#jerril

Thigh-Riding, P in V, Brief Handjob, Semi-Public Sex

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From the moment you’re born, you know inherently that there is something important about your family. Something that elevates them above others. It’s in the way your mother carries herself as she works, the way your father speaks when he’s entertaining guests in the room-you’re-not-allowed-in, the way you’re taught to dress and enunciate in a certain way that doesn’t quite match what you hear from other children - ones who are allowed to play, who don’t have a responsibility thrust on them as soon as they display enough understanding to hold it with two tiny hands.

As you grow, as you learn and strive to succeed for the sake of receiving some semblance of positive attention from your parents, you begin to realize what it is that sets your three-person family apart.

When you learn about the Empire, the government of your home planet of Trantor, that is when the first pieces begin to click into place - the long absences of your father, the luxuries afforded to your family to the point of living in the Imperial District, the fine fabrics that you’d work with using extremely specific patterns…

The first time you lay eyes on the Emperor - a hologram, of course, you’d never be important enough for a physical audience - you realize your place in the world immediately. There’s a cape slung across the image’s shoulders, one that you recognize intimately as a hand-embroidered piece you’d spent weeks perfecting.

Your family outfits the Emperor, his closest staff, and others that you never meet as you’re locked away in the back room of the shop. Forbidden by your mother to cross paths with the very people you only know by their measurements - the Emperor’s sleeve length is 38.75” for most garments. Your simultaneously favorite and least-favorite client is a man with simple instructions and unchanging measurements, but his clothing returns for mending or replacement in the poorest condition you’d ever seen.

Just once, you wish you could glimpse out the door and see the sort of people wearing the clothing and uniforms you poured everything into - a duty, but one you relished thanks to its consistency and room to daydream.

Because you did… Daydream, that is. How could you not, when your life held no excitement otherwise? Books were well and fine, but there was only so much you could glean from them before you began to look elsewhere for enrichment. Your parents were busy, uninterested in you beyond your achievements and what you can provide for the bettering of the business.

A bleak existence, stretching before you in patterns of blacks and deep grays - similar to the fabric you were working with. Last minute alterations, taking in seams that were mere millimeters too big, embroidering your insignia at the back of the collar with tiny, precise stitches using golden thread. It glimmers in the light when you smooth it on the work table in front of you, and with no small amount of pride you marvel at your work.

It’s your favorite-not-favorite customer’s coat, a new one since his previous one had been destroyed by a series of suspiciously bullet-shaped holes that couldn’t be mended. The old one was on a mannequin in the corner of the room, furthest from the single window where the light couldn’t illuminate the faint burgundy of bloodstains.

Seeing in its current state had quietly irritated you - it had been some of your finest work, and you’d hoped he would notice and at least try to take better care of it. At the very least, it had lasted a few months before crossing your path again. A sudden urge strikes you, a streak of fancy that hadn’t been ground down by your mother’s stern eye, and you cross the room to the mannequin.

It hasn’t been cleaned, not like you usually do when garments are returned to salvage fabric. No - it had gone to the mannequin and had been forgotten until this moment, where your usually-steady fingers trembled as you worked at the buttons and snaps that held the front shut. It slides off the mannequin easily enough, and with a quick glance to the locked door, you swing it over your shoulders.

Even damaged, the fabric was crisp and well taken care of up to its moment of damaging. At least he had that much respect for craftsmanship, you thought a bit bitterly as it settled around your shoulders. The coat was far larger than anything you could comfortably wear, with too-much shoulder room and too-long sleeves. Even the bottom hem was an uncomfortable length for everyday use, but you weren’t using it for that.

Your motives were a bit more… frivolous than that. Wrapping it around your torso, you brought the collar to your nose and inhaled with gently fluttering lashes - your favorite client, the one that had been one of your first to work with, smelled wonderful. If a scent could be described as soft, this would be the one to claim that moniker. Beneath the detergent, there was the faint leftover of some sort of mild aftershave, and mixed together it was like a balm to any frayed edges that tickled the edges of your mind.

When you curled into this coat - or whichever one you could get your hands on when they returned to you - you felt safe. Nevermind that your life wasn’t dangerous in the slightest, it still gave you a strange sense of security. Almost like a hug, and that in itself was enough to make your chest tighten.

When was the last time you’d been given that? Affection of even the smallest magnitude? Long enough that you were seeking it in the well-worn fabric of a man you’d never met, depending on him for a single moment of feeling like you were cared for beyond what you could provide.

