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brigdhTitle: The Application of Science
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: NC-17 for explicit sex.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly.
Notes: Many, many, many thanks to my betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
somebraveapollo and silverflight. This story took way longer to write than is reasonable, but they were immensely helpful.
Summary: “What does sex feel like?” Rose says, her voice drowsy and her head resting on January’s shoulder. “For you, I mean. I assume that the experience must be somewhat different for men, given the divergence in our bodily equipment.”
In which Ben and Hannibal attempt to help Rose answer that question.
(Set between Days of the Dead and Dead Water.)
7,249 words. Also available on AO3.
The Application of Science
“What does sex feel like?” Rose says, her voice drowsy and her head resting on January’s shoulder. “For you, I mean. I assume that the experience must be somewhat different for men, given the divergence in our bodily equipment.”
Hannibal lies close on Rose’s other side, and January is tempted to wait for him to speak up; if there exists an appropriate epigram or relevant bit of poetry, Hannibal can be counted on to know it. But he is quiet and motionless – presumably already asleep, though January can’t see his face behind the curve of Rose’s shoulder and the loose mass of her curls – and January resigns himself to answering the question alone. “It feels good,” he begins, half-asleep and rather lacking in eloquence. “More than good. Wonderful. And when I’m with someone that I care for, then lovemaking becomes about much more than the mere act or the physical sensations; it’s the shared intimacy of it, the closeness, that I find most compelling. To desire and to be desired, to come together in love and trust, to share the pleasure of our bodies....” He takes a breath but then doesn’t continue, running out of words as his sense of self-consciousness catches up with him. “That’s what it feels like.”
It’s dark in the room, but he feels Rose’s smile against his skin, and hears the warmth in her voice. “I know of all that.” She shifts and begins to trace idle patterns over his chest or, knowing her, not so idle – perhaps models of some astronomical arrangement or useful mechanism. “It’s the physical sensations specifically that I’m interested in. What is like to be the, well, the penetrator? What is it like to be inside another person?”
Less than an hour ago January had been doing just that – though not with Rose, but Hannibal. He fumbles for the right words, but even such a recent memory is impressionistic and colored by his emotions, which are apparently unsatisfactory to Rose’s scientific curiosity. He remembers the salty taste of sweat on his lips, the hoarse quality of Hannibal’s murmured praise and endearments, how he had reached up to take Hannibal’s hand in his own. Hannibal’s head had been pillowed on Rose’s thigh, and she had moved her fingers slowly through his hair, her eyes on January's. She’d been quiet and relaxed in the aftermath of her own climax, and had watched their urgent coupling with a languid smile that now led January to wonder if she hadn’t already been contemplating this question.
“I haven’t ever considered it in such terms,” he admits. “Usually I’m not thinking much at all, by that point in the proceedings. It’s... warm. And yielding, though also with a certain tautness.” He waves a hand in the air in a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible even to himself, and Rose’s lips quirk. Inspiration strikes, and he takes Rose’s hand, bends down all the fingers except for the first two, and sucks them into his mouth.
Hannibal – not asleep after all – peers over Rose’s shoulder and then sits up more fully, propping his chin on a hand to watch. Rose pays him no attention. Her gaze is fixed on January’s mouth.
Her hand is large, the fingers long; they fill January’s mouth quite pleasingly. There’s a faint chemical taste on them, overlaid by a sweet herb from the lotion she sometimes uses. But he likes the way she bends her fingers to press their pads against his tongue, so that he feels the scrape of her short nails, the way her skin creases at the knuckles. He sucks hard enough that his cheeks hollow, and then slowly draws away, keeping his mouth closed firmly around the length of her fingers. Her joints are knobby and drag against the inside of his lips, leaving them tingling like after a rough kiss. When only the tips of her fingers are left inside his mouth, he swirls his tongue around them in one final, somewhat smug, gesture, before releasing his gentle hold on her wrist.
“It feels like that,” he says. “Except better.”
Rose looks down at her hand, but her eyes are unfocused, lost in thought. She hums consideringly and slowly rubs her thumb against her fingers.
“I know of another approach,” Hannibal says, breaking in on her concentration. “It won’t exactly replicate the experience of being a man, of course, but perhaps you would nonetheless be interested in the experiment.”
Rose leans back to better see him. “Oh?”
“Unfortunately it requires certain accessories, so we can’t try it now. But if you’re interested, I could acquire them for you.”
“What is the experiment?” Rose says, glancing at January. He shrugs, having no clearer idea of Hannibal’s plan than she has. But there’s an enthusiasm in Hannibal‘s voice that hints at a very enjoyable outcome, and January’s imagination provides a half-formed image of Rose between Hannibal’s spread legs, leaning over him while he happily encourages her to... to do whatever it is that he’s suggesting.
But Hannibal offers no details to clarify that picture. “I would prefer, like Benjamin, to demonstrate by example. This is a matter where words mean less than proofs.” He grins crookedly, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with sleep or flirtation. “I do think you would enjoy it. I know I would.”
Rose moves her fingers against themselves again, then returns Hannibal’s smile. “All right, fetch whatever scientific apparatus we’ll need. But don’t take too long – I hate unanswered questions. It’s like having a mosquito buzz in your ear when you’re trying to sleep, or work, or do anything at all.”
Hannibal kisses her shoulder. “Athénê, I obey. To suffer the torments of curiosity is a terrible fate, and I would not subject you to it for a moment longer than necessary.”
She laughs, but puts her hand to his cheek, turning his face up so that she can kiss him on the mouth. He slips an arm around her waist and presses closer behind her, and January turns on his side, reaching out to stroke her thigh.
***
Despite Hannibal’s assurances, a few weeks pass without further explanation, which doesn’t surprise January. He assumes that Hannibal has forgotten the conversation; he nearly does so himself. The time passes as it usually does: Hannibal drops by the Januarys’ house most days, to teach or have dinner or with a message from mutual friends, and sleeps there once or twice. There’s nothing new in that arrangement. If anyone should ask, it could easily be accounted for by Hannibal having failed to pay his rent again and needing a bed for the night, or by the friends having talked so late that it was more logical for him to stay. No one ever has asked, though; few people pay much attention to where Hannibal spends any particular night, and everyone who might notice has long since grown accustomed to the amount of time he spends in the company of the Januarys. Olympe teases her brother about just that, when January runs into her at the market on Saturday: "Here I thought you'd finally got rid of him, when he ran off to Mexico last year. But you went and fetched him back, and so now here he is again, spending your money and sleeping under your roof. You ain't changed at all from when you were a boy; you always were trying to make pets out of the barn cat's kittens or some puppy you found on the street, no matter how many fleas it had."
"Hannibal doesn't have fleas," January says solemnly. "He bathes very regularly."
She rolls her eyes, but he can tell that she wants to laugh. So he's surprised when she looks away and adds, "I know he's been good to you, so far. But he's a man who don't put up much of a fight against temptation, and I worry about what's going to happen when he has to choose between you and something easier." January makes another joke and changes the topic, but her concern touches him. Troubles him, too; he’s had the same worry, and it's not reassuring to hear her give voice to fears that he hasn’t been able to entirely suppress. Olympe is skeptical and often pessimistic, but in his experience she's usually right. The expression on her face lingers in his thoughts afterwards: the flat line of her mouth and the flinty, knowing look in her eyes.
But for all of the unease that lurks in his heart, he can't deny the surge of gladness that he feels when he recognizes Hannibal's knock on the door the next night. It's much easier to not worry when Hannibal is right there; his coat is shabby and worn, the lines on his face are too deep, but his greeting is warm and there is no mistaking the wholehearted affection in his voice. If it were possible, January would kiss him before he's even come through the door.
Instead he stands aside to let him in, and nods toward the small box Hannibal carries tucked under his arm. "What's that?"
Hannibal pauses on the threshold, grinning up at January with the air of some disreputable sprite, a Robin Goodfellow pleased with whatever lark he's been on. But before he can answer, there's a burst of laughter from the next room – Rose's students, done with their studies for the day – and he amends whatever he'd planned to say to, "It's for later."
January waits curiously until after dinner has been eaten, after Abigail, the women who helps Rose with the housework, has returned to her own home, after the girls have gone to their beds in the attic. Finally only he, Hannibal, and Rose are left in the parlor, their chairs pulled close together and the light soft and shadowy from the one branch of candles still burning. "Now," January asks again. "Tell me: what's in the box?"
"It would be easier to show you." Hannibal fetches the box and hands it to Rose on his return, but kneels awkwardly by her side so that he can hold the lid closed even as it rests in her lap. "This is for you, though you needn't actually use it, if it doesn't appeal. I did mention such an item to you, once – but that was some time ago, and you might have been only momentarily interested. His speech is growing more formal, and he looks down to where his hand still lingers. "Or I could just take it away again, if you'd rather."
