Archive of Our Own

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“Is it normal to stop kissing after sex?”

Finn’s hand freezes mid-air, fingers hovering near the bedside lamp.

Mash tilts his head, waiting. The silence stretches between them. Finn’s knuckles whiten where they clutches the bunched blanket at his waist. He looks trapped between lying back against the bed or yanking the covers higher. He remains completely still. Like if he doesn’t blink, the question might wander off on its own.

Mash doesn’t blink. “Because it stopped,” he adds. “Abruptly.”

Finn’s mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “It… stopped—sorry, what?”

Mash nods slightly, brow furrowing. “It’s weird,” he says. “He looked so focused. His breathing got rough. He was sweating a lot. His grip kept tightening, and he just kept moving, kept saying my name. Again and again."

“AAAAHHHHHH—”

The shriek bursts out of Finn’s throat—high, strangled, like a kettle dying on a stove. He launches himself backwards towards the wall and yanks the blanket higher up his shoulders.

Mash waits.

“So, Finn-kun,” he says calmly, fingers curling around the blanket's edges. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Finn croaks, wide-eyed. He catches himself and lowers his voice to a frantic whisper, “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He's still clutching the blanket like a shield. “But Mash-kun—you can’t just drop a question like that on me.” 

His voice rises again. “Because WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?!”

Mash tilts his head. That doesn’t track. “But you said I could ask anything.”

“Yes! If it’s like, ‘Should I trim my bangs?’ or ‘Can a forehead kiss be legally binding?’ Not—” Finn flails wildly, “—‘Does he regret everything the second he finishes!’”

Mash’s brows pinch faintly and let out a soft. “Ah.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Why does finishing lead to regretting?”

Finn makes a strangled noise.

From the bed, Mash watches Finn slowly bring both palms to his face. Mash genuinely wants to know. His mind drifts—circling back to his own post-workout routine. After exercise, he always feels a little proud. Muscles warm, sweat cooling. A cream puff usually follows—a sweet reward for calories spent. And when his body felt sore and floaty, after that time—Rayne gave him something sweet. A puff. A head pat. His hand would linger. His eyes softened a little. Like he was… pleased. Or relieved.

It felt like a good workout. But even better. So he doesn’t understand. If Rayne seemed glad then—why did everything stop after?

“O-okay,” Finn mutters, voice muffled behind his palms. “Okay. No, I’m fine. Yes, I’m still processing.” He exhales long and shaky, fingers dragging down his face. “I’m so done,” he mutters, so softly that Mash isn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud.

“…Mash-kun.”

“Yup.”

“Go ask him.”

“I’m asking you.”

“The answer is: I don’t know,” Finn says—then winces. “But it’s Nii-sama, so the ‘emotionally constipated cryptid’ still applies. Just go ask him. Please.”

Mash stays still, eyes drifting as he considers it. His fingers curl slightly into the blanket. “…’Kay,” he says eventually, gaze sweeping back to Finn. “So you don’t want to answer?”

“N-no!” Finn bursts, scrambling out of bed. “If I say more, I’m complicit! And I am not qualified to handle this much before bed!” He grabs Mash’s wrist, pushing him toward the door.

“I’m sorry, Mash-kun. Please go and ask the right person. Come back only after you’ve sorted it out. There’s still time—lights-out isn’t for another ten minutes and I cannot sleep with this information in my brain!”

The door slams shut in front of him.

Mash stares at the wood for a moment, there's a faint, muffled mantra of 'I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry—I'm so sorry' seeping through. Then he nods once, as if the door had the right idea. "...Mhm. 'Kay. I got it, Finn-kun."

He turns toward the hallway. All he did was say he was confused about something—a question about routine, about kissing—because everything had stopped after that one time. But somewhere in the middle of explaining it, Finn started looking like he might cry. Or collapse. Or both.

Now Mash is on the wrong side of a locked door. …Mhm.

It’s nearly lights-out, and he’s already in pajamas. Wandering the halls now might make him look like he’s lost. Still, he shrugs. “Well. Better to ask than keep wondering,” he murmurs, voice quiet in the empty hall. He turns. Slippers soft against the floor as he breaks into a run, bolting to the third floor.

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Just as Mash rounds the corner near Rayne’s room, someone steps into view: Max, in pajamas and slippers, a book tucked under one arm. The spine is worn soft—probably from too many late-night rereads.

“Hey, Mash-kun,” Max says gently. He nods—mildly surprised—but not really exactly. His voice carries that end-of-day softness, like the hum of a hallway long past curfew.

Mash pauses. "Oh." He gives a small bow. "Good evening, senpai."

“Mm. Good evening.” Max returns the nod, the corner of his mouth curling faintly. “Are you looking for Rayne?”