Was it healthy to have an attachment like this to a customer you’d never even seen face to face? Absolutely not, but you were a bit stir-crazy these days and if you could find simple comfort in the lingering scent of an unknown man, well… Who would stop you? No one would know.

No one cared enough to check.

With the old coat back on the mannequin and the new one ready to be boxed up and sent off to the palace, you felt one more little bolt of cheekiness. Perhaps you were stepping out of bounds, away from the position that had been drilled into you for your entire life, but you craved just a bit of spice to add color in your long, dreary days.

A note, slipped into the inner-pocket of the new jacket that had a simple message. Simple, looping scrawl on a piece of scrap paper that said; Please take better care of this one. A tiny little smiling face, just to show that your request was light-hearted and not meant to be taken as anything more than a jest.

You didn’t expect an answer, and you didn’t receive any requests for this man’s mending to be done or clothing to be replaced for nearly two months. Perhaps he’d taken your request to heart, and you warmed just a bit at the thought. Someone out there at least had an inkling you existed, and potentially cared enough to consider your wishes, and that left you with a little self-satisfied smile for weeks.

And then, just as it started to wane and the potency of this strange bit of acknowledgement wore down into nothing, it was stoked back into a roaring flame. The jacket was on your table when you arrived in your spacious work room. When you flipped the lights on and opened the blinds to let the sunlight in, you immediately noted the clean rip on the hem of the sleeve.

An easy fix with how clean and even the damage was. You set to work right away, laying it out flap on the table to confirm that nothing else was in disarray - perhaps a cleaning, once you’ve finished the mending, but that should be all. As you smooth your hand over the edges, there’s a crinkling from one of the inner pockets.

It’s the one you’d slipped your own note into, and you feel a bit disheartened at the prospect - maybe he’d never even noticed it was there. But the palace has their own laundering services, and it wouldn’t have held up against that treatment. Your nimble fingers tug the paper free, and you confirm that it’s most definitely not the original note.

This one is on finely printed paper, with little embellished golden designs at the corners that contrasted with the scratchy, almost rushed handwriting. You marveled at it for a moment before remembering that notes were meant to be read, not fawned over.

My apologies. Thank you for taking care of things. You do a wonderful job.

The paper is laid flat on the desk, and you clutch your hands together over your heart as you read it again. Under your breath, you repeat the words over and over. You do a wonderful job. You do a wonderful job.

You have to respond, you decide. There’s no wiggle room about it, not that you would try to get out doing so. Sure, you’d had contact with others before, but something about this was different. Your other social encounters were carefully monitored by your parents, never alone and never for the purpose of enrichment. It was all business.

But this? This was meant for you, and you alone. Praise meant for your eyes only, with no ulterior motive or business arrangement attached. No expectations beyond the usual.

With a full heart, you set to work on mending the seam and redoing your stitched insignia in the collar when you see that the glittering gold thread had begun to fade. Did he notice that, too? Your one way of showing your existence to the outside world?

After it’s finished but before you launder it, you make it a point to close the shutters of the window and indulge yourself, if only for a moment. The fabric is soft against your nose as you clutch it to your chest, inhaling the mild scent maybe a bit too-deeply. There’s a bit more aftershave today, a gentle thing that you’d likely have never noticed if you weren’t looking for it.

You almost wished you could go out and find the product yourself, but you had a feeling it would ring hollow compared to taking what you needed like this - it wouldn’t have come from him, and it wouldn’t satisfy the weird, shameful attachment you’ve manifested for him. If you could at least get his name, it may make him more real instead of a figure you’ve built up in your mind.

The note you slip into the pocket is as follows:

I appreciate your care this time around - but I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss working on your garments. Take care of yourself, too.

With warm cheeks, you draw another smiling face in the corner. A simple thing, but it felt needed - you didn’t get to smile as much as you wished you could.

A week passes, and you receive a new request from the palace for a garment for the Emperor’s chief of staff. It’s got a bit of a time crunch attached, and you let yourself work longer hours for the sake of reaching the set deadline. You’d never missed one before, and you didn’t intend to start when the garment was already so beautiful.

You didn’t get to create dresses often, instead having to craft uniforms for the various staff of the palace and the occasional attire for the Emperor. The latter had once been one of your favored duties, but the stress that came with having to be meticulous with every stitch had become something you dreaded.