Hannibal is almost never discomposed, so his noticeable embarrassment rouses January's curiosity; Rose's also, apparently. "Let me look at it first, and then I will decide if my sensibilities have been offended," she says. Hannibal relinquishes the box lid and sinks back on his heels, glancing up to watch her reaction. She lifts the lid and January peers into the box.
Within is a set of thin leather straps, twisted into a coil and decorated here and there with metal buckles. Lying atop them is an object slightly longer than the length of January's hand, also made of leather, though it seems to have been treated with some substance to darken its color and make it shine, and there's a stiffness to it that suggests a solid interior. One end is a flat base, while the opposite – well. There's no mistaking the shape of an erect penis, the curve of the head and slight bulge of the foreskin. It lacks the finer details of veins and hair, but nevertheless seems quite capable of filling the same purpose.
"Where did you get it?" January asks, fascinated despite himself.
"From a cobbler on Rue Chartres. It's all a matter of knowing what to ask."
"Monsieur Ralen?"
"That's the man. Why, do you know him?"
"My mother buys her shoes from him!"
"Well," Rose says, stroking the object with a fingertip, "based on this example, he does quite fine work."
Hannibal grins. "You could discuss his skill at leather-working with the lovely Madame Levesque at her next Sunday dinner. Commend her on her choice."
There's a wicked light in Rose's eyes as she considers the suggestion. "No," January says firmly, taking the box from her lap. "Neither of you are to make the slightest allusion of this to my mother."
"She's a beautiful woman, amicus meus; I doubt she's as innocent as you think."
"I don't think she's innocent, I think she's my mother. And I'm sure she would find some way to blame this on me."
"Don't be silly. I'm sure Livia would be much more concerned with how much you paid for it than what you did with it." Rose lifts the object out of the box and turns it under her critical gaze. "Or intend to do with it. How does it work?"
Hannibal leans forward and pulls one of the leather straps from the box. "It's worn in the usual anatomical location, and these fasten it into place. After that, it's much the same as the real thing."
"I see. What a clever device, and yet how simple. I'm surprised the possibility didn't occur to me."
"Have you thought about the problem much, my dear?" January asks.
"Enough to know that this is just the solution I would have devised. What is it called?"
"The Americans refer to them as a widow's comfort," Hannibal says. "Which is charming, if a bit unnecessarily limited, in my opinion."
"It's a diletto, a dildo." Both Hannibal and Rose turn to January with raised eyebrows. "I’ve never actually seen one before, but I’ve heard of them."
"And so we all learn something new." Rose sets it back in the box and bends down to kiss Hannibal on the cheek. "Thank you."
He takes her hand. "That's not how ladies usually respond to my more disreputable pieces of knowledge."
"Oh, I rather doubt that." She tightens her fingers around his. "I will need assistance in its use, you know; I can't conduct this experiment by myself. To be the penetrator requires a penetrate-ee."
"Benjamin has first claim on the role." Hannibal glances toward him, but January shakes his head, easily turning it down. He is curious, he’ll admit, but Hannibal obviously feels much more than that; he wants this just as much as Rose does.
Hannibal kisses the back of Rose’s hand. "You deserve to have a fair and tender virgin for this occasion, but lacking such a creature, I would be honored, Athénê, to have you seduce me."
"I'm not sure that 'honored' is the appropriate emotion for this," she says.
"Well, if you would prefer me delirious with lust, I'm sure that could be arranged." His tone is light, but he still holds her hand, his thumb stroking across her knuckles, and there is heat in his gaze.
She removes her hand from his grasp and lightly touches his chin, tilting his face up for her to kiss; her eyes stay open, bright with a keen inner joy that makes January think Athénê is indeed the right name. She draws back and lifts her fingers to Hannibal's lips. He kisses them, then angles his head to lick a long line up the side of her index finger. When he reaches the tip again, he parts his lips and sucks the fingers into his mouth. January hears Rose's quiet gasp, but he keeps his gaze on Hannibal, who looks back at him as he repeats January's earlier demonstration. Hannibal's cheeks hollow and his lips purse as he sucks, his tongue visible for a moment as it slips between Rose's fingers, and January can't help but remember how those same fingers had felt in his own mouth, how they'd tasted.
Hannibal pulls away but doesn't let her fingers fall entirely free; he kisses them with devotion, another kiss for each inch from the tip of her nails down to the last knuckle. He works his way back up and carefully bites the top of one finger, drawing another gasp from Rose, and then takes their whole length into his mouth again. This time Rose doesn't wait for him to act; January sees the tendons in the back of her hand stand out as she presses down against Hannibal's tongue. Hannibal makes a sound, nearly muffled by her hand, but January can hear it well enough to know that it's pleased, and it shoots straight to his groin. Hannibal opens his mouth wider to allow her to move freely – clearly he has no objections to Rose taking the lead. She presses her fingers in and out of his mouth, slowly at first and then with greater confidence. She changes the angle, tries deeper and shallower thrusts, explores his mouth; he sucks when he can but mostly holds still, leaning in toward her, his throat moving as he swallows. When she stops, her fingers are wet with his saliva. She runs them over his lips and leaves them slick and red.
She is breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with each short breath. She tugs Hannibal up into a thorough kiss, and he responds so eagerly that he has to catch at her waist to keep his balance. January puts an arm around her from behind and kisses the side of her neck. She breaks away from Hannibal and turns to him with an unfocused but very happy smile. "Shall we go and conduct your experiment?" January asks.
"Now?" Hannibal says, still on his knees by Rose's side.
"Of course," she answers before January can. "What's the point of waiting? Unless you've changed your mind?"
Hannibal climbs to his feet and then offers her a helping hand, though he needed the assistance more than she does. "Far from it. I am positively impatient: I have bought the mansion of a love / But not possessed it, and though I am sold / Not yet enjoyed." Rose stands, takes his hand, and tucks it into the crook of her arm, leading him into the bedroom. January picks up the box and follows them.
In the bedroom they separate to undress, though they stay close enough to assist one another in the mundane business of drawing down a stocking or untying laces. January finishes folding his clothes neatly over the back of a chair, and looks up to find Hannibal fastening a buckle on one of those thin leather belts, pulling it flush against Rose's skin. The leather is supple and molds perfectly to her curves. It seems to be the last one – the rest of the belts already encircle her, running over her hips and under the crease of her thighs. She is wearing nothing else and the leather, slightly paler than her skin, brings out the golden highlights in her coloring. Hannibal fits the dildo into place at the apex of her thighs, where it juts up rather like the real thing. "Is that seated right?"
Rose looks down at herself with a bemused expression, and moves one of the belts slightly higher on her hip. "How would I know?"
"Well, if it's in the correct spot," Hannibal says, making a fist and pumping the dildo with the same motion he uses on himself or January, "you should feel that."
Rose's breath catches audibly in her throat, and her lips part. "Oh. Yes."
Hannibal smiles, pleased with himself, and repeats the gesture until Rose begins to make sharp, throaty sounds and sinks down to sit on the bed. She pulls him with her, but he lets go of the dildo and drifts his fingers over her thighs. She objects, but instead he bends to kiss her hip, just below one of the belts, and then kisses across her lower belly in a long curve, ending at her navel; January sees the pink of his tongue dip into its shallow depression. Rose leans back on her elbows, allowing him greater access, and Hannibal moves up her body, pausing to kiss or lick or nip as he goes, his eyes open and fixed on her face. He is, as always, gentle, even cautious, though Rose seems as comfortable with him as with January. The sight of them together reassures something small and wordless in January's heart: if he should die, they could take care of one another. Neither would be alone.
There are baser reasons to watch them, of course. Spread back over the bed, Rose is beautiful, the round curves of her hips narrowing into a slender waist, her breasts lifting with each breath. Her hair is up in a practical bun, but as she moves her head a few tendrils are dragged free; they trail across the bedspread beneath her. In the candlelight, she is made entirely of shades of golden-brown. Hannibal, by her side, is a study in contrasts: his hair and eyes dark as coffee against the milk white of his skin. They do share a certain resemblance, both of them slightly gawky-looking with too-long limbs, but January relishes their sharp angles and sparse lines. He could be content to simply look, if he wasn’t greedy to touch as well.
He climbs onto the bed on Rose's other side, and she turns to him, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him to her for a kiss. January closes his eyes to better concentrate on the feel of it; he could lose himself in the pleasure of her mouth, firm on his, her body teasingly brushing his chest and thigh, but Rose keeps the kiss brief. She directs a speaking look down at her new enhancement. "What do you think?" she asks, and he can't help but notice the slight breathlessness of her voice.