"Mhm. Yup." Mash tilts his head. "Were you coming back from somewhere?"

"Yeah. Lounge," Max says, lifting the book slightly—as if that explains everything. Apparently, it does. Third-years. Studying even when no one asks them to.

“He should be back from the Bureau by now,” Max adds, nodding toward the door at the end of the hall. “Though… it’s rare to see you up here near curfew. Something urgent?”

Mash blinks. “Oh. Not really.” A small shake of his head. “Just wanted to ask something before lights-out.” He pauses, shoulders dipping just a little. “Also, I think I got kicked out.”

“…Oh?” Max raises an eyebrow, folding one arm as the other hand brings to his chin thoughtfully. “By Finn-kun?”

“Mhm…” Mash hums, his eyes drifting to the side. “He told me not to come back until I asked Rayne-kun directly…” He looks back up. “And, um. He slammed the door at me.” Mash frowns, still trying to figure out if that part of the experience was necessary.

Max stares at him for a beat, then his shoulders begin to shake—subtle at first, like he’s trying to be polite about it. “Poor Finn-kun,” he murmurs, exhaling through a quiet grin. Mash watches him, noticing Max doesn’t look surprised, just faintly amused. He still doesn't get it.

“Well,” Max says, turning and gesturing for Mash to follow, “If you’ve been banished, I suppose I can offer safe passage.”

“That would be helpful,” Mash replies, adding a quick, “Thank you.” He falls into step behind Max, who flashes a casual thumbs-up. The room’s only a few paces away. Their slippers shuffle lightly down the hall.

“I’m back,” Max calls lightly, already turning the knob. Inside, Rayne turns from his desk, brows faintly furrowed—his usual unreadable expression. Then he freezes. The second his eyes land on the figure behind Max, his entire body goes still.

“Mash Burnedead?” he breathes—like a startled invocation. His voice barely makes it to sound, eyes locked, unblinking. It's like Mash showing up in his doorway has disrupted some internal alignment.

“Oh. Hi, Rayne-kun,” Mash says in his usual monotone, lifting a small, flat wave.

“What are you doing here?” Rayne asks, his voice sharp around the edges but not harsh. He rises slowly from his chair, eyes narrowing. "It's almost lights-out."

“Ah. Uhm…” Mash hesitates, "Finn-kun wants me to come here."

Rayne’s expression flickers—too quick to catch—then settles into something carefully neutral. His grip tightens on the quill, then sets it down.

Max clears his throat lightly. “I ran into Mash-kun just now and brought him here,” he says smoothly, placing his book on the desk like it’s any other night. Then he jerks a thumb toward Mash. “Tonight, I’m switching rooms with him.”

“…What.” Rayne's head snaps toward Max, his gaze locks on him.

Max smiles, far too pleased with himself. “I’ll head over to Finn-kun’s now,” he announces, already brisk walking toward the door with suspicious speed. As he passes Rayne, he throws him a breezy salute. “Goodnight, Rayne. And good luck surviving this conversation.”

Rayne’s eyes track him, disbelieving. “Max—” The door clicks shut before the curse leaves his mouth.

“That’s a new word,” Mash observes quickly, blinking.

Rayne exhales through his teeth. Mash begins to survey the room—the usual clean desks, the rabbits asleep in their pen. Everything looks the same yet the air feels heavier now, like the room is holding its breath now that they're alone.

“Also, sorry for the sudden visit,” Mash says, shifting his weight. A glum unease clings to his shoulders, like the apology had been waiting there for a while.

“It’s fine,” Rayne answers too fast. His fingers runs through his hair, the motion sharp and distracted. He then turns fully toward Mash, but the crease in his brow doesn’t quite soften. “So… did something happen between you and Finn?”

“Um… I kind of got kicked out of my room,” Mash replies, shrugging lightly. “But senpai is being considerate, I guess.”

“Kicked out?” Rayne repeats, quieter now. His gaze softens and his tone dips. “Did you two fight?” He remains in his white nightshirt and sweatpants, standing in front of a mountain of half-sorted documents—sharp posture, focused eyes. Not harsh. Just… alert.

Mash’s eyes drift past Rayne’s shoulder to a spot on the bookshelf, staring at it as if it might offer a better answer than he can. “No, we didn’t fight… exactly.” His voice is soft, touched with something faintly dejected that hasn’t quite faded. If Rayne notices, he doesn’t show it—except for the subtle stiffening of his shoulders. “Maybe it’s because I said something I shouldn’t have,” Mash adds softly. “He looked kinda… upset.”

Rayne glances over. “Upset how?”

Mash hesitates, rubbing the hem of his sleeve between two fingers. “Like he didn’t know what to say. Like I surprised him, but not in a good way.”

Rayne’s jaw ticks. “What did you say?”