As you’re pinning seams and pondering the complimentary fabrics that would make the bodice, the door to your work room opens. Without looking, you can tell it’s your mother - her steps are sharp, swift, and sure while being punctuated with the tap of her heels against the floor.

“You’ve a request for a mending, as well as a request for a new garment - it’s customer seven-one-B.”

“Okay,” You answer through a mouthful of pins, glancing over your shoulder at her. She’s stately, with coiffed hair and perfect posture that matched your own. There’s a pinch to her brow when she sees the pins between your teeth, but she says nothing. As long as you’re producing quality work, how it’s done doesn’t come into question.

She leaves, the door shutting tightly at her back, and you finally let your guard down and haphazardly jam the pins into the cushion in your lap. Suddenly, the dress’ deadline doesn’t matter so much when you take note of the jacket laying on the work table.

Seven-One-B is the moniker for your mysterious favorite, but it feels so impersonal that you only use it for keeping track of his measurements in the computer system - not that you’d need it, you’ve got them memorized as well as your own. More than even the Emperor’s.

You don’t waste time with formalities or pretending, and you barely even glance at the damage along the back before you’re digging in the pockets. It's in the same location as the one previous, on paper that is made of thicker stock and has little stylized suns and moons pressed into the corners. You fawn over it for a moment, running the pads of your fingers against the raised designs. Paper like this wasn’t common, and you felt a bit privileged that he would waste it on some silly note.

Far be it from my intention to leave you wanting, though I was rather fond of the cut on this one. If you’ll indulge me, I find myself curious about you - You are Yulya’s daughter, correct? You’re a closely guarded secret.

To you utter, endless delight, there is a little signature at the bottom. Nothing ostentatious, but you finally have a name to go with the warmth in your chest, and it’s one that you covet. Jerril. A strange name, one that you can’t pin down to any of the star systems you’d ever heard of, but it flows off the tongue somewhat-pleasantly when you try it out.

Jerril. Jerril, with the hurried handwriting and pleasant scent, who noticed your work and praised it without an expectation for a return. The coat laid on your workbench still smelled like him, something you couldn’t resist yet again, and you wondered what it would take to exchange correspondence properly with him.

Would your mother even allow it? Nothing less than a direct order from the Emperor himself would likely sway her. That meant you were stuck with leaving little notes in Jerril’s pocket after making the repairs and laundering the scent of him from the fabric.

I’ll be sure to remember that this one was special to you. I am the daughter of Yulya and Tolmen - I’ve been maintaining your garments for almost a decade. My status had been made painfully aware to me, unfortunately.

The new coat is perfect. Your craft is impeccable as always. A decade is a long time, I can’t imagine you’re well into your years. You must have been but a child. Do you not have the choice to leave?

I hoped you would appreciate it, I spent longer than expected so it would be perfect. I was young when I was assigned your projects. I agree, a decade is a long time when your world is confined to four walls.

Jerril doesn’t send any garments for a few weeks, and it’s hard not to read too deeply into it - it’s just business, and he’s at least taking care of his clothing for once. Still, you feel… almost despondent without the little correspondence despite its slowness. Every note that he sent back was tucked safely in the locked drawer of your desk, stowed in a little envelope to prevent prying eyes from finding them.

The absence of Jerril’s clothing meant that he was safe out there somewhere, and that was good enough for you.

A package comes only days later - it’s a small little thing, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. Your name is written on the side with familiar handwriting, and your heart leaps to your throat when your mother sets it on the work bench in front of you.

“Tell me why you’re receiving gifts. Tell me how the Shadowmaster to the Emperor is aware of who you are.”

Thinking quickly, you take it in both hands and settle it in your lap - you don’t want to open it, not until your mother leaves you alone. She’s looming above with a frown on her painted lips and a suspicious squint to her eye.

“Shouldn’t the Shadowmaster be aware of something as simple as the person making his clothing? I can’t imagine it’s difficult information for him to find,” You answer with a carefully measured tone that betrays nothing of your anticipation. There’s a twitch to her brows, one that to recognize from the moments she relents and allows you a small bit of freedom, and her arms uncross to drop to her sides.

A victory.

“Fair enough. Has he contacted you before? …Attempted anything?”

There’s an implication to her second question that has your fingers tightening around the package almost protectively, “No, I don’t even know his name.”

“It’s Seven-One-B,” Yulya states this simply, as if it’s the only truth in the universe, and with a lingering look to the package you were clutching, she clicks from the room with polished heels. The moment the door locks, you sink into the chair with immense relief - that could have gone so horribly, and you had a feeling that only your previous and consistent obedience had been your saving grace. How would she have reacted if she knew you were exchanging notes with someone?

