as gentle as her touch. "Of course you're worried. I'm worried about Dermott, too. But Doubar knows what he's doing. He'll take good care of the Nomad for you, and find us soon."

"Maybe Dermott will find us, and lead the ship here."

"That would be nice," Maeve agrees, reluctantly pulling herself into a sitting position. Her long, lovely red hair is a riot of curls from Sinbad running his hands through it. She twists it up into a knot at the back of her head and reaches for her clothing. "He must be too far away right now. I can't reach him."

Sinbad wants to cry when she pulls her dress over that gorgeous body, but he makes himself keep quiet. She seemed to enjoy coupling with him and he hopes he gets to see and touch all of her again soon. But the responsible part of him, the captain in him, is right: they have a lot to do to prepare for the coming night. Grumbling internally, he pulls his sirwal back on, foregoing his shirt and sash.

"How good are your survival skills?" He stands and pulls her with him, only now noticing she has no boots. They must have disappeared in the storm.

Maeve shrugs as she picks up her blue cloak. "It was just me and Dermott before we found Dim-Dim. Sometimes we'd trade work for food and shelter, other times we lived off the land."

Her answer is a relief to Sinbad. He can survive just about anywhere, but he was worried about her hardiness. For all her tough demeanor, there's a feminine core to her that likes to be clean, to wear fine clothes and be treated with deference. For a little while, at least. Then the grown-up tomboy returns, the fierce lass who demands to be considered the equal of any man.

"Let's see where this stream leads," Sinbad suggests, pointing where the water from the pool disappears into the thick jungle. "We can scout around a little, try to find a good location to build some shelter."

"Lead on, captain." She grins. As she teases him, Sinbad's pretty sure he's in love.

A/N: I mentioned before that I have about 20 WIPs right now. I can't guarantee which will see the light of day, it just depends on what I feel like polishing up at any given time. You will see similar motifs and such appearing from story to story. Partially that's just the material I'm drawn to, and partially it's because of my fairly elaborate headcanon. Have fun!