“I asked him if it's normal, but he said I was asking the wrong person.” Mash frowns. “So… maybe it wasn’t normal.”

Rayne says nothing.

“Don’t worry,” he replies evenly, turning back to his desk. His movements are precise as he begins stacking scattered papers into a neat pile. “If Max went to talk to him, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” His eyes flick briefly toward the empty bed. “You’re probably tired. Use Max’s.” Then he turns away—no backward glance.

Mash watches him. Rayne’s voice is calm, but the stillness feels off. It’ll be fine? Mash doesn’t know what that means. Or why Rayne thinks Finn needed to be fixed in the first place. And why won’t he look at him? Rayne just moves—back still turned—like the conversation is over. As if Mash isn’t even here.

Something heavy settles in Mash’s chest. A slow ache pressing into the space between them. He steps forward, then reaches out and pinches the back of Rayne’s nightshirt. Just a small tug. Waiting.

“…Aren’t we going to sleep together?” he asks softly. 

Rayne freezes.

“The bed’s too cramped for two people,” he says too quickly. The words land flat. He doesn’t turn.

Mash steps forward and wraps his arms around him from behind, one hand settling on Rayne’s chest, the other on his abdomen. He leans in, cheek resting against the back of Rayne’s shoulder. The cotton is warm and faintly scented with detergent.

Rayne goes still.

“Rayne-kun…” Mash murmurs, voice soft against his back.

“…What is it?” Rayne asks. His voice stiffens. The quiet prickles.

Under his palm, Mash feels Rayne’s heartbeat—fast. That’s… weird, he thinks. He still doesn't understand why Rayne seems so tense, or why he won't look at him. But he knows he needs to ask. 

“Can I ask,” Mash begins, low and unguarded, “After we had sex that one time… was that all you wanted?”

He doesn’t mean it badly. He just wants to know. If one time was enough. If that’s why Rayne stopped kissing him. Why the warmth disappeared. The silence feels unfinished—like something got left halfway. Maybe that’s normal. Maybe people stop touching after one time.

Rayne freezes. Hard. Like the question landed deep.

Mash hesitates, then softer, “...Do you regret it?”

“…What.” 

Rayne’s head whips around. His eyes lock onto Mash—sharp, desperate. Like something just broke. Mash startles, stepping back. “Eep.”

“Mash Burnedead, how could you even—” Rayne cuts himself off. His jaw clenches. His voice spikes, “What kind of question is that?!”

“Oh.” Mash blinks, still confused. “Finn-kun said that too…” He tilts his head, brows knitting in quiet thought. Rayne’s voice had jumped—almost a shriek. For a second, it had sounded like Finn’s.  

Weird… Rayne never sounds like that. He’s calm. Mission-ready. Top of the class. Mash once asked him his favorite rabbit breed in front of the dining hall line. Rayne stared him down and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” with the same expression he uses to reduce first-years to tears and make the school newsletter club abandon journalism entirely—

Even though Mash has seen Bunny Digest Monthly under his bed. Twice.

Now, though—Mash stares. 

Rayne looks… sweaty. Just slightly. And glancing to the side. If he’s confused, and Rayne’s panicking—Then maybe that wasn’t right question to ask after all.

“You asked Finn that!?” Rayne’s voice drops into a low growl—sharp, incredulous, barely holding the edge of control. Oh. His cadence came back.

“Mhm, well…” Mash’s gaze drops, his fingers pick at a loose thread on his shirt. “Because we kissed before. And during. But… not after. Not even once.”

It happened a week ago, their first time. A little awkward, but they finished flushed and peaceful. Rayne had looked happy, and Mash was, too. He thought that meant they’d keep getting closer. But they didn’t. There wasn’t a second time, and even kissing stopped. Now Rayne barely touches him—just a pat on the head. Mash doesn’t think he did anything wrong. Rayne never seemed upset. He still talks the same... Kinda. 

So maybe… that one time was enough.

Mash lifts his eyes. “You didn’t kiss me again after that,” he says softly. “That’s why I thought maybe you don’t want to do it anymore.”

Rayne looks away, color rising faintly in his face. His shoulders stay tense, fingers twitching at his side. When he finally speaks, his voice is hushed. “…That’s not it. Not even close.”

Mash blinks. “Huh?”

Rayne doesn’t explain. Doesn’t move. Mash waits, then steps forward again. Carefully, he wraps his arms around him, just like before. Gently, not pulling, simply resting his weight there.

For a moment, nothing. Rayne stays still, breath caught. Then, after a beat, his hands rise. One settles at the small of Mash’s back, the other slides up to his hair, fingers brushing through it before cupping the back of his head. The hug squeezes into a familiar, warm embrace.

Mash leans in a little more. His cheek rests against Rayne’s shirt—warm, a little wrinkled, and smelling faintly like sleep.