January pretends to consider his answer and runs a hand over a leather belt, working a finger beneath it as if to test the fit. "I suppose this is what happens when a woman reads too many novels." Rose laughs and slaps at his shoulder, and he ducks away. "Or maybe it was all of the mathematics. Whatever the cause, it's a clear diagnosis of hysteria." Before Rose can retaliate, he imitates Hannibal and wraps his hand around the dildo, stroking it and pressing its base against her. It doesn't feel quite like a real cock, despite the accurate shape. It's made of something hard – wood, perhaps – though its leather covering softens and smooths away any rough edges. It lacks the warmth of a living body, as well as the way the skin of a real man's member will move slightly under a caress.
It probably tastes different too, January can't help but think, and finds himself looking for Hannibal. He's sitting by the box that January had assumed was now empty, but Hannibal pulls out a small glass bottle, opens it, and pours oil over his fingers. It looks like olive oil, which they've used before under similar circumstances, but doesn't smell like it: this is acrid and floral, like cheap perfume, and even from a few feet away the scent makes January wrinkle his nose. "Where did you get that?"
"It was a lagniappe from M'sieu Ralen."
Rose laughs. "Well, it is appropriate to the purchase. I suppose it would have been strange if he'd given you an onion."
Hannibal shrugs and hands the bottle to January, who tips some of the oil onto Rose's dildo, after only a moment of doubt. Though of course she can't feel it, she sighs and rolls her hips up, pushing the dildo firmly into January's fist. He smears the oil up and down its length, making sure to work the base against her on each stroke. He kisses her shoulders and neck as he does, the slim lines of her collarbones above the soft swell of her breasts; her skin is smooth and warm against his lips, the dildo slippery and cool in his hand. His fingers end up covered in oil, and he touches Rose's inner thigh only to leave behind a glistening mark.
Her eyes are closed, her eyelashes like smudges of charcoal against her cheeks, but when he lets go of the dildo she opens them to look at him, and then turns her head toward Hannibal. He is lying near the head of the bed; his legs are spread and he is using the oil to prepare himself. She watches him do so while January resumes stroking her, her gaze steady even as her hips rise up in small, rhythmic waves. January also looks, and Hannibal grows hard under their combined gaze, the hand between his legs moving more quickly. Rose lifts her arm from January's shoulders and reaches out to stroke Hannibal's ankle. "Go and help him," she says.
January crawls across her and lies beside Hannibal. Rose is watching, so he makes a show of kissing him, drawing out and exaggerating each step; he licks over the closed line of Hannibal's lips to feel them fall apart, then sucks at Hannibal's lower lip, and finally kisses him deeply, tongue in his mouth and hand on his cheek. Hannibal opens so easily to him, and the sounds he makes are so encouraging and unreserved that any thought of a performance is driven out of January's mind; he kisses Hannibal with real passion, rolling to half-cover him. Hannibal kisses him back just as hard, seemingly laid bare by emotion, affection and desire and perhaps even love stripping him of any guards. At moments like these, January isn't troubled by Hannibal's reticence, by the fact that he suspects he doesn't even know Hannibal's real name. Hannibal is sweetly, enticingly pliant beneath him, and it doesn't seem possible that he could have a secret that matters.
When he breaks away, oil is smeared high on Hannibal's cheek. January drops his hand to Hannibal's thigh; the skin there is hot, soft, and the muscle beneath tenses in response to his touch. He spreads his fingers wider and is gratified by how much of Hannibal’s thigh they cover. One of the best parts of having big hands is that sense of enfolding a lover, their body fitting into his hold. Hannibal must appreciate it also, because he twists to press his half-hard cock against January’s leg. His arm ends up caught awkwardly between them, his wrist knocking against January’s as Hannibal continues to work the oil into himself.
January reaches down and covers Hannibal’s hand with his own; Hannibal shivers at the touch, his cock growing harder against January's hip. "Let me," January murmurs. He rubs his thumb over the skin stretched open around Hannibal’s fingers, and feels how slippery they are, the slow tempo of their movement. Hannibal pulls his hand away and spreads his legs wider.
January runs two fingers across the hole before pressing them inside; it’s tight and Hannibal's breath catches audibly. "Too much?" January asks, stopping in place.
"Merely adjusting," Hannibal says. His hips lift in silent invitation as he grins. "Your fingers are larger than mine."
January's belly goes tight with want, and he kisses Hannibal. Hannibal moves his hips again, riding January’s hand; he feels slick and hot and wonderful, and when January curls his fingers, Hannibal breaks the kiss to swear, his words greedy and exultant. January is careful at first, then quickens the pace until he has Hannibal panting. Hannibal shudders and gasps; his reactions magnify every little shift of January’s fingers. January rotates his wrist, dragging his knuckles over a particularly sensitive spot, and Hannibal groans and grabs January's shoulder.
“Wait, Ben, God,” he says, his voice ragged. “You’ll finish me off before Rose has even begun.”
January knows that he could. He’s done it before – brought Hannibal to climax using only his fingers. There may be no obvious satisfaction for him in such an act, but he enjoys it; there is pleasure to be had in the way Hannibal trembles, how his body clenches around January’s hand. It makes January feel close to him, as though the secrets Hannibal keeps don’t matter. As though January already knows what they were, despite never having heard them spoken.
“I’m not entirely opposed to watching,” Rose says, having moved up the bed to lie on Hannibal’s other side, and indeed she does look intrigued, “but it seems a shame to delay the experiment further.”
January laughs and eases his hand away. Hannibal draws in a sharp breath and closes his eyes, his body rigid against January's side with the ache of a forestalled climax. Rose smiles at January across him, then brushes aside Hannibal’s long hair and rests her head on his shoulder until he recovers enough to turn and kiss her. It begins as a light caress, but Rose moves over him, her knees framing his narrow hips; the kiss becomes long and eager and very thorough. When she finally lifts her head, Hannibal follows her up to catch one more kiss. He moves down from her mouth to kiss the hollow of her throat, the muscle of her upper arm. She bends her head to his and gently bites his earlobe; he makes an appreciative sound deep in his throat, and her smile in response is brilliant. She sits up and puts her hands to his shoulders, pushing him back against the bed.
As she leans over him, a lock of her hair spills into his face. She brushes it away with the back of her hand, then puts her fingertips to the spot it touched; she softly traces a half-circle from his brow to temple and down across his cheek to his chin. She nearly glows, pleased and anticipatory and brazen, and January knows that no one else ever sees her wear this expression, nor sees the passion beneath her cool exterior. He rolls toward her, wrapping an arm around her and putting a kiss on her shoulder-blade.
"Like this," Rose says, speaking to Hannibal as she leans back into January's embrace. "Lie like this for me, won't you?"
"It's an awkward position. I can make it easier for you, for your first time, if I shift to my knees."
Rose hesitates, then says, "I want to watch your face."
"As you like," Hannibal says in a blithe voice, but when January glances at him, his eyes are wide and dark and his cheeks are flushed with arousal. January bends down to kiss him, and slips his hand under Hannibal’s knee, assisting as Hannibal lifts his legs. Hannibal sighs and tips his head back; his quick pulse is visible in the exposed hollow of his throat. His whole body is spread wide, like a gift offered up, and January cannot resist smoothing his hand down the back of Hannibal's thigh, from the tendons that stand out against the skin just above his knee to the soft curve of flesh at the very top.
Rose mimics him, stroking Hannibal's other leg; he manages to spread his legs even wider in response. She runs her hand downward, her long fingers splayed over his skin, until she reaches the entrance to his body. She presses her thumb slightly below there, to where the oil has run and made his skin visibly slick. "Will this hurt you?"
He stiffens under her touch, and has to clear his throat before speaking. "Not if it's done correctly." Rose looks at him, nervous, but he continues, "I have had much less considerate lovers than you and still enjoyed the experience. You needn't be concerned."
She moves into position behind Hannibal, January giving way, and grasps the base of the dildo to direct it. She aligns herself with Hannibal’s entrance, and is less than an inch from entering him when she freezes. Her gaze shifts uncertainly from the dildo to Hannibal's face. No one moves for a long moment, and then Hannibal breaks the tension with a shaky laugh. "Athénê, I think the next step is self-evident." His voice is thin, with an edge of desperation, and the muscles in his shoulders and jaw are braced as for a blow.
She takes a deep breath, her breasts rising and falling. "Will you ask me?" she says. Her lips are thin, but whether from passion or fear or something else entirely January cannot tell. He moves toward her and wraps an arm around her once more, but this time to cover her hand on the dildo with his own. He feels her breathe again, the tension in her body slightly lessening.
"Slowly," he whispers in her ear. She jerks her head in a rough approximation of a nod. He begins to gently push her hips forward with his own, but she won’t move.
"Ask me," she says again, her voice steady and her eyes on Hannibal.
