Fandom: The Little Mermaid
Rating: R (like, very)
Word Count: 763
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Done for bananacosmic @ commentfic, Eric/Ariel, Their wedding night and Eric has to explain to her what they're supposed to be doing.
A/N *blushes like crazy* So, apparently, I should be very, careful about what prompts I'm reading when I'm feeing hormonal. This is only getting posted here because I'm such a comment-freak anyway. So for any of you who were wondering what happens during the rare blue moon in which I actually write a sex scene... here ya go.
The candlelight is dim, so it hides the blush spreading over his face.
He remembers being a gangly boy having it explained to him for the first time. A male part. A female part. Placing one inside the other... so simple.
He can see her breathing fast, her body taught and excited, her lips smiling, if uncertain. She wants to continue as badly has he does, she simply doesn't know what's next.
And because she's Ariel, and because she trusts him to tell her things when she asks (and she asks many wonderful things), she waits for him to explain.
Since he's not sure where to begin, he asks her what the merfolk do.
Yes, the candlelight is dim, but he sees her blushing anyway. Feels it.
Nobody explained it to her as it was explained to him. She just witnessed something once. A courtier and a duchess in a corridor of her father's ocean palace. Their arms and tails were entwined, fins waving helplessly as she heard the sound of scales parting, giving way to hidden flesh underneath, their bodies undulating in an off-rhythm as natural as the water.
Eric can imagine her like that. The smooth skin above her hips colliding with the shimmering scales of her lower body. The scales hiding a crevice not unlike the space between her legs in the here and now.
He laughs when she tells him how Sebastian pestered her all evening, trying to discover why she was so quiet and red-faced.
"Dey gonna start t'inkin' you're my daughter instead of de king's!" she imitates him.
She bursts into laugher with him, and it's glorious. She could catch his eye even when she didn't have that perfect lilting voice, but he prays with a desperate fervor that she never loses it again. Because as much as he loves that red hair spread along the pillow, those newly-fashioned legs brushing his thighs, and those bright blue eyes, his favorite part of her body has got to be that tangle of organs hidden in her throat that make a music that shatters him, drawing him like a moth to a flame.
He can't put off her question forever. And in truth, he doesn't want to.
So he tells her. A male part (his) and a female part (hers). One into the other.
He waits for her to comment on the terminology. He remembers being young and snickering for months over the vocabulary, the euphemisms. (prick, member, pole... divining rod was certainly one of the worst.)
Such comments are not forthcoming. Why should they be? After all, she was combing her hair with a dinglehopper not an hour ago.
She finally tugs at his waist-band to remove the last piece of clothing between them. He reciprocates by pulling at the sheet fallen over her hips.
He's frozen stock-still as she stares. It's... not embarrassing, exactly. She loves him. Everything about him, known and undiscovered. He knows that. He feels the same for her. But she's moving in closer to look because that's just her way, and it's really the one part of himself that he truly can't control.
She asks if she can touch him there, like she touched him everywhere else.
He tells her no. She needs to be... gentler with that.
Her touch is whisper-soft and lovingly sure.
He nearly screams when she moves on to touching his legs instead.
Her damned fascination with legs.
He turns the tables, tossing her down onto plush pillows, parting her thighs, caressing that soft skin woven from magic and scales.
He reaches higher and higher till his fingers begin to play with parted flesh. She stiffens at first, then relaxes. Sensations foreign and fascinating. He can only imagine.
And then she's laughing and can hardly stop until he finally guesses why:
"All this time, Grimsby has been instructing you to act like a lady, to keep your legs closed..."
She's nodding, and he's smiling too, sighing with her as their hands roam. Before he fully realizes it, he's between those legs, pressing between them, her hand guiding him. Her sighs catch on a groan of pain and a gasp of discovery.
He can feel her maiden-head torn away inside her, and her entire body clutches him so tight, he thinks he might come undone that very moment.
But he doesn't. And the twinge of pain fades from her brow.
They're both panting as she pulls him closer, and he finally begins to move.
It's an off-rythm as natural as the sea.
f. i . n .