“Can I ask why?” he murmurs, voice muffled against Rayne’s shoulder.

Rayne exhales—uneven. “I didn’t want to push,” he says. “Or make you feel like you had to want it again.”

Mash shifts slightly in his arms—not pulling away, just settling. “Oh,” he says calmly. “But I do want to.” 

But there’s no response. A hand remains at the back of Mash’s head, fingers brushing gently through his hair. Breath warms his temple. Rayne just stays there, silent. Mash blinks, a little surprised, then leans back slightly to study his face. The gaze that meets him isn’t a glare—just fixed, like Rayne’s caught on something only he can see.

“You froze. Was that a thought?” Mash squints. Then, flatly, “Wait. That’s the only reason?” It sounds almost accusatory. He hopes Rayne’s used to that by now.

A sharp breath escapes—close to a hiss. Rayne curses, then draws in a slower one, like he’s forcing himself to stay grounded. “…I was too rough,” he says, softer now. “If I touched you again, I’d want more. And I thought that would scare you.”

“But… the way you ignored me hurt more.” Mash meets Rayne’s eyes. “The rough part wasn’t it. That didn’t matter.”

“…Yeah.” The word lands low, like it costs him.

“It feels lonely,” Mash adds, quieter.

Rayne flinches—barely, but Mash feels it. His grip tightens, then eases. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Then, softer still, “I shouldn’t have avoided you to the point of making you feel like that.”

Mash’s gaze drops, fingers curl slightly into Rayne’s shirt. “You stopped touching me, so I thought maybe you didn’t want to anymore.”

“That’s not it.” Rayne’s voice comes fast, a little rough. His hand presses more firmly against Mash’s back. “I still think about it. Every night.” He draws a breath, short and strained. “I thought I crossed a line.” His arms shift lower, tightening around Mash’s waist. Then Mash feels it. Something hard. Pressing against him. His eyes widen. Oh. That’s… um.

“Oh. You’re hard,” Mash says, his tone as flat as ever. He lifts his head slowly. “Maybe because it’s night?” Mash pauses, then squints. “Or was it something I said?”

Rayne’s face doesn’t shift, but his eyes narrow—sharp. The crease between his brows deepens.

Mash blinks. “Ah. Your face looks scary.”

“What do you expect,” Rayne exhales, “You say things like that, and you expect me to just look at you?” His hands slip under Mash’s shirt, fingers pressing in—firm, familiar. Wanting.

Mash frowns. Rayne’s always either too far or too close—never in between. It’s a lot. Still, his body leans forward anyway. Heat curls low. A quiet ache, steady now. He wants. The closeness. The touch. The warmth.

He squirms faintly, breath catching as he looks up. “It’s okay,” he says, soft. “You can touch me. If you want.”

For a second, nothing. Then Rayne’s fingers twitch against his back—tentative. Like he’s testing if he’s allowed to want this. His breath hitches, soft and raw. Something shifts. Mash sees it—the slight scrunch of his eyes—just before he’s pulled in. Their chests press together. Rayne lowers his head into the crook of Mash’s neck and breathes in slow, like he’s been holding it back for too long. 

Mash tilts his head without thinking. His neck angles up—bare, open. He doesn’t stop it. His chest lifts on a quick breath. Then Rayne’s lips brush upward slowly, tracing the line of his neck to his ear. The warmth makes Mash shiver.

“I want all of you. Every part.” Rayne exhales, low against his ear; something ragged in it now, less restraint, more want.

Mash flinches just slightly, his head twitching away from the heat of Rayne’s breath. A hitch catches in his throat. His fingers curl into Rayne’s shirt. His lashes lower. “...’Kay,” he murmurs.

Rayne’s hand slips beneath his shirt, fingers gliding slow and warm across his back. They dip past the waistband, graze the curve of his hip then slide lower. Mash draws in a breath as Rayne leans in. Hips tilting forward—slow. Deliberate. No rush. Just the heat building between them.

Somewhere in the stillness, Mash notices it: the lights have dimmed. Automatically, maybe—or Rayne cast something silently. A low hum lingers at the room’s edge. A soundproofing spell. Probably a ward, too; Rayne would’ve thought of that. It’s past lights-out. The room feels sealed. Still. Tucked in at the edges. Just the two of them now.

Mash leans back—just enough to meet Rayne’s eyes. The slow rise of his chest. Their breaths overlapping. Close. Too close.

Rayne’s gaze flickers, glassy, like it hurts to keep looking, like he can’t stop. He exhales, then reaches for his shirt, fingers quick on the buttons. Mash watches the fabric part. Rayne’s gaze lingers, then his hand settles over Mash’s chest, fingers spreading as they glide down. Mash’s breath catches. His chest lifts into the touch before he can think. His skin feels hot.