He tries to grin at her but doesn’t quite manage it. "Athénê – Rose – would you do this for me, would you give me –" His usual charm is cracking, revealing the stronger, more vulnerable emotions beneath. "Would you, please –"
Rose presses forward in a single smooth motion and Hannibal cuts himself off with a hiss. His hands clench in the sheet, and he stops breathing until Rose is as far forward as she can get, the dildo entirely buried in him; January slips his hand from between them just as Hannibal releases his held air in a great shuddering rush. Rose too is nearly gasping, her eyes squeezed tightly closed and her head bent forward. "Oh," she says in a hushed voice, "oh, oh." January's cock isn't even touching anything and he still feels on the edge of coming, nearly undone just by this sight.
Hannibal's body relaxes beneath them; he lifts his hips, and somehow Rose slides an impossible inch deeper. "Not so terrible, is it?" he asks.
Rose laughs; it is shaky but grateful, and when she opens her eyes, her gaze is free of anything outside of the present moment. She begins to move and Hannibal tightens his legs around her, his teasing stuttering off. They are slow and cautious at first, as they take stock of one another’s reactions. Then Rose attempts a hard thrust of her hips; Hannibal cries out, sharp and wordless but not at all displeased. She does it again and he says, "Yes, that –" His voice breaks as she shoves back into him, and even when he recovers, he speaks in the same rhythm as the one they move to. "Like that. You – you seem to have – grasped the idea – quite well. Ah – don't stop –"
Rose plants a hand on the bed beside his head and leans her weight forward, forcing his thighs nearly back to his chest. They kiss, openmouthed for lack of air, and Hannibal releases the sheet to clutch at her just as frantically, his fingers fumbling for a hold. She rocks into him with short, fast strokes, pushing him into the pillow, and he cups her hips and adds his strength to her thrusts, pulling her deeper into him.
He hooks a knee over Rose's shoulder, and his heel lands on January's chest. January strokes his hand down Hannibal’s calf to his ankle, turns to kiss that knob of bone, and then lifts the whole leg higher to change the angle where Hannibal and Rose meet. They both groan, Rose's voice high and startled, Hannibal's only grateful. Rose abandons the long strokes, and instead grinds against Hannibal with quick short twitches of her hips. He moves desperately beneath her, trying to encourage her to fuck him harder. January's breath is uneven, and his pulse seems to leap in time with each thrust, fast and growing faster. He reaches between Rose's legs, beneath the dildo, and finds her slick and hot. He slides his fingers across the folds of her flesh; her most sensitive part is hidden beneath the base of the dildo, but there is enough skin still exposed for him to caress.
Rose trembles at the additional sensation, her thrusts into Hannibal breaking off as she instead presses back toward January's hand. She gasps as his fingers slip easily into her. Hannibal rocks his hips up, which pushes her more firmly onto January; she moves back and forth between them, taking pleasure from both. Then she stills, her back arched, her fingers dug into the mattress, and she clenches hard around January's fingers. He is behind her and can't see her face, but nonetheless he knows what she looks like at such a time: her eyes will be open, her cheeks flushed with pink over her brown skin, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He buries his face against her back to listen as her heart races.
The last waves of aftershocks shiver through her muscles, and January slows the movement of his fingers in and out of her. She begins to thrust again into Hannibal; she rides out the end of her climax with long, rolling strokes that reduce him to babbling incoherence. He shoves himself up roughly to meet each one, but listening to the almost pained note in his voice, January can tell that being fucked won’t be enough for him to finish. January draws his hand carefully from Rose, then reaches around her to take Hannibal's cock in his sticky fingers. Hannibal sobs, pleasure finally robbing him of all his words, and he moves up in short, shallow jerks, as if he can't decide which of them to go toward. His cock is red and rock-hard, and January strokes him steadily, watching him over Rose's shoulder; January’s mouth is on her skin, and she tastes salty with sweat, her hair a tickling distraction against his ear. His arms are around her as she fucks Hannibal and each backstroke brings her hard against his cock. She surely can feel how he is affected. Perhaps she's even doing it on purpose, rubbing her hips against him in between each forward thrust.
He feels raw and oversensitive, but he’s also impatient for more; he increases the speed of his hand on Hannibal, outpacing Rose's thrusts. Hannibal digs his heels into Rose's back, arches like a drawn bow, and spills over January's fingers. Rose slows and comes to a stop, then leans forward to kiss Hannibal's shoulders and neck, the sensitive spot beneath his jaw where the blood runs close to the skin. Hannibal murmurs something inaudible and tilts her face up with gentle fingers to kiss her mouth.
Rose pulls out of Hannibal – whose breath hitches as she slips free – and turns in January's arms. He kisses her; he has been wanting to kiss her for the longest time, and when presented with the brightness of her eyes and the strength and duration of her smile, there is no way he could resist it. They fall to the bed beside Hannibal, Rose's hands clasping January's face to hold him to her mouth. Her dildo presses hard and tantalizing against his own cock, but her breasts are soft against his chest and her hips are full and round in his hands. She takes hold of him and guides him into her body, and though the presence of the dildo forces them to adjust, their joining is still perfect. She is even hotter and wetter on his cock than she had been around his fingers, and she flexes beneath him, her head back, as eager as he is himself. After waiting for so long, all January can do is rock into her, fast and deep, her hands warm and damp against his face. "Yes," she repeats, her voice uninhibited, and when her words turn to moans, it's sweet to his ears.
Hannibal is watching them; he turns on his side and reaches for the thin leather belts that secure the dildo to Rose. His long fingers stroke across the leather and her skin, the soft curves of her belly and thigh. As he loosens the belts, red marks are revealed beneath, and he smooths them away, his movements slow with post-coital laziness. He bends down to press kisses where he can, staying on the outside of Rose's hips. She pushes faster against January, and he buries his face in her shoulder; the sight is too much, but even behind his eyelids he can still see Hannibal's pink lips against her bronze skin, the hot stripes on his soft tongue.
Hannibal opens the last of the buckles, then tugs the dildo out from between January and Rose. He replaces it with his hand, his knuckles brushing against January's belly as he strokes Rose; he curls close to her side to lay slow, lingering kisses on her cheek and shoulder. Even if January couldn't feel Hannibal's hand working against her, he would know what Hannibal was doing by how Rose reacts: her movements grow hurried and irregular, her hands tug him closer with every move of their bodies, and she bucks up into him, seeking her own pleasure. When it comes, it is quiet and sharp and almost invisible, but January feels her tighten around him. She goes taut for an almost endless heartbeat, and his own orgasm is dragged from him.
January is breathless afterward, completely wrung out. He gathers the strength to roll off of Rose and fit himself between her and Hannibal, but he is sweaty and exhausted and guesses by the stillness on either side of him that they are also. After a moment, Rose shifts, lifting her head to his shoulder, and January kisses the top of it, the only spot that he can reach without moving. Her hair smells of soap and chamomile tea, despite the room's general scent of sex.
Hannibal smiles, sleek as a cat in cream. For all of January’s doubts, he does know that Hannibal loves them, and wants to be here with them; it’s undeniable when he looks so happy about it. Hannibal stretches and says, "Well, from my perspective the experiment was a success."
Rose laughs; her breath puffs against January's skin. "Oh? And what did you learn?"
“That I greatly enjoyed myself. Before I merely hypothesized that I would, you see.”
“What a shocking discovery,” she says, amusement lurking under the proper tone of her voice. “Of course, any good experiment should be run more than once. We will need to confirm these first results, and there’s no such thing as too much evidence.”
“All of that, and your curiosity wasn’t satisfied?” January asks. He’s only teasing her, but Rose looks up at him, her eyebrows raised.
“No,” she says plainly, “and I hope it never will be. Not entirely, anyway. How awful that would be.”
He laughs helplessly; of course Rose would never want to run out of questions. She might desire the answers as well, but her passion is for the hard work of analysis and unraveling as much as it is for the reward of knowing. She is strange, she is obstinate, her outlook on the world is nothing like his own; he loves her. Wherever her curiosity leads her, he wants to help her go there. “Then we’ll have to devise a new experiment,” January says.
“Oh, I think we can use this one again, at least a few more times. I feel that there’s still more I could learn from it.” She smiles to herself and places her head back on his shoulder.
“There’s no such thing as too much evidence,” January repeats. She hums in drowsy agreement as Hannibal settles into position on his other side; that’s all January needs to fall asleep, fully content.
***
Hannibal citations:
The term "widow comforter" probably wasn't actually coined until the mid-1800s, but I really wanted to use it. "Diletto" is from the Italian word delight, and is the source of the English word dildo. Here is a helpful and interesting discussion with possibly everything you want to know about historical dildos; I'm grateful to everyone who commented.
I have bought the mansion of a love
But not possessed it, and though I am sold
Not yet enjoyed.
- Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: NC-17 for explicit sex.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly.
