#jelli

The Borderlands at night were too quiet. That silence—unnatural, heavy—seeped into the walls, through every cracked window and half-lit alley. Out there, the air always smelled faintly of smoke, of burning that never quite reached its source.

In here, it was just him.

Chishiya sat on the battered couch across from you, one leg crossed neatly over the other, hair falling in a pale curtain against his cheek as he thumbed through a deck of cards he’d lifted from who-knows-where. He wasn’t playing, not really—just shuffling them idly, sharp eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest while pretending he wasn’t.

You knew him by now. Knew his habit of watching when others thought he wasn’t. Knew the way his smirk never revealed the whole story, just the part he wanted you to believe.

But what you knew most was this: under all that foxlike cunning, Chishiya loved control. He wielded silence and smirks like weapons, twisting situations to suit himself. He lived on the edge of smug detachment, untouchable, always above it all.

Which is exactly why you’d started to wonder what would happen if you pressed the right way—if you cut past that armor.

You lay back on the mattress, stretching out, watching him. His gaze flicked up, caught yours, then dropped back to the cards like nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You look bored,” he said, voice smooth, almost lazy.

“Maybe I am,” you answered, rolling onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “You’re not very entertaining.”

He chuckled, soft and sly. “Depends who you ask.”

You let your eyes trail over him deliberately, slowly enough for him to notice. “I think you could be.”

His smirk deepened. He set the cards aside, tilting his head at you like a predator humoring prey. “Oh? And what would entertain you, exactly?”

You didn’t move at first. You let the silence stretch, thick as molasses, before answering: “You.”

That single word cracked the calm in his eyes. It was fleeting—less than a second—but you caught it, the flicker of surprise he smothered almost instantly.

Chishiya rose, crossing the distance with his usual unhurried grace, stopping just at the edge of the bed. He looked down at you, unreadable, pale hair falling over his brow. “You’re bold.”

You smiled faintly. “You like bold.”

The fox mask twitched again. Then, with deliberate slowness, he sat on the edge of the mattress, one hand braced on either side of your body. “Show me,” he murmured.

You shifted, pulling him down until your lips brushed his. He kissed like he did everything—calculated, precise, but devastatingly effective. His mouth pressed against yours, cool and soft, before parting just enough for his tongue to slide against yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When you pulled back, panting faintly, you whispered against his lips: “Good boy.”

The reaction was instant. His fingers tightened against the sheets, grip twitching. He tried to smirk through it, but you felt the catch in his breath, saw the way his pupils dilated.

You kissed along his jaw, slow, deliberate. “Always so clever. Always in control. But I think you like it more when someone tells you you’ve done well.”

A soft groan escaped him, muffled against your neck where he buried his face. He didn’t answer—wouldn’t—but his body betrayed him, cock hardening against your thigh, the rhythm of his breathing uneven.

You slid your hands under his shirt, palms skimming the lean muscle of his torso, nails dragging lightly over his skin. “You’re doing so well for me, Chishiya. Letting me see the real you.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but his voice was rough, strained. He kissed you again, harder, like he could smother the words with his mouth.

You let him, for a while—let him press you into the mattress, let his hand slip between your thighs, fingers teasing the damp heat already pooling there. He worked you with practiced ease, circling your clit, slipping two fingers inside until you arched, moaning. His smirk flickered back, faint but triumphant.

“Still think I’m not entertaining?” he murmured.

You gasped, clenching around his fingers, and whispered breathlessly, “Such a good boy.”

His composure shattered. He groaned low, forehead pressing against yours, hips grinding down into the mattress helplessly. You felt him, hard and needy through his pants, rutting against you without his usual control.

You caught his chin in your hand, forcing him to look at you. His eyes—usually sharp, sly, calculating—were dark, wild, stripped bare.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice almost broken.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

He surged forward, mouth crashing against yours, desperate now. He pulled at his clothes with frantic hands, shoving pants down just enough to free his cock, flushed and slick at the tip. He ground against you roughly, spreading your wetness, shuddering when you moaned into his mouth.

Then he pushed inside.

The stretch made you cry out, his cock sliding deep, filling you until you trembled beneath him. He groaned, the sound guttural, his head falling to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he gasped, voice raw.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails raking down his back. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering at your words. He buried his face against your neck, moaning openly now, body jerking with every thrust. He was usually so composed, so measured—but under your praise, he was undone, needy, desperate.

You whispered it again and again, between gasps and moans, letting the words seep into his skin like fire. “Good boy. So clever. So perfect inside me.”

His thrusts grew erratic, rougher, his breath ragged. His hand slid down to your clit, rubbing furiously, needing you to come with him.

The pressure built sharp and fast, coiling deep in your belly until you broke, crying out his name as your orgasm tore through you. Your body convulsed around him, walls squeezing tight.

That was enough to drag him over the edge.

“F-fuck—” he groaned, his hips slamming into you one last time before he came, cock pulsing, spilling hot inside you. His whole body shuddered, breath catching on a moan muffled against your skin.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for your breathing—yours fast and uneven, his low and shaky. He collapsed against you, trembling faintly, sweat dampening his hair.

When he finally lifted his head, his smirk had returned—but it was weaker now, softened. “You talk too much.”

You brushed his damp hair back from his forehead, smiling. “And you love it.”

He chuckled under his breath, collapsing beside you, arm draping lazily over your stomach. His eyes slid shut, but not before you caught it—the faintest ghost of vulnerability still flickering there.

You leaned in, whispered softly against his temple: “Good boy.”

And this time, he didn’t tell you to shut up.