“U-uhm…” he mumbles, eyes flicking toward the corner. Like that would help.

Then, a subtle jolt shifts his weight as Rayne moves closer, above him now. Mash blinks, not remembering how they ended up like this. At some point, the bed had found them. Or they'd found it. Clothes, too, were scattered on the floor; a sleeve draped off the edge. The sheets already rumpled, creased where his hand had been. Oh.

His thighs stay parted, loose around Rayne’s hips. Waiting. His gaze drifts from Rayne’s face to his exposed erection, heavy and flushed. Slowly, Mash lifts his arms to Rayne’s neck and tugs him down gently. Their eyes meet.

“You’re already hard,” says Mash, blankly. "Shouldn't you keep going?" 

Rayne exhales—a half-scoff caught in his throat—then drops his head. Lips brush Mash’s chest. Then his tongue flicks out, sudden and wet, right over a nipple. Mash breathes in, fingers threading through his hair, dark and pale strands slipping between them. Rayne’s mouth closes over the spot, sucking slow and deep. One hand drifts to the other nub, giving it a light twist. Mash stays still, holding him there. He feels the pull of Rayne’s jaw moving under his palm—rhythmic. Focused. Then the suction deepens. Mash’s grip twitches.

“Nnh…” The sound slips out before he can catch it. He frowns faintly. His chest feels hot. And lower, too. Everything’s twitchy like his body’s moving ahead of him.

Then Rayne shifts closer, heat pressing down steady, heavy, like he means to stay. There's a faint slick sound. Mash doesn’t name it. He just feels it, fingers dragging lower, down his stomach, over the ridges of muscle, past the heat, and between his thighs. It’s wet there. Lube, probably.

Mash tenses when a finger presses in. It’s warm. Tight. His muscles clamp around it, but the finger keeps going—steady, sinking deep. Then it slips out, only to slide back in, just as slow. A rhythm builds: in, out, in again. Mash feels all of it—the pressure, the stretch, the slow drag. Then a second finger joins, slipping in alongside the first. Mash stiffens, just slightly. The stretch is sharper now.

There’s a slick sound now with every push, wet and steady, mixing with the low hum still pressed against his chest. Rayne’s mouth hasn’t lifted. 

Suddenly, Rayne’s fingers shift. They pull back, curl, and press deep—right on that spot. Mash jerks, his hips twitching up before he can think. Everything inside him jumps. Heat shoots up his spine, up his neck—it’s too much. Too close. 

A moment later, the fingers slip out. A slick, aching emptiness spreads in their place. Rayne kisses his chest softly, but Mash barely feels it. The absence is louder. He blinks up. Rayne’s face is close, still. One hand rests on his hip, warm. The other hovers between them—sticky, still warm, still asking.

“...I want to,” Rayne says, voice low and taut. “But only if you want it too.” His grip is firm, fingers digging into Mash’s hip—like he’s holding back, or holding on.

Mash breathes hard, his chest lifting like the air won’t go in right. He turns his head, stares at the ceiling for a second, then looks back at Rayne.

“...Persistent,” Mash says.

Rayne blinks. “What?”

Mash reaches up, brushing Rayne’s jaw. “Didn’t you already ask last time?” he says flatly.

Rayne’s eyes widen, then narrow, softer now“...Yeah,” he murmurs.

He leans back slightly, gaze locked on Mash—still unreadable. One hand reaches for the lube; the sound is soft: slick, steady strokes. Mash hears it more than sees it, and his skin prickles. The other hand returns to his thigh, easing it open before sliding lower, gripping his hip and lifting him slightly. 

Then Mash feels it: hot, broad, pressing right there as Rayne begins to push in.

Mash gasps, head tipping back. His body clamps, reflex. His fingers grab the blanket. It stretches—too thick, too slow. He tries to stay still, but his hips twitch anyway. 

Rayne exhales above him, sharp and strained. Then he pauses just for a second, buried halfway in. The pressure sits there, warm and unbearable. 

Then he shifts forward again. Deeper. The rest of him sinking in—“Mmnh… h-hah…♡” 

A soft sound escapes Mash as his back arches off the sheets. Heat climbs his spine with the slow, burning stretch. His body pulls tight around it, his breath caught in his chest. He can feel everything sliding in; his throat constricts. His thighs try to close, but Rayne’s palm keeps them open.

Then Rayne starts to move. Slow. Even. Each push sinks deep, then drags back out steady, like he’s watching for every twitch, every sound.

Mash draws in a hard breath, then another, sharper. “Nn… hah… it’s… weird…” The words barely make it out. His insides keep twitching—clenching, squeezing. It’s too warm and snug, but somehow it doesn’t hurt. It feels good. He doesn’t know why.