Nonetheless the Shadowmaster of the Empire. Never would you have expected that, but it should have been obvious with his continued injuries and muted clothing, the myriad of little pockets and sheaths sewn into his clothing to his exact specifications. You’re not sure how you hadn’t realized it sooner.

Perhaps you’d just felt lucky to have a… friend?

Thinking of Jerril brought you back to the most pressing matter - the paper-wrapped package in your lap. It’s surprisingly heavy for something so small, and you unwrap it with careful fingers to marvel at the contents. The moment you see that the paper wrapping held writing inside, you counted your luck that you hadn’t simply ripped it open like a child.

The paper is temporarily forgotten on the desk as you marvel at the little glass box in your hands - though it didn’t seem to be anything less than a tempered sort that could handle a bit of roughness thanks to the courier. Inside it’s filled with water, and there are little moss balls floating inside, resting gently on pink rocks and a faux piece of coral.

It’s cute - small and precious enough that you can’t look away. Greenery wasn’t common on Trantor, and you were already taken by the little moss orbs that floated merrily as you turned their glass home. The letter on the desk is what finally takes your attention away, and you lay the crumpled paper flat to read it with rapt attention.

Unfortunately, I’ve followed your instruction and have taken care of my clothing, but I thought it would be prudent to at least assure you that I haven’t been caught unawares somewhere else.

Recently, I’ve gone off-planet and the sight of this made me think of you. I hope sending it via courier hasn’t caused you too much grief with your family - it’s my understanding that our conversations have been kept low-profile - but I have a way of killing any plants in my presence and waiting until I could send my clothing to you would likely end in its demise. A fitting ability, isn’t it? Being unable to keep things alive.

Yours,

Jerril

The moss balls sit in the window sill, with just enough light to reflect off of their cheerful green and catch your eye. It’s a thoughtful gift, one that you covet despite the unhappy expression on your parent’s faces when they see it. Almost as much as you cover the letter that you keep in your pocket.

Yours. Jerril can’t possibly know what that means, and you’re not about to tell him how your heart races out of control. It’s pathetic, really. You’ve never truly met him, but you’re clinging like a lost child to a faceless man with only a single name.

Jerril’s next note comes with his casual jacket - a leather and stiff-fabric getup that is more suited to moving about the city rather than moving about the shadows. Now that you understand who it is that you’re dealing with, so many more things make sense, especially his hurried handwriting.

Do tell me if my gift made it to you. If they died, don’t be ashamed, it’s simply one more thing the two of us share in common. Check the left pocket - there is another gift for you, if you’d like. I find myself in possession of many such trinkets, and I think this one would suit you well. Perhaps I’ll have the chance to confirm that.

Yours,

Jerril

True to his word, there’s a fragile hair pin wrapped in tissue paper that glitters in the sunlight that filters through the window. It’s silver, with delicate engravings of spirals and arabesques along the length of it. Stepping closer to the window to hold it in the light, you pull your lips between your teeth to hide your smile.

It’s beautiful, and it takes but a moment to pile your hair into a bun and pass the pin through to hold it sturdy. There’s a mirror in the corner, covered with a sheet since no clients ever pass through this room, and you turn to check your appearance in its surface. Mid-step, you pause, and look down at the ground level.

The Imperial District is surprisingly busy at most hours of the day, and now it’s no exception as the work hours come to a close. It’s a trickling stream of bodies passing below, but there’s one figure standing across the road, eyes trained on your window and unmoving - a rock in the river, parting it around himself.

You’d recognize that coat anywhere - you’d only made it with your two hands, after all. Hands clutched the edge of the window with white knuckles, fingernails scraping against the metal ledge. Two impossibly dark eyes stared back, eyebrows pinched together just slightly as he watches your own expression morph from shock to the smallest smile.

Jerril sees it, judging by the way his own lips quirk slightly, and then he’s turning away to leave. You know he has to, he has his own duties to attend to, but something in your heart hurts as you watch his back while he navigates out of your sight. After a few moments of contemplation, you realize it’s longing.

It takes you two days to finish the mending and craft a gift of your own - the softest fabric you have available to you in a deep, royal blue. It’s fashioned into a cowl and cape easily enough, with little embroidered details at the hems that you pull directly from the stationary he seemed fond of using. With precise little stitches, you use your golden thread not to put your insignia in the collar, but instead your name. A simple change, but you hope he sees the meaning in it.