Notes: Many, many, many thanks to my betas,
somebraveapollo and silverflight. This story took way longer to write than is reasonable, but they were immensely helpful. Summary: “What does sex feel like?” Rose says, her voice drowsy and her head resting on January’s shoulder. “For you, I mean. I assume that the experience must be somewhat different for men, given the divergence in our bodily equipment.”
In which Ben and Hannibal attempt to help Rose answer that question.
(Set between Days of the Dead and Dead Water.)
7,249 words. Also available on AO3.
The Application of Science
“What does sex feel like?” Rose says, her voice drowsy and her head resting on January’s shoulder. “For you, I mean. I assume that the experience must be somewhat different for men, given the divergence in our bodily equipment.”
Hannibal lies close on Rose’s other side, and January is tempted to wait for him to speak up; if there exists an appropriate epigram or relevant bit of poetry, Hannibal can be counted on to know it. But he is quiet and motionless – presumably already asleep, though January can’t see his face behind the curve of Rose’s shoulder and the loose mass of her curls – and January resigns himself to answering the question alone. “It feels good,” he begins, half-asleep and rather lacking in eloquence. “More than good. Wonderful. And when I’m with someone that I care for, then lovemaking becomes about much more than the mere act or the physical sensations; it’s the shared intimacy of it, the closeness, that I find most compelling. To desire and to be desired, to come together in love and trust, to share the pleasure of our bodies....” He takes a breath but then doesn’t continue, running out of words as his sense of self-consciousness catches up with him. “That’s what it feels like.”
It’s dark in the room, but he feels Rose’s smile against his skin, and hears the warmth in her voice. “I know of all that.” She shifts and begins to trace idle patterns over his chest or, knowing her, not so idle – perhaps models of some astronomical arrangement or useful mechanism. “It’s the physical sensations specifically that I’m interested in. What is like to be the, well, the penetrator? What is it like to be inside another person?”
Less than an hour ago January had been doing just that – though not with Rose, but Hannibal. He fumbles for the right words, but even such a recent memory is impressionistic and colored by his emotions, which are apparently unsatisfactory to Rose’s scientific curiosity. He remembers the salty taste of sweat on his lips, the hoarse quality of Hannibal’s murmured praise and endearments, how he had reached up to take Hannibal’s hand in his own. Hannibal’s head had been pillowed on Rose’s thigh, and she had moved her fingers slowly through his hair, her eyes on January's. She’d been quiet and relaxed in the aftermath of her own climax, and had watched their urgent coupling with a languid smile that now led January to wonder if she hadn’t already been contemplating this question.
“I haven’t ever considered it in such terms,” he admits. “Usually I’m not thinking much at all, by that point in the proceedings. It’s... warm. And yielding, though also with a certain tautness.” He waves a hand in the air in a gesture that is entirely incomprehensible even to himself, and Rose’s lips quirk. Inspiration strikes, and he takes Rose’s hand, bends down all the fingers except for the first two, and sucks them into his mouth.
Hannibal – not asleep after all – peers over Rose’s shoulder and then sits up more fully, propping his chin on a hand to watch. Rose pays him no attention. Her gaze is fixed on January’s mouth.
Her hand is large, the fingers long; they fill January’s mouth quite pleasingly. There’s a faint chemical taste on them, overlaid by a sweet herb from the lotion she sometimes uses. But he likes the way she bends her fingers to press their pads against his tongue, so that he feels the scrape of her short nails, the way her skin creases at the knuckles. He sucks hard enough that his cheeks hollow, and then slowly draws away, keeping his mouth closed firmly around the length of her fingers. Her joints are knobby and drag against the inside of his lips, leaving them tingling like after a rough kiss. When only the tips of her fingers are left inside his mouth, he swirls his tongue around them in one final, somewhat smug, gesture, before releasing his gentle hold on her wrist.
“It feels like that,” he says. “Except better.”
Rose looks down at her hand, but her eyes are unfocused, lost in thought. She hums consideringly and slowly rubs her thumb against her fingers.
“I know of another approach,” Hannibal says, breaking in on her concentration. “It won’t exactly replicate the experience of being a man, of course, but perhaps you would nonetheless be interested in the experiment.”
Rose leans back to better see him. “Oh?”
“Unfortunately it requires certain accessories, so we can’t try it now. But if you’re interested, I could acquire them for you.”
“What is the experiment?” Rose says, glancing at January. He shrugs, having no clearer idea of Hannibal’s plan than she has. But there’s an enthusiasm in Hannibal‘s voice that hints at a very enjoyable outcome, and January’s imagination provides a half-formed image of Rose between Hannibal’s spread legs, leaning over him while he happily encourages her to... to do whatever it is that he’s suggesting.
But Hannibal offers no details to clarify that picture. “I would prefer, like Benjamin, to demonstrate by example. This is a matter where words mean less than proofs.” He grins crookedly, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with sleep or flirtation. “I do think you would enjoy it. I know I would.”
Rose moves her fingers against themselves again, then returns Hannibal’s smile. “All right, fetch whatever scientific apparatus we’ll need. But don’t take too long – I hate unanswered questions. It’s like having a mosquito buzz in your ear when you’re trying to sleep, or work, or do anything at all.”
Hannibal kisses her shoulder. “Athénê, I obey. To suffer the torments of curiosity is a terrible fate, and I would not subject you to it for a moment longer than necessary.”
She laughs, but puts her hand to his cheek, turning his face up so that she can kiss him on the mouth. He slips an arm around her waist and presses closer behind her, and January turns on his side, reaching out to stroke her thigh.
Despite Hannibal’s assurances, a few weeks pass without further explanation, which doesn’t surprise January. He assumes that Hannibal has forgotten the conversation; he nearly does so himself. The time passes as it usually does: Hannibal drops by the Januarys’ house most days, to teach or have dinner or with a message from mutual friends, and sleeps there once or twice. There’s nothing new in that arrangement. If anyone should ask, it could easily be accounted for by Hannibal having failed to pay his rent again and needing a bed for the night, or by the friends having talked so late that it was more logical for him to stay. No one ever has asked, though; few people pay much attention to where Hannibal spends any particular night, and everyone who might notice has long since grown accustomed to the amount of time he spends in the company of the Januarys. Olympe teases her brother about just that, when January runs into her at the market on Saturday: "Here I thought you'd finally got rid of him, when he ran off to Mexico last year. But you went and fetched him back, and so now here he is again, spending your money and sleeping under your roof. You ain't changed at all from when you were a boy; you always were trying to make pets out of the barn cat's kittens or some puppy you found on the street, no matter how many fleas it had."
"Hannibal doesn't have fleas," January says solemnly. "He bathes very regularly."
She rolls her eyes, but he can tell that she wants to laugh. So he's surprised when she looks away and adds, "I know he's been good to you, so far. But he's a man who don't put up much of a fight against temptation, and I worry about what's going to happen when he has to choose between you and something easier." January makes another joke and changes the topic, but her concern touches him. Troubles him, too; he’s had the same worry, and it's not reassuring to hear her give voice to fears that he hasn’t been able to entirely suppress. Olympe is skeptical and often pessimistic, but in his experience she's usually right. The expression on her face lingers in his thoughts afterwards: the flat line of her mouth and the flinty, knowing look in her eyes.
But for all of the unease that lurks in his heart, he can't deny the surge of gladness that he feels when he recognizes Hannibal's knock on the door the next night. It's much easier to not worry when Hannibal is right there; his coat is shabby and worn, the lines on his face are too deep, but his greeting is warm and there is no mistaking the wholehearted affection in his voice. If it were possible, January would kiss him before he's even come through the door.
Instead he stands aside to let him in, and nods toward the small box Hannibal carries tucked under his arm. "What's that?"
Hannibal pauses on the threshold, grinning up at January with the air of some disreputable sprite, a Robin Goodfellow pleased with whatever lark he's been on. But before he can answer, there's a burst of laughter from the next room – Rose's students, done with their studies for the day – and he amends whatever he'd planned to say to, "It's for later."
January waits curiously until after dinner has been eaten, after Abigail, the women who helps Rose with the housework, has returned to her own home, after the girls have gone to their beds in the attic. Finally only he, Hannibal, and Rose are left in the parlor, their chairs pulled close together and the light soft and shadowy from the one branch of candles still burning. "Now," January asks again. "Tell me: what's in the box?"
"It would be easier to show you." Hannibal fetches the box and hands it to Rose on his return, but kneels awkwardly by her side so that he can hold the lid closed even as it rests in her lap. "This is for you, though you needn't actually use it, if it doesn't appeal. I did mention such an item to you, once – but that was some time ago, and you might have been only momentarily interested. His speech is growing more formal, and he looks down to where his hand still lingers. "Or I could just take it away again, if you'd rather."
Hannibal is almost never discomposed, so his noticeable embarrassment rouses January's curiosity; Rose's also, apparently. "Let me look at it first, and then I will decide if my sensibilities have been offended," she says. Hannibal relinquishes the box lid and sinks back on his heels, glancing up to watch her reaction. She lifts the lid and January peers into the box.