“Haa…ahn♡…can’t…,” he gasps, as Rayne keeps going. The rhythm builds, pushing out the empty stretch from before. 

One thrust hits deeper. Mash flinches—then it hits again, same spot. His hips twitch, his legs jump without meaning to. His body clenches down before he can stop it.

Rayne moves above him, his head dipping low. Mash feels a warm breath against his hair, then a soft breathy sounds close: “Hah… Mash Burnedead…” The rhythm doesn’t stop. Rayne pulls out halfway, and Mash clenches again, reflexive. It draws a low, breathy groan from above. Then Rayne thrusts back in—hard. Mash jerks, his fingers curling into the sheets as the bed shifts beneath them.

“You’re doing so well…” Rayne murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. His grip spreads against Mash’s thighs, holding him open. “Taking me so deep.”

It’s loud—slick sounds, ragged breathing, the creak of the mattress. Mash’s skin burns. His body keeps clenching, like it’s trying to hold him in, won’t let him go. Then his breath breaks—caught between a gasp and a whimper: “Aah—hah… ngh…♡”

Then everything slows. Rayne’s hips still move, but less—smaller thrusts, steady pressure. Quieter.

“Mash Burnedead…” His voice cuts through the noise, low.

Mash blinks, his chest still heaving. Rayne leans in—one hand stays at the crook of his knee; the other braces against the bed. The sheets bunch beneath them. “Nn—nnh… yes…?” His voice breaks halfway through.

Mash feels Rayne’s breath closer now. “You remember what I said before?” he murmurs. “If something doesn’t feel good… you have to tell me.”

Oh. Right. Rayne still thinks he could get hurt, even if that didn’t really happen. But the rule is: say something if it’s bad. He exhales, short and shaky, then nods. “Yup.”

Rayne exhales too, slower this time. He leans back slightly, but his grip stays steady on Mash’s thigh. His hips keep moving—slow, deep. “Same goes the other way,” he says softly. “If it feels good… I want to know that too.”

“…Eh?”

Rayne doesn’t stop. His hips roll forward again, steady—like the rhythm itself is part of the question. “Tell me. If there’s something you want.”

Mash blinks fast. His eyes are a little watery. Probably the heat. He tries to focus. His thighs tremble in Rayne’s grip. “Hard to think when you’re doing that,” he mutters, frowning as his fingers twitch against the sheets.

Rayne shifts just enough to stay inside, keeping that rubbing motion—barely in, repeating. It’s kind of unfair. 

Mash shifts, frustrated. His hips jerk. His legs tense, then fall open again. He wants more—he knows that much—but Rayne still doesn’t move.

Mash blinks up at him. There’s sweat on Rayne’s brow now, more than before. One drop falls—warm—landing on his stomach. Rayne’s chest rises fast—his breath sharp, gaze locked on Mash. Fixed. Burning. Waiting.

Mash lifts his fingers, brushing the damp fringe clinging too close to Rayne’s eyes. Then the other hand follows, both settling on his shoulders. His voice comes out low—shaky with heat.

“...Can I have a kiss?”

Rayne freezes. 

Then something shifts—like a scoff caught in his throat, or maybe a break. “Yeah,” he says, rough. “Yeah, you can.”

He leans in, his shoulders shifting beneath Mash’s hands. The kiss starts feather-light. Then Rayne’s lips part, his tongue sliding in, deepening until the heat settles in Mash’s chest, low and tight. Mash melts into it, their mouths moving slow, breaths mixing, everything blurring together.

Then Rayne’s hips then start moving again. Slow. Wet. Steady.

Mash gasps, his fingers digging into Rayne’s back. “Aah... Mnh… Rayne-kun…”

“Satisfied? You got your kiss,” Rayne huffs against his skin.

Mash nods faintly. “Uh… mhm… yeah.”

“You sure that’s all you want?” Rayne’s voice drops low as he keeps thrusting—slow, deliberate. “You have to say it,” he urges.

Mash stares up at him, breath stuttering. Each slow, hot push presses in, dragging back with a wet sound that makes his thighs twitch. His insides clench again tighter. “You’re not… moving much,” he says, frowning slightly.

Rayne says nothing. Just stares—dark-eyed. Unwavering.

Mash frowns—not upset, just puzzled. He stares down, watching the way it moves. The slow drag of it—slick, thick, pushing in deep, then sliding out again. His body keeps twitching. Like it’s chasing something it can’t quite reach. The friction feels good, but every time it builds, it pulls back, leaving him empty again. He squirms faintly. “It’s weird,” he mumbles. “Feels like it’s right there.”

Rayne still doesn’t move faster.

Mash blinks hard, fingers curling into Rayne’s forearm. “You can do whatever you want,” he says, low, a little breathless. He draws in a shaky inhale. His chest lifts. Heat curls behind it. His skin feels too warm. His gaze flicks up. 