You’re rather handsome, you know. I appreciate the gifts, but I think seeing you was the most pleasant of all. The hairpin is beautiful, Jerril. I’ll treasure it fondly.

Don’t worry - the moss balls are thriving. I’ve heard that the best way to support your shortcomings is to seek out counterparts that can make up for them.

When you sign your name at the bottom of the note, your pen hovers over the sheet with a deliberate pause. There are two ways for him to take your note, to read into the tone and come to a conclusion, and you can’t help but want him to know the truth. Instead of your usual smiling doodle, you draw the smallest heart to the left of your signature.

It isn’t until the coat is sent back that you regret your decision - but now it’s too late, and you can only wait with bated breath for Jerril’s response. He’ll understand it, know what it means and what you’re insinuating. It would be better for him to let you down now than to let this continue to grow too heavy for your shoulders to carry.

You covet the pin and care for the moss balls and try not to let your mind work itself into a frenzy about your foolish actions. And this works during the day, when your hands and mind are occupied by your duties.

But in the dark, while you lay in your bed and tug the sheets around you in a way that makes the pressure feel like an arm around your waist, you can’t help but think of wide, dark eyes and the tiniest smile. Of pale hands that hung at his side in fists but relaxed when you noticed him. Of those same hands writing two words that had caused this problem in the first place.

Yours, Jerril.

—

Is there anything as sad as watching your future be strangled to death in front of you? You can’t help but wonder as you stare across the table at the young man opposite you. He doesn’t look nearly as uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like he’d been talking for hours - mostly about himself. Did he even know your name?

Finally, he asks his first real question and expects an answer, but it’s not one you find particularly engaging. In fact, it’s one you hardly even register as you bring your glass to your lips and wet them.

“I imagine living in the Imperial District must be wonderful, do you frequent the entertainment sector often?”

The answer is no, but it’s not like you can come out and say that. It’s an unspoken rule that you don’t reveal the dreary nature of your life - it’s a miracle you were allowed this outing in the first place, despite its ulterior motive of searching for a match to pair you with. Another freedom you can’t afford with the thin wallet you were gifted at birth.

“Occasionally, though my tastes are discerning and not often do I find them interesting enough to pique my interest. I find many to be rather gauche, don’t you?”

A practiced, easy response that gave nothing away. A segway into him speaking about himself once more, about his favorite operas and films that you’d never seen but secretly wanted to. Perhaps you could work this in your favor, if only to get one evening of entertainment out of it.

He takes the bait - you don’t even remember his name, you realize - and he goes on a tangent about some new opera that was released by a man with the last name of Tolft. It honestly sounded terribly boring, almost as grating as its creator’s name, but you fold your hands in your lap and nod along. When you could squeeze them in between his tangents, you offered little quips and questions of no real consequence.

By the time dinner has arrived and been consumed, your companion for the evening states his intentions to return after using the restroom - though in much more… elegant terms. You watch him go, calculating the mental fortitude required for another evening at one of his silly little operas.

“It’s awful, I hope you know. Tolft is the result of rampant nepotism from the Director’s Guild. A child with parents that held too much influence and money to be told his ideas were… How did you say it? Gauche?”

The man in your date’s chair is not your date. But he’s sitting there as if he were - one leg crossed over the other, hands folded atop his knee, and fixing you with a stare that could see through every flimsy wall you constructed as a facade for your date’s comfort. For the first time in as long as you could remember, you’re at a complete loss for words.

“Though, I suppose if you don’t have many options, you’ll have to settle. Is that what you’re doing? Settling?”

A loaded question, one that also holds an answer that you’re not quite sure you can grasp yet. Not while Jerril’s eyebrows pinch together and his head tilts to the right - he’s expecting an answer of your own.

“I… suppose I’ll have to.”

“No one ever has to,” Jerril’s fingers gesture on his knee - a little motion of unfolding to emphasize his words before they curl again, “If one has enough patience, other opportunities may arise. Keep that in mind.”

You swallow dryly, your tongue darting out to wet your lips to respond. Jerril’s eyes snap to the movement, and there’s a tiny shift in his jaw. He’s clenching his teeth together, such a small gesture that you never would have caught if you weren’t already committing his appearance to your memory.

“I always keep it in mind, Jerril. You’ll find I can be very patient.”