Within is a set of thin leather straps, twisted into a coil and decorated here and there with metal buckles. Lying atop them is an object slightly longer than the length of January's hand, also made of leather, though it seems to have been treated with some substance to darken its color and make it shine, and there's a stiffness to it that suggests a solid interior. One end is a flat base, while the opposite – well. There's no mistaking the shape of an erect penis, the curve of the head and slight bulge of the foreskin. It lacks the finer details of veins and hair, but nevertheless seems quite capable of filling the same purpose.
"Where did you get it?" January asks, fascinated despite himself.
"From a cobbler on Rue Chartres. It's all a matter of knowing what to ask."
"Monsieur Ralen?"
"That's the man. Why, do you know him?"
"My mother buys her shoes from him!"
"Well," Rose says, stroking the object with a fingertip, "based on this example, he does quite fine work."
Hannibal grins. "You could discuss his skill at leather-working with the lovely Madame Levesque at her next Sunday dinner. Commend her on her choice."
There's a wicked light in Rose's eyes as she considers the suggestion. "No," January says firmly, taking the box from her lap. "Neither of you are to make the slightest allusion of this to my mother."
"She's a beautiful woman, amicus meus; I doubt she's as innocent as you think."
"I don't think she's innocent, I think she's my mother. And I'm sure she would find some way to blame this on me."
"Don't be silly. I'm sure Livia would be much more concerned with how much you paid for it than what you did with it." Rose lifts the object out of the box and turns it under her critical gaze. "Or intend to do with it. How does it work?"
Hannibal leans forward and pulls one of the leather straps from the box. "It's worn in the usual anatomical location, and these fasten it into place. After that, it's much the same as the real thing."
"I see. What a clever device, and yet how simple. I'm surprised the possibility didn't occur to me."
"Have you thought about the problem much, my dear?" January asks.
"Enough to know that this is just the solution I would have devised. What is it called?"
"The Americans refer to them as a widow's comfort," Hannibal says. "Which is charming, if a bit unnecessarily limited, in my opinion."
"It's a diletto, a dildo." Both Hannibal and Rose turn to January with raised eyebrows. "I’ve never actually seen one before, but I’ve heard of them."
"And so we all learn something new." Rose sets it back in the box and bends down to kiss Hannibal on the cheek. "Thank you."
He takes her hand. "That's not how ladies usually respond to my more disreputable pieces of knowledge."
"Oh, I rather doubt that." She tightens her fingers around his. "I will need assistance in its use, you know; I can't conduct this experiment by myself. To be the penetrator requires a penetrate-ee."
"Benjamin has first claim on the role." Hannibal glances toward him, but January shakes his head, easily turning it down. He is curious, he’ll admit, but Hannibal obviously feels much more than that; he wants this just as much as Rose does.
Hannibal kisses the back of Rose’s hand. "You deserve to have a fair and tender virgin for this occasion, but lacking such a creature, I would be honored, Athénê, to have you seduce me."
"I'm not sure that 'honored' is the appropriate emotion for this," she says.
"Well, if you would prefer me delirious with lust, I'm sure that could be arranged." His tone is light, but he still holds her hand, his thumb stroking across her knuckles, and there is heat in his gaze.
She removes her hand from his grasp and lightly touches his chin, tilting his face up for her to kiss; her eyes stay open, bright with a keen inner joy that makes January think Athénê is indeed the right name. She draws back and lifts her fingers to Hannibal's lips. He kisses them, then angles his head to lick a long line up the side of her index finger. When he reaches the tip again, he parts his lips and sucks the fingers into his mouth. January hears Rose's quiet gasp, but he keeps his gaze on Hannibal, who looks back at him as he repeats January's earlier demonstration. Hannibal's cheeks hollow and his lips purse as he sucks, his tongue visible for a moment as it slips between Rose's fingers, and January can't help but remember how those same fingers had felt in his own mouth, how they'd tasted.
Hannibal pulls away but doesn't let her fingers fall entirely free; he kisses them with devotion, another kiss for each inch from the tip of her nails down to the last knuckle. He works his way back up and carefully bites the top of one finger, drawing another gasp from Rose, and then takes their whole length into his mouth again. This time Rose doesn't wait for him to act; January sees the tendons in the back of her hand stand out as she presses down against Hannibal's tongue. Hannibal makes a sound, nearly muffled by her hand, but January can hear it well enough to know that it's pleased, and it shoots straight to his groin. Hannibal opens his mouth wider to allow her to move freely – clearly he has no objections to Rose taking the lead. She presses her fingers in and out of his mouth, slowly at first and then with greater confidence. She changes the angle, tries deeper and shallower thrusts, explores his mouth; he sucks when he can but mostly holds still, leaning in toward her, his throat moving as he swallows. When she stops, her fingers are wet with his saliva. She runs them over his lips and leaves them slick and red.
She is breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with each short breath. She tugs Hannibal up into a thorough kiss, and he responds so eagerly that he has to catch at her waist to keep his balance. January puts an arm around her from behind and kisses the side of her neck. She breaks away from Hannibal and turns to him with an unfocused but very happy smile. "Shall we go and conduct your experiment?" January asks.
"Now?" Hannibal says, still on his knees by Rose's side.
"Of course," she answers before January can. "What's the point of waiting? Unless you've changed your mind?"
Hannibal climbs to his feet and then offers her a helping hand, though he needed the assistance more than she does. "Far from it. I am positively impatient: I have bought the mansion of a love / But not possessed it, and though I am sold / Not yet enjoyed." Rose stands, takes his hand, and tucks it into the crook of her arm, leading him into the bedroom. January picks up the box and follows them.
In the bedroom they separate to undress, though they stay close enough to assist one another in the mundane business of drawing down a stocking or untying laces. January finishes folding his clothes neatly over the back of a chair, and looks up to find Hannibal fastening a buckle on one of those thin leather belts, pulling it flush against Rose's skin. The leather is supple and molds perfectly to her curves. It seems to be the last one – the rest of the belts already encircle her, running over her hips and under the crease of her thighs. She is wearing nothing else and the leather, slightly paler than her skin, brings out the golden highlights in her coloring. Hannibal fits the dildo into place at the apex of her thighs, where it juts up rather like the real thing. "Is that seated right?"
Rose looks down at herself with a bemused expression, and moves one of the belts slightly higher on her hip. "How would I know?"
"Well, if it's in the correct spot," Hannibal says, making a fist and pumping the dildo with the same motion he uses on himself or January, "you should feel that."
Rose's breath catches audibly in her throat, and her lips part. "Oh. Yes."
Hannibal smiles, pleased with himself, and repeats the gesture until Rose begins to make sharp, throaty sounds and sinks down to sit on the bed. She pulls him with her, but he lets go of the dildo and drifts his fingers over her thighs. She objects, but instead he bends to kiss her hip, just below one of the belts, and then kisses across her lower belly in a long curve, ending at her navel; January sees the pink of his tongue dip into its shallow depression. Rose leans back on her elbows, allowing him greater access, and Hannibal moves up her body, pausing to kiss or lick or nip as he goes, his eyes open and fixed on her face. He is, as always, gentle, even cautious, though Rose seems as comfortable with him as with January. The sight of them together reassures something small and wordless in January's heart: if he should die, they could take care of one another. Neither would be alone.
There are baser reasons to watch them, of course. Spread back over the bed, Rose is beautiful, the round curves of her hips narrowing into a slender waist, her breasts lifting with each breath. Her hair is up in a practical bun, but as she moves her head a few tendrils are dragged free; they trail across the bedspread beneath her. In the candlelight, she is made entirely of shades of golden-brown. Hannibal, by her side, is a study in contrasts: his hair and eyes dark as coffee against the milk white of his skin. They do share a certain resemblance, both of them slightly gawky-looking with too-long limbs, but January relishes their sharp angles and sparse lines. He could be content to simply look, if he wasn’t greedy to touch as well.
He climbs onto the bed on Rose's other side, and she turns to him, putting her arms around his neck and pulling him to her for a kiss. January closes his eyes to better concentrate on the feel of it; he could lose himself in the pleasure of her mouth, firm on his, her body teasingly brushing his chest and thigh, but Rose keeps the kiss brief. She directs a speaking look down at her new enhancement. "What do you think?" she asks, and he can't help but notice the slight breathlessness of her voice.
January pretends to consider his answer and runs a hand over a leather belt, working a finger beneath it as if to test the fit. "I suppose this is what happens when a woman reads too many novels." Rose laughs and slaps at his shoulder, and he ducks away. "Or maybe it was all of the mathematics. Whatever the cause, it's a clear diagnosis of hysteria." Before Rose can retaliate, he imitates Hannibal and wraps his hand around the dildo, stroking it and pressing its base against her. It doesn't feel quite like a real cock, despite the accurate shape. It's made of something hard – wood, perhaps – though its leather covering softens and smooths away any rough edges. It lacks the warmth of a living body, as well as the way the skin of a real man's member will move slightly under a caress.
