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Lying on his stomach is a deliberate choice. He’s not exactly prone, because his hips are raised—he has his knees underneath him, spread wide around Raymond’s thighs. Kevin’s cheek is turned against the pillow, fingers curled in the sheets. He grips the fresh linen instead of gripping Raymond. He faces downwards, even though it would be more logical to lie supine—on his back, he could stare up into the gorgeous brown eyes of the man he loves. But they’re not supposed to be in love right now, so Kevin makes it easier for both of them. He denies them both eye-contact, hampering the connection. He presses his rear back into Raymond’s pelvis but resists arching his spine up into Raymond’s chest. He turns his face into the pillow whenever Raymond’s lips come near his cheek, but Raymond always pulls back again before they could kiss anyway.

They haven’t kissed in what feels like ages, and Kevin could live with that, except they haven’t even shaken hands, and he’s going out of his mind from sheer depravation. He shouldn’t crave the contact. He tells himself he isn’t touch-starved, doesn’t require the press of his husband’s hands, but feeling Raymond’s fingers dig into his hips makes him want to cry. It feels so good to have Raymond’s hands on him again. They aren’t roaming like usual. They aren’t mapping Kevin out—‘macro cellular cartography’, Raymond affectionately calls it, always the clever one. Kevin often finds it more reverent—it feels like Raymond is worshiping him, the way Raymond so tenderly plays every part of his pliant body. Kevin’s a clod in comparison—a brainless trollop pawing at the thick muscles and warm flesh that make up such a fiercely handsome specimen. He doesn’t let himself do it now. He doesn’t trust himself. He has so much control in the classroom, yet absolutely none when crushed under Raymond’s smoldering weight.

Raymond thrusts into him, slow and steady, just the way Kevin likes it. There’s a rhythm, an even, intricate beat that Raymond keeps pace to: it’s music, math, all the greatest kinds of art. Kevin fists the sheets and half wishes that Raymond would be brutal, would offer jarring, staccato thrusts that would leave Kevin choked and wanting. He wishes Raymond would dig harder into his hips, would leave gruesome bruises, even though they’ve sworn never to mark each other. He wishes Raymond would lean down and bite a violent claim into his shoulder, something that would ache the next day and remind Kevin this was real.

But Raymond is a gentleman, even in their bitter separation. He delivers exactly what was agreed upon—dry, meaningless sex—no more, no less. Except he’s still so damn good at it. And even without the adoring kisses and fond whispers of endearments and heady quotes in the throes of passion, Kevin’s chest burns with the knowledge that no one else will ever fill him up like Raymond does.

Raymond drives deep at just the right angle, grinding into Kevin’s prostate, dragging along his inner walls. The pleasure’s purely chemical: Kevin knows that. There need not be any sentiment. He should be able to shut his eyes and pretend he’s got a particularly well-crafted vibrator thrumming inside him.

Raymond is too skillful. The timer on his watch sounds. He silences it immediately. The initial time has lapsed, and thus the secondary articles fall into play. They’ve both failed to come from the simple act of penetration within a timely manner, so Raymond’s hand reaches under Kevin’s side, brushing over his thigh, wrapping tight around his—

Kevin hisses. His husband’s thick fingers close around his cock, slick with just enough leftover lubrication. Raymond begins stroking him in swift, efficient twists, perfectly in line with the rhythm of his hips. Kevin is thrown into each one by the force of Raymond’s cock. It’s not the rough, reckless pounding they’ll occasionally indulge in when Raymond comes home still breathing hard from a case, or on a wild night of a new operatic release or a long day of riling each other up with exquisite literary lines, but it’s enough that Kevin’s ass is getting sore. It’s still entirely too pleasant. His body’s too overheated, overwhelmed to process anything bad. His heart hurts, because even after a colossal row in therapy, he can’t help but eagerly spread his legs for Raymond’s enormous cock like some shameless hussy—

Kevin grits his teeth together and tries so hard not to scream. He always endeavors to be quiet. It’s only polite to the surrounding neighbourhood. Shouting is unseemly in any circumstances. But he’s angry, and upset, and so painfully hard—and Raymond slams into him one more time, sending Kevin spiraling over the edge. He groans when he comes, curling up in the mattress.

Raymond looms over him, still pounding into his gaping hole and pleasuring his cock. Raymond milks him out, pumping everything into the condom. They agreed to condoms. They’re not going to spend the usual lengthy rituals cleaning one another up afterwards. But he wants so badly to come all over his husband’s hand.

He can’t separate Raymond from that title in his mind. Won’t. Through the entire dizzy hurricane of his orgasm, all Kevin can think about is Raymond.

And then he’s spent and slumping, tiredly holding himself in place so Raymond can find release as well.

Except Raymond is more courteous than Kevin gives him credit for. He gently pulls out, leaving Kevin to whine at the loss and tremble. He doesn’t realize how badly his legs have been shaking until Raymond’s no longer holding him up. He collapses in the sheets, kicking back the duvet that they weren’t supposed to get sweat on. It’s hard to care anymore. They have a grandfather clock that they swore they’d never have sex against no matter how attractive the cherrywood finish is, and yet Kevin now wants Raymond to break him over it. Kevin wants to break everything. The post-orgasm haze is... confusing.

He lies there, half on his stomach so he doesn’t have to put weight on his abused backside, and half on his side. And he pretends not to know that Raymond’s lying on his other side, hurriedly jerking off. The wet squelching noises are grotesque. Obscene. With Kevin’s own pleasure past him, it’s unreasonable to still find those noises endearing.

Kevin bears them for as long as he can, then finds himself rolling over. It’s an instant mistake. Raymond is glorious in his bareness. They had to undress, of course. They couldn’t risk wrinkling their clothes. But that makes it so much worse, because seeing Raymond totally, completely naked is such a rare, precious treasure: something only for Kevin’s eyes, and he can’t stand the thought of sharing it. Raymond’s sizable cock is smothered in a milky white condom, hand busy over it. Before Kevin can stop himself, he’s batted that hand away.

He wraps his fingers around Raymond’s shaft, even as Raymond breathes, “Kevin, you don’t—”

“Let me,” Kevin half mutters, half begs, because he can’t do another argument right now. Just can’t. Raymond hushes, lost in fluttering moans instead. Kevin languidly strokes his cock to an allegro in sonata form.

Raymond remains impressively still throughout the performance. His arms are stiff at his sides, hips refraining from thrusting up into Kevin’s grasp, even though Kevin shamelessly pushed back into Raymond’s. Then Raymond’s breath hitches, and his body tenses—the condom swells with his sperm, an opaque white that could be all over Kevin’s thighs.

His hand lingers longer than it should. He savours the slow flag of Raymond’s engorged cock. He lies close enough to see the sweat glisten on Raymond’s breast and hear the rawness of his throat. Kevin is parched as well but doesn’t want to leave the bed.

He wants to fetch them both water and know that they’ll both stay after drinking it. But Raymond clearly doesn’t want that. He wants his freedom and maybe someone else who can endure both his sexual prowess and his all-consuming work obsession. Kevin’s a weak man.

He makes himself push up on his elbows, then sits all the way. He can’t help wincing at the pressure on his rear but knows it’ll be gone shortly—Raymond was good to him, always is. Raymond prepared him so attentively. Raymond looks up at him, suddenly unreadable. They used to share whole conversations with only meaningful looks. Kevin used to understand all of Raymond’s subtleties.

He swallows and rasps, “I claim the washroom. I will take no more than twelve minutes, and then you may have it.” Lying there, Raymond nods.

Kevin gingerly climbs off the mattress and goes to clean up, wondering if he should spend the night on the couch or in his husband’s arms.