“Something I’m beginning to realize,” At the end of his sentence, you see it - the tiny twist of his lips into the ghost of a smile before he’s uncrossing his legs to stand, “I’ll not interrupt your riveting evening any longer than I have. I’ll see you soon.”

You’re not settling, you decide as your companion returns to close out the night and return you to your home. You’re definitely not settling when he makes an offer to take you to see Tolft’s opera the following evening and you tell him an emphatic yes with wide, glittering eyes.

Jerril is on your mind constantly, from the moment he’d sat down at your table like he belonged there until you’re replacing your dress with your pajamas, until you’re flat on your back and staring at your ceiling. You hadn’t seen it before when you caught a glimpse of him out your window, but from the close distance in the lounge you could truly make out his features.

Dark eyes - so much so that they’re nearly black instead of the deep, rich blue you realized they were - had watched you with such rapt attention that you could almost feel them still. Like his gaze was burned into your skin, leaving marks along your bare shoulders and the line of your neck, down your collarbones.

Jerril had subtly answered your unspoken question with just a tilt of his eyebrows and a sweep of blue, blue eyes. You didn’t feel quite so unsettled after putting your heart on your sleeve, even if he hadn’t yet accepted it. But there was a chance, an implication, and that’s better than you could have hoped for only a few hours prior.

A garment from Seven-One-B is dropped off in the morning - his coat from the previous night, the casual one with the straps and zippers that you remember stitching by hand with utmost care. The zipper is broken, with teeth missing and the metal jammed. It’s not difficult to piece together that it was intentional.

Wear the hairpin to the opera. I’d like a closer look.

Yours,

Jerril

The hairpin sits on the work table in front of you, glittering in the sunlight as it comes through the opened curtains. Anticipation bubbles in your veins as you repair the jacket and sweep it over your shoulders. Jerril’s scent surrounds you, sinking into your skin as you curl into the fabric with a quiet sigh.

There’s more meaning to this now, as miniscule as it is, and you relish in the comfort of his delicate aftershave. You bring the collar to your nose as you get to your feet, footsteps carrying you to the window. It’s a beautiful day out, and you’re easily tempted to crack the window open and get the slightest breeze.

You should have known with the way he’d started to show up where you least expected that he’d be there, watching and waiting. It’s… almost painful, watching from this distance as he realizes you’re looking back at him. His arms fell to his sides from where they’d been clasped behind his back, fingers twitching into loose fists.

The jacket is still wrapped around you, you realize, and you reach up to remove it. Jerril’s head twitches to the side once, an obvious dismissal of your thoughts, and you settle once more with a hand against the pane of glass. Despite him only being on the opposite side of the street, you can’t help but feel as if he’s impossibly far away.

Tonight, you tell yourself as Jerril dips his head in a slight nod and turns to leave - his eyes stay glued to you until the very last moment, when he’s already begun a quick clip down the street amidst the throngs of people.

In the jacket, you slip your own response in - accented with another little heart next to your signature.

You can look as close as you’d like, Jerril, at every detail.

And you put in the details. The hair pin, passed through carefully coiffed hair. A form-fitting dress that shimmered in the low light, little pin-pricks on a dark backdrop. Everything about you was smoothed and cultivated until you were sure not a hair was out of place. It bothered you that your date - what was his name again? - thought all of this was for him, and it rankled at you the way his hand traveled a bit too low on your back as the two of you walked together.

It’s not far enough to warrant a vehicle, though you had a feeling if you asked he would jump at the chance to show his wealth. Instead, there’s the quiet click of your heels punctuating the lulls in his conversation - you say his, because truly you have no place in it while he dominates every sentence.

You’re not concerned, not while your mind is elsewhere. On someone else that’s waiting for you, the anticipation bubbling beneath your skin in a way that makes it difficult to understand what your companion is saying. Something about the musical, about Tolft’s genius, and you know he’s a fool from that one statement.

Jerril had confirmed that.

“We’ll have our own box - I own one here, you know. It’s rather private, and we’ll have a wonderful view. I heard the prima donna is particularly haunting in this run.”

“I’m rather excited, I did some research today and I’ve heard that as well,” You simper back with a tight smile on painted lips - you have no clue who he’s referring to, but your feigned interest nearly makes his chest puff to the point of bursting his buttons. A fool, you reiterate.

The box is just as he says - secluded, with a private door and a balcony that overlooks the entire stage. There are only two seats, and when you settle into yours you don’t miss the way he slides his own just a bit closer. Pointedly, you fold your hands in your lap while crossing one leg over the other in a closed-off gesture.

