Intellectually, Benedict understands the mechanics of intercourse. He has read about it in dry and factual medical textbooks, in slightly more veiled language in fiction, and in very abstract and flowery terms in poetry. Never having experienced it himself, he couldn't dismiss it out of hand as a ridiculous farce, but he had somewhat been of the opinion that everyone was blowing the whole thing out of proportion, and surely it wasn't quite as earth-shattering as people made it seem.

Based on the boasting of his peers in the Guard, Benedict had assumed the whole thing was mostly used to one-up others around you, and had drawn on his deep wells of patience to tolerate the endless bragging until they grew bored of it and talked of other things.

He understands, now.

He groans softly as Ninon works herself down onto him, her hand tangled in his hair, the noise vibrating deep in his chest.