It probably tastes different too, January can't help but think, and finds himself looking for Hannibal. He's sitting by the box that January had assumed was now empty, but Hannibal pulls out a small glass bottle, opens it, and pours oil over his fingers. It looks like olive oil, which they've used before under similar circumstances, but doesn't smell like it: this is acrid and floral, like cheap perfume, and even from a few feet away the scent makes January wrinkle his nose. "Where did you get that?"
"It was a lagniappe from M'sieu Ralen."
Rose laughs. "Well, it is appropriate to the purchase. I suppose it would have been strange if he'd given you an onion."
Hannibal shrugs and hands the bottle to January, who tips some of the oil onto Rose's dildo, after only a moment of doubt. Though of course she can't feel it, she sighs and rolls her hips up, pushing the dildo firmly into January's fist. He smears the oil up and down its length, making sure to work the base against her on each stroke. He kisses her shoulders and neck as he does, the slim lines of her collarbones above the soft swell of her breasts; her skin is smooth and warm against his lips, the dildo slippery and cool in his hand. His fingers end up covered in oil, and he touches Rose's inner thigh only to leave behind a glistening mark.
Her eyes are closed, her eyelashes like smudges of charcoal against her cheeks, but when he lets go of the dildo she opens them to look at him, and then turns her head toward Hannibal. He is lying near the head of the bed; his legs are spread and he is using the oil to prepare himself. She watches him do so while January resumes stroking her, her gaze steady even as her hips rise up in small, rhythmic waves. January also looks, and Hannibal grows hard under their combined gaze, the hand between his legs moving more quickly. Rose lifts her arm from January's shoulders and reaches out to stroke Hannibal's ankle. "Go and help him," she says.
January crawls across her and lies beside Hannibal. Rose is watching, so he makes a show of kissing him, drawing out and exaggerating each step; he licks over the closed line of Hannibal's lips to feel them fall apart, then sucks at Hannibal's lower lip, and finally kisses him deeply, tongue in his mouth and hand on his cheek. Hannibal opens so easily to him, and the sounds he makes are so encouraging and unreserved that any thought of a performance is driven out of January's mind; he kisses Hannibal with real passion, rolling to half-cover him. Hannibal kisses him back just as hard, seemingly laid bare by emotion, affection and desire and perhaps even love stripping him of any guards. At moments like these, January isn't troubled by Hannibal's reticence, by the fact that he suspects he doesn't even know Hannibal's real name. Hannibal is sweetly, enticingly pliant beneath him, and it doesn't seem possible that he could have a secret that matters.
When he breaks away, oil is smeared high on Hannibal's cheek. January drops his hand to Hannibal's thigh; the skin there is hot, soft, and the muscle beneath tenses in response to his touch. He spreads his fingers wider and is gratified by how much of Hannibal’s thigh they cover. One of the best parts of having big hands is that sense of enfolding a lover, their body fitting into his hold. Hannibal must appreciate it also, because he twists to press his half-hard cock against January’s leg. His arm ends up caught awkwardly between them, his wrist knocking against January’s as Hannibal continues to work the oil into himself.
January reaches down and covers Hannibal’s hand with his own; Hannibal shivers at the touch, his cock growing harder against January's hip. "Let me," January murmurs. He rubs his thumb over the skin stretched open around Hannibal’s fingers, and feels how slippery they are, the slow tempo of their movement. Hannibal pulls his hand away and spreads his legs wider.
January runs two fingers across the hole before pressing them inside; it’s tight and Hannibal's breath catches audibly. "Too much?" January asks, stopping in place.
"Merely adjusting," Hannibal says. His hips lift in silent invitation as he grins. "Your fingers are larger than mine."
January's belly goes tight with want, and he kisses Hannibal. Hannibal moves his hips again, riding January’s hand; he feels slick and hot and wonderful, and when January curls his fingers, Hannibal breaks the kiss to swear, his words greedy and exultant. January is careful at first, then quickens the pace until he has Hannibal panting. Hannibal shudders and gasps; his reactions magnify every little shift of January’s fingers. January rotates his wrist, dragging his knuckles over a particularly sensitive spot, and Hannibal groans and grabs January's shoulder.
“Wait, Ben, God,” he says, his voice ragged. “You’ll finish me off before Rose has even begun.”
January knows that he could. He’s done it before – brought Hannibal to climax using only his fingers. There may be no obvious satisfaction for him in such an act, but he enjoys it; there is pleasure to be had in the way Hannibal trembles, how his body clenches around January’s hand. It makes January feel close to him, as though the secrets Hannibal keeps don’t matter. As though January already knows what they were, despite never having heard them spoken.
“I’m not entirely opposed to watching,” Rose says, having moved up the bed to lie on Hannibal’s other side, and indeed she does look intrigued, “but it seems a shame to delay the experiment further.”
January laughs and eases his hand away. Hannibal draws in a sharp breath and closes his eyes, his body rigid against January's side with the ache of a forestalled climax. Rose smiles at January across him, then brushes aside Hannibal’s long hair and rests her head on his shoulder until he recovers enough to turn and kiss her. It begins as a light caress, but Rose moves over him, her knees framing his narrow hips; the kiss becomes long and eager and very thorough. When she finally lifts her head, Hannibal follows her up to catch one more kiss. He moves down from her mouth to kiss the hollow of her throat, the muscle of her upper arm. She bends her head to his and gently bites his earlobe; he makes an appreciative sound deep in his throat, and her smile in response is brilliant. She sits up and puts her hands to his shoulders, pushing him back against the bed.
As she leans over him, a lock of her hair spills into his face. She brushes it away with the back of her hand, then puts her fingertips to the spot it touched; she softly traces a half-circle from his brow to temple and down across his cheek to his chin. She nearly glows, pleased and anticipatory and brazen, and January knows that no one else ever sees her wear this expression, nor sees the passion beneath her cool exterior. He rolls toward her, wrapping an arm around her and putting a kiss on her shoulder-blade.
"Like this," Rose says, speaking to Hannibal as she leans back into January's embrace. "Lie like this for me, won't you?"
"It's an awkward position. I can make it easier for you, for your first time, if I shift to my knees."
Rose hesitates, then says, "I want to watch your face."
"As you like," Hannibal says in a blithe voice, but when January glances at him, his eyes are wide and dark and his cheeks are flushed with arousal. January bends down to kiss him, and slips his hand under Hannibal’s knee, assisting as Hannibal lifts his legs. Hannibal sighs and tips his head back; his quick pulse is visible in the exposed hollow of his throat. His whole body is spread wide, like a gift offered up, and January cannot resist smoothing his hand down the back of Hannibal's thigh, from the tendons that stand out against the skin just above his knee to the soft curve of flesh at the very top.
Rose mimics him, stroking Hannibal's other leg; he manages to spread his legs even wider in response. She runs her hand downward, her long fingers splayed over his skin, until she reaches the entrance to his body. She presses her thumb slightly below there, to where the oil has run and made his skin visibly slick. "Will this hurt you?"
He stiffens under her touch, and has to clear his throat before speaking. "Not if it's done correctly." Rose looks at him, nervous, but he continues, "I have had much less considerate lovers than you and still enjoyed the experience. You needn't be concerned."
She moves into position behind Hannibal, January giving way, and grasps the base of the dildo to direct it. She aligns herself with Hannibal’s entrance, and is less than an inch from entering him when she freezes. Her gaze shifts uncertainly from the dildo to Hannibal's face. No one moves for a long moment, and then Hannibal breaks the tension with a shaky laugh. "Athénê, I think the next step is self-evident." His voice is thin, with an edge of desperation, and the muscles in his shoulders and jaw are braced as for a blow.
She takes a deep breath, her breasts rising and falling. "Will you ask me?" she says. Her lips are thin, but whether from passion or fear or something else entirely January cannot tell. He moves toward her and wraps an arm around her once more, but this time to cover her hand on the dildo with his own. He feels her breathe again, the tension in her body slightly lessening.
"Slowly," he whispers in her ear. She jerks her head in a rough approximation of a nod. He begins to gently push her hips forward with his own, but she won’t move.
"Ask me," she says again, her voice steady and her eyes on Hannibal.