Whether he gets the hint or not, you’re not entirely sure, but he doesn’t make any further advancements - he is a gentleman, after all.

Before it begins, as the orchestra is playing the overture and the last stragglers make their way to the seats below, a sharp knock sounds at the door to the box. You share an expectant look with your date, and he looks a bit exasperated before getting to his feet to answer them.

“Jarin, my boy, could I steal you for a moment? I heard you were here and I’ve been meaning to speak with you - your tickets will be comped for the evening if you’ll allow me.”

With an airy wave of your hand, you signal to your date - Jarin, you remember now - and he lets out a sharp exhale before nodding to the newcomer, a portly man that seems to be dressed in finery even more ostentatious than anyone else here tonight. He must be the owner that Jarin had spoken about before, and you find yourself giddy at the thought of his absence.

The two men leave just as the opera begins, and you realize quickly that Jerril had been painfully correct in his advisory - it was dreadfully boring, with a few scenes interjected that likely were meant to inject some measure of excitement but it seemed to fall flat considering the tone of everything preceding and succeeding them.

But the orchestral backing is nice, and you find yourself leaning your shoulders back into the chair as you closed your eyes to just listen - if you ignored the flimsy plot, the arrangement of the music was pleasant enough to make leaving your home worth it.

Your eyelids flutter open as the door behind you clicks shut - someone entered, and judging by their silence it was decidedly not Jarin. There’s a shift of your chair, so miniscule that you wouldn’t have felt it if you weren’t leaning against the backrest. A hand at the top, you realize, and then quiet words as your new companion leans down to your ear.

“As close as I like? A bold proposition.”

“But not false,” You answer quietly, hardly audible over the vibrato of the prima donna below. It’s a mournful tune, something long and lingering that you’ve decided may be the only redeeming quality of the show.

“No, I suppose it isn’t. I wonder if you’re aware of how close that could end up being.”

You’re silent, counting the breaths that breeze across your cheek. With your eyelids fluttering again, you know he can see the effect he’s having on you with just one simple exchange. You’re well aware of how close it could be, and you wouldn’t deny him if he sought out those finer details you’d worked on.

“Jerril,” You murmur, maybe a bit more breathy than you’d intended, but you can feel his breath hitch in your ear, “I’m sheltered, not stupid.”

“Not stupid, quite the opposite. I’ve learned quite a bit about you in my limited free time, dug around for details that your parents seemed intent on keeping hidden,” Jerril pauses as the music reached a crescendo, the note holding before it peters off into nothing and allows you to hear him again, “At first my interest was piqued, but now it’s been consumed. A bold little girl making offers for a man she hardly knows to search for details, knowing full well that he’s aware of them all?”

“I’m not little,” Was your response, maybe a bit indignant as you forced your eyes down to the stage and away from the dark gaze in the corner of your vision, “Why did you respond?”

“Why did you send the first note? I think I can guess, your answer may be the same as my own.”

“You responded because you were lonely, then? I find it odd that the Shadowmaster who can go anywhere and speak with anyone is lonely.”

“Not now, not in this moment,” Jerril responds easily, without a moment of hesitation. There’s a brush of hair against your cheek, and it’s another reminder of how close he’s gotten, “You’ve been a pleasant, but all-encompassing distraction.”

“One of your own making - you didn’t have to respond.”

“How could I not, with such sweet words?” There’s a shuffling, and a gloved hand is held aloft in front of your face with a folded piece of paper pinched between his index and middle fingers. You recognize the scrap of paper immediately, and you don’t even have to open it to know what it says. Jerril offers it to you anyway.

I appreciate your care this time around - but I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss working on your garments. Take care of yourself, too.

It’s impossible to miss the way that last sentence has been smudged, as if fingers have traced the letters over and over again. Unable to resist the urge, you turn your head enough to catch Jerril’s eyes with your own, becoming trapped immediately.

“When was the last time you think that’s been said to me? A genuine care about my wellbeing?”

“I-I’m not sure-”

“I’ll give you a hint: I’m not sure, either. Years, possibly? Maybe even decades?” Jerril’s hand curls around the armrest opposite to where he’s standing, effectively trapping you in the cage of his arms. Blue fabric drapes into your lap, and you realize he’s wearing your gift from so long ago, “How do you think that made me feel? Some nameless, faceless little girl back home wishing for my well-being?”