“I want to keep feeling it.” Then he tilts his head, an almost-smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t have to hold back.”

For a second, Rayne doesn’t move. Then something shifts. His breath catches—sharp. His grip unyielding on Mash’s hips.

Then he thrusts in—hard. Rough. Like he’s been holding back too long. Deeper. Again. And again. The pace quickens—heavy, unforgiving. Slick heat driving in, pulling out, slamming back—until everything blurs. Stretches. Feels too full.

Mash chokes on a sound, his back arching off the bed. The pressure hits fast—sharp, spreading. His thighs twitch. His breath stumbles. His fingers dig at Rayne’s skin. Every push lands deeper. Slower. Then faster again—like Rayne’s listening. Like he’s chasing the sound Mash doesn’t mean to make.

“Ah♡… ahh—nnh… hnn… hah… hah—Rayne-ku…”

Each thrust lands heavy now. No more careful pacing—just heat, motion, noise. Rayne’s rhythm falters for a second, then picks up again—fast, messy, like he’s chasing something he can’t hold. Like he doesn’t care how loud it gets.

“Fuck—Mash…” 

Mash tries to answer, but the words catch in his throat. “Haa… I can’t really—think. Feels weird—good—” 

Then Rayne pulls out—slow, dragging to the tip. And slams back in. Hard. Fast. Filling him all at once. 

Mash cries out, his body jolting up to meet it—reflex, desperate. His muscles clamp down, too tight, too full, and still Rayne keeps moving. The friction builds, thick and slick and deep. Every thrust grinds into something deep—sharp, hot, unbearable. 

Rayne doesn’t stop. He just keeps going—harder, deeper—like he’s trying to push past even that.

Mash’s head tips back. Soft, broken sounds spill out—high and helpless. He doesn’t remember choosing to make them. They just keep slipping free—over the wet rhythm, the heat, Rayne’s voice murmuring his name again and again.

Everything’s too hot. Too slippery. Too much. He can’t keep up. His breath stutters. Each thrust knocks something loose—His muscles twitch, trying to hold on. The rhythm doesn’t stop.

Rayne exhales—sharp, through his teeth. His grip tightens, then shifts. Mash’s legs are lifted—one, then the other—ankles settling over Rayne’s shoulders. The motion tilts his hips up, the stretch sinks deeper than before. Rayne rises to his knees, hands sliding under Mash's knees, then pushes forward—folding him in—until Mash’s thighs press down to his chest.

The next thrust slams in. 

Mash gasps—loud, wrecked. His back arches off the sheets, and tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. His body clamps down, hard. Pressure slams low. Right there. Every nerve lights up. His toes curl. His voice stumbles out— 

“Ah—!?”

The angle’s different now. Sharper. Every push drives in like Rayne’s hitting something new. Mash’s grip slips—fingers losing Rayne’s skin—until he’s scrambling at the sheets, searching for something to hold. Anything. 

“Ah—hhah… nnh—Rayne-k’un…”

His whole body tenses, thighs trembling where they’re half-folded. The stretch burns. He can’t breathe right. Rayne doesn’t ease up. He just keeps going—slow, deep, deliberate—like he’s trying to reach the deepest part of him. Like he won’t stop until he does.

Mash’s voice slipping raw from his throat.

“Ah—! Hnnh…!”

Rayne groans, hips grinding deep. “Don’t hold back,” he rasps. “I want all of it—your voice, your body, everything you’ve got.”

The words hit just as Rayne finds that spot again.

Mash breaks.

His back arches—tight, twitching. “Ngh—hh—!” His legs jerk around Rayne’s shoulders, thighs trembling hard. The heat coils low, then bursts—sharp, wet, messy—spilling up his chest, streaking his neck. Another pulse follows. He can’t stop it.

Rayne groans—deep, ragged—still moving, still buried inside him.

Mash gasps for air. Everything clenches down—too full, too hot, too much. His fingers claw at the sheets as another spasm hits—harder. His body pulses around Rayne, contracting and shaking, completely overwhelmed. His voice slips out—raw, broken: “Nnh—guh—s-stop—no… more…♡”

Another twitch. Another spill.

His rhythm breaks. Mash feels the stutter in Rayne’s breath, then the sudden twitch of his hips. A sharp pulse hits deep as heat spills inside. Mash gasps, body clenching as warmth floods through him.

The next groan is muffled into his neck—but Mash feels everything: the weight, the tremble, the wet mess between them. He lies still, faintly shaking, Rayne’s chest pressed to his. Warm breath brushes his skin, heavy and close. Mash lifts a hand, fingers curling weakly at the base of his spine.

After a moment, Rayne shifts—carefully easing him back into the pillows, adjusting his hips. Slow. Steady. Their eyes meet. His hand brushes Mash’s cheek, thumb warm as it catches the damp at his temple. Then he leans in and kisses his forehead.

Mash feels the low rumble in his chest before he hears the words.

“You okay?”

Mash blinks slowly. His head feels too light; his body, too full. But Rayne’s voice stays low and steady—something to hold onto.

“Yup... Rayne-kun?”

“What is it?”

Mash swallows. “It felt really good.”

Rayne’s breath catches—then softens into a small chuckle. “Same here.” He leans in and kisses him—slow, unhurried. Just lips against lips. Soft.

Mash melts into it, his fingers curling loosely against Rayne’s arm. His smile goes lazy, drifting, like sleep pulling at the edges of him. Rayne stays close. His mouth brushes Mash’s cheek, his jaw, then pauses near his ear.

“You did well,” he murmurs.

Mash’s breath hitches. Warmth unfurls in his chest—not just from the praise, but from the hushed, real way it’s said. He doesn’t answer—just nods faintly, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth settles in. “Hm.” Another hand lifts, hugging Rayne tighter.

━━━━━━⋆｡°✩「っ…んっ…ッ♡」✩°｡⋆━━━━━━

"Come on. Open your mouth," Rayne says casually, holding a sandwich up to Mash’s lips.

Mash gives him a blank look but reluctantly opens his mouth and takes a bite. The bread is still warm—crusty around the edges, soft in the middle. Something buttery and eggy. His jaw moves slowly, his eyes drifting from the sandwich to Rayne, then back again.

He can feel it—Rayne’s gaze. Heavy. Watchful. Too close.

“...Rayne-kun?” Mash mumbles, mouth half-full. “I’m not sick or injured, you know.”

“I know,” Rayne says evenly.

Mash turns to him. “I can eat by myself.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rayne replies, wiping the crumbs off his cheeks with a handkerchief like this isn’t weird at all. “I’m doing this because I want to.”

Mash stares at him, then at the sandwich, then bites again. “...Weird,” he mumbles. “But I can tell you’re upset. You always feed me sandwiches when you’re upset.” 

“...”

...M'kay.

Now Rayne doesn’t even seem interested in letting him hold the sandwich. He just keeps handfeeding him like he’s a sick rabbit on Critical Care. Mash assumes this has to do with last night. Rayne said something about “crossing a line.” But Mash isn’t hurt. No bruises. No fatigue. No signs of internal damage.

So the bed rest doesn’t makes sense. Neither does the breakfast delivery. Or the hovering. Or the way Rayne keeps looking at him like he’s trying to win Nurse of the Year. Since waking up, Mash hasn’t been allowed out from under the covers. Not even once.

He’s not sure what kind of injury Rayne thinks he has. Or if Rayne is the one who’s injured.

"I want to go buy some Goblin cream puffs," Mash declares flatly.

“I’ll go,” Rayne replies, not looking up from slicing something on a plate. “You stay here and behave.”

Mash blinks. “Eh?”

Rayne only hums, stuffing another piece of fruit into Mash’s mouth like the decision had been made hours ago. Mash bites into it grudgingly. Cold. Sweet. He chews.

"...Still weird," he mutters around the fruit, eyes drifting toward the window. Good weather. Yet pointless.

He swallows. “You were already inside yesterday,” he says flatly.

Rayne’s hand freezes mid-fruit-delivery.

“So why can’t I go outside now?”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then Rayne exhales sharply. “That’s… not how it works.”

“Mhm,” Mash mutters, unconvinced, then turns to take another bite.

He’s glad Rayne will buy him some Goblin cream puffs; that part makes sense. But if Rayne’s going out anyway, wouldn’t it be simpler to just go together? It’s not a school day. Rayne doesn’t have any missions. And Mash isn’t injured—no bruises, no soreness, no reason to be stuck in bed like some kind of convalescent. If he’s worried or guilty, he should just say that. Otherwise, it’d be better to get cream puffs together like normal people.

"In that case," Mash says, tilting his head slightly, "Why don't we go together? Wouldn't that be okay?"

The question lands. Rayne flinches—barely—but nods, slowly.

Mash doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at Rayne, unblinking. Being left alone that long has made something sit wrong in his chest—low and tight. One night hasn't fixed it, not really. Rayne had said: if there's something you want, say it.

It still feels wrong, sitting here like he's made of glass. Mash shifts slightly under the covers. “Let’s go together. Eat them together. And afterward…”

Rayne blinks back. "Afterward?"

Mash doesn’t look away. “Afterward… let’s do more. Okay?”

The ache is still there. But Rayne is looking at him like that—quiet, wanting—and it softens the edge. It’s not fixed. But for now, the warmth is enough.

Rayne exhales—long, surrendering—and says yes.