He tries to grin at her but doesn’t quite manage it. "Athénê – Rose – would you do this for me, would you give me –" His usual charm is cracking, revealing the stronger, more vulnerable emotions beneath. "Would you, please –"
Rose presses forward in a single smooth motion and Hannibal cuts himself off with a hiss. His hands clench in the sheet, and he stops breathing until Rose is as far forward as she can get, the dildo entirely buried in him; January slips his hand from between them just as Hannibal releases his held air in a great shuddering rush. Rose too is nearly gasping, her eyes squeezed tightly closed and her head bent forward. "Oh," she says in a hushed voice, "oh, oh." January's cock isn't even touching anything and he still feels on the edge of coming, nearly undone just by this sight.
Hannibal's body relaxes beneath them; he lifts his hips, and somehow Rose slides an impossible inch deeper. "Not so terrible, is it?" he asks.
Rose laughs; it is shaky but grateful, and when she opens her eyes, her gaze is free of anything outside of the present moment. She begins to move and Hannibal tightens his legs around her, his teasing stuttering off. They are slow and cautious at first, as they take stock of one another’s reactions. Then Rose attempts a hard thrust of her hips; Hannibal cries out, sharp and wordless but not at all displeased. She does it again and he says, "Yes, that –" His voice breaks as she shoves back into him, and even when he recovers, he speaks in the same rhythm as the one they move to. "Like that. You – you seem to have – grasped the idea – quite well. Ah – don't stop –"
Rose plants a hand on the bed beside his head and leans her weight forward, forcing his thighs nearly back to his chest. They kiss, openmouthed for lack of air, and Hannibal releases the sheet to clutch at her just as frantically, his fingers fumbling for a hold. She rocks into him with short, fast strokes, pushing him into the pillow, and he cups her hips and adds his strength to her thrusts, pulling her deeper into him.
He hooks a knee over Rose's shoulder, and his heel lands on January's chest. January strokes his hand down Hannibal’s calf to his ankle, turns to kiss that knob of bone, and then lifts the whole leg higher to change the angle where Hannibal and Rose meet. They both groan, Rose's voice high and startled, Hannibal's only grateful. Rose abandons the long strokes, and instead grinds against Hannibal with quick short twitches of her hips. He moves desperately beneath her, trying to encourage her to fuck him harder. January's breath is uneven, and his pulse seems to leap in time with each thrust, fast and growing faster. He reaches between Rose's legs, beneath the dildo, and finds her slick and hot. He slides his fingers across the folds of her flesh; her most sensitive part is hidden beneath the base of the dildo, but there is enough skin still exposed for him to caress.
Rose trembles at the additional sensation, her thrusts into Hannibal breaking off as she instead presses back toward January's hand. She gasps as his fingers slip easily into her. Hannibal rocks his hips up, which pushes her more firmly onto January; she moves back and forth between them, taking pleasure from both. Then she stills, her back arched, her fingers dug into the mattress, and she clenches hard around January's fingers. He is behind her and can't see her face, but nonetheless he knows what she looks like at such a time: her eyes will be open, her cheeks flushed with pink over her brown skin, her lower lip caught between her teeth. He buries his face against her back to listen as her heart races.
The last waves of aftershocks shiver through her muscles, and January slows the movement of his fingers in and out of her. She begins to thrust again into Hannibal; she rides out the end of her climax with long, rolling strokes that reduce him to babbling incoherence. He shoves himself up roughly to meet each one, but listening to the almost pained note in his voice, January can tell that being fucked won’t be enough for him to finish. January draws his hand carefully from Rose, then reaches around her to take Hannibal's cock in his sticky fingers. Hannibal sobs, pleasure finally robbing him of all his words, and he moves up in short, shallow jerks, as if he can't decide which of them to go toward. His cock is red and rock-hard, and January strokes him steadily, watching him over Rose's shoulder; January’s mouth is on her skin, and she tastes salty with sweat, her hair a tickling distraction against his ear. His arms are around her as she fucks Hannibal and each backstroke brings her hard against his cock. She surely can feel how he is affected. Perhaps she's even doing it on purpose, rubbing her hips against him in between each forward thrust.
He feels raw and oversensitive, but he’s also impatient for more; he increases the speed of his hand on Hannibal, outpacing Rose's thrusts. Hannibal digs his heels into Rose's back, arches like a drawn bow, and spills over January's fingers. Rose slows and comes to a stop, then leans forward to kiss Hannibal's shoulders and neck, the sensitive spot beneath his jaw where the blood runs close to the skin. Hannibal murmurs something inaudible and tilts her face up with gentle fingers to kiss her mouth.
Rose pulls out of Hannibal – whose breath hitches as she slips free – and turns in January's arms. He kisses her; he has been wanting to kiss her for the longest time, and when presented with the brightness of her eyes and the strength and duration of her smile, there is no way he could resist it. They fall to the bed beside Hannibal, Rose's hands clasping January's face to hold him to her mouth. Her dildo presses hard and tantalizing against his own cock, but her breasts are soft against his chest and her hips are full and round in his hands. She takes hold of him and guides him into her body, and though the presence of the dildo forces them to adjust, their joining is still perfect. She is even hotter and wetter on his cock than she had been around his fingers, and she flexes beneath him, her head back, as eager as he is himself. After waiting for so long, all January can do is rock into her, fast and deep, her hands warm and damp against his face. "Yes," she repeats, her voice uninhibited, and when her words turn to moans, it's sweet to his ears.
Hannibal is watching them; he turns on his side and reaches for the thin leather belts that secure the dildo to Rose. His long fingers stroke across the leather and her skin, the soft curves of her belly and thigh. As he loosens the belts, red marks are revealed beneath, and he smooths them away, his movements slow with post-coital laziness. He bends down to press kisses where he can, staying on the outside of Rose's hips. She pushes faster against January, and he buries his face in her shoulder; the sight is too much, but even behind his eyelids he can still see Hannibal's pink lips against her bronze skin, the hot stripes on his soft tongue.
Hannibal opens the last of the buckles, then tugs the dildo out from between January and Rose. He replaces it with his hand, his knuckles brushing against January's belly as he strokes Rose; he curls close to her side to lay slow, lingering kisses on her cheek and shoulder. Even if January couldn't feel Hannibal's hand working against her, he would know what Hannibal was doing by how Rose reacts: her movements grow hurried and irregular, her hands tug him closer with every move of their bodies, and she bucks up into him, seeking her own pleasure. When it comes, it is quiet and sharp and almost invisible, but January feels her tighten around him. She goes taut for an almost endless heartbeat, and his own orgasm is dragged from him.
January is breathless afterward, completely wrung out. He gathers the strength to roll off of Rose and fit himself between her and Hannibal, but he is sweaty and exhausted and guesses by the stillness on either side of him that they are also. After a moment, Rose shifts, lifting her head to his shoulder, and January kisses the top of it, the only spot that he can reach without moving. Her hair smells of soap and chamomile tea, despite the room's general scent of sex.
Hannibal smiles, sleek as a cat in cream. For all of January’s doubts, he does know that Hannibal loves them, and wants to be here with them; it’s undeniable when he looks so happy about it. Hannibal stretches and says, "Well, from my perspective the experiment was a success."
Rose laughs; her breath puffs against January's skin. "Oh? And what did you learn?"
“That I greatly enjoyed myself. Before I merely hypothesized that I would, you see.”
“What a shocking discovery,” she says, amusement lurking under the proper tone of her voice. “Of course, any good experiment should be run more than once. We will need to confirm these first results, and there’s no such thing as too much evidence.”
“All of that, and your curiosity wasn’t satisfied?” January asks. He’s only teasing her, but Rose looks up at him, her eyebrows raised.
“No,” she says plainly, “and I hope it never will be. Not entirely, anyway. How awful that would be.”
He laughs helplessly; of course Rose would never want to run out of questions. She might desire the answers as well, but her passion is for the hard work of analysis and unraveling as much as it is for the reward of knowing. She is strange, she is obstinate, her outlook on the world is nothing like his own; he loves her. Wherever her curiosity leads her, he wants to help her go there. “Then we’ll have to devise a new experiment,” January says.
“Oh, I think we can use this one again, at least a few more times. I feel that there’s still more I could learn from it.” She smiles to herself and places her head back on his shoulder.
“There’s no such thing as too much evidence,” January repeats. She hums in drowsy agreement as Hannibal settles into position on his other side; that’s all January needs to fall asleep, fully content.
Hannibal citations:
The term "widow comforter" probably wasn't actually coined until the mid-1800s, but I really wanted to use it. "Diletto" is from the Italian word delight, and is the source of the English word dildo. Here is a helpful and interesting discussion with possibly everything you want to know about historical dildos; I'm grateful to everyone who commented.
I have bought the mansion of a love
But not possessed it, and though I am sold
Not yet enjoyed.
- Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2014-07-30 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-30 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-05 12:03 am (UTC)(Best line: "I suppose this is what happens when a woman reads too many novels." It could be the tagline for at least one LJ community that I read.)
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Date: 2014-08-05 07:27 pm (UTC)(And haaaa, I'm glad that worked! It was one of my favorite lines to write.)