You can’t answer, not while he’s looking at you like an open book - there’s longing there, barely hidden but not well enough. You’d think a spy in the employ of the Emperor would be a bit more guarded. Jerril’s eyes flick across your face, your cheekbones, your cupid’s bow, and then to your lips. It’s a question, albeit meandering, and you respond with an upward tilt of your chin.

An invitation, and all he’d need to do is take it.

Jerril hesitates, gloves creaking with how tightly he was gripping the chair around you. But you’re patient, just as he’d agreed you were - patient enough not to settle for an air-headed young man when Jerril was who you’d been waiting for, even before you’d known him. Then, as quickly as a single blink of your eye, Jerril is giving in and brushing his lips against your own.

A test, a single digit being dipped into uncharted waters. Jerril pulls away just enough to speak, the formation of the syllables causing his lips to move against yours with feather light touches, “Stop me.”

“Never.”

“Don’t say that,” Jerril’s voice is barely a whisper, inaudible over the sounds of the opera’s pre-intermission climax at his back if you hadn’t been nose-to-nose with him. He’s closer than anyone’s ever been before, and ever will be again if you can help it. There’s a little tilt to his head, a promise of what’s to come, and you sharply inhale.

The scent is so familiar that you nearly slump down into the seat and become putty to his whims. Like a favorite blanket, or perhaps stepping out into the precious sunlight on Trantor. It’s warm and familiar and you sigh in response as he truly kisses you. His lips are barely chapped, like he’d been out in the wind for a moment too long, but they’re still as soft as you expected.

A breath brushes across your cheek, a direct sign of his relief as he leans further in until the back of your head is firm against the chair. Seeking something to ground yourself, your hand curls around the wrist he is using to support himself on the arm of the chair, your fingertips slipping beneath the sleeve to brush against his skin.

It’s oddly textured, with smooth planes and structured ridges that you couldn’t quite place. At the feel of your callused fingertips against the soft inside of his wrist, you’re treated with a pleased hum that makes its way from his lips and into yours. Jerril doesn't have to ask for permission, your lips already parting to allow him to do as he pleased.

You’re surprised at how wicked his tongue seems to be as it curls expertly against your own and coaxes you to moan into the kiss. The opera doesn’t exist anymore, not while the two of you are hidden away in this box with a locked down and Jerril’s knee sliding between your thighs to rest his weight on.

Jerril’s so close, enough that if you shift you’ll be pressed against his thigh snugly. Would that be the uncrossable line, you shamelessly showing what he was doing to you without even an ounce of effort? A compromise, you decide as you spread your knees a bit wider in an obvious request - one that could be overlooked if he wasn’t interested in taking things that far.

Until he did, a wry smile against your lips as his knee shifts and grinds into the junction of your thighs. You moan into his mouth, fingers scrabbling to dig into the fabric of his cloak and wrap tighter around his wrist. Against his skin, your fingernails must be sharp as you squeeze, but he doesn’t even flinch as his knee shifts and rubs against you through the layers of fabric separating you from the friction.

Jerril’s lips drag from yours wetly, dragging along your cheek to your jaw where his teeth nip at you - gently, not enough to leave a mark. He’s well aware you won’t be going home with him tonight.

“Use me how you’d like,” Jerril’s breath is searing against your skin, running almost as hot as your nerves. Any other time, you may have hesitated, maybe questioned what exactly that entailed, but the way his teeth tugged on your earlobe told you more than an explanation ever could hope to do.

With shaking hands, you carefully unwind your fingers from where you’d been clutching at him to bunch the fabric of your dress up just enough to remove the thickest layer between you. Now you could feel the seam running along the front of his leg, pressing between already-soaked folds to give you the perfect point to grind yourself upon.

“Ah… Jerril, I-... What a-about you?”

“If you’re quick about it,” Is his answer, short and clipped and full of promise - an urging for you to hurry yourself along for both of your sakes. You can’t leave it at that, though, not when you can see the obvious strain of his own arousal against the front of his pants.

“Let me touch you,” You urge, voice cracking into a whisper as you circle your clit against his leg, exhaling with each rotation. He’s hesitating again, and you almost want to take it back until he’s reaching with one hand to the fasteners holding the front of his pants closed. That’s all he does, leaving it hanging open for you to do as you pleased with him.

Jerril is heavy in your hands, impossibly hard as you pull him free and use both hands to feel along his length. The sigh in your ear is sweeter than any treat you could ever remember having, and you find out quickly that it has an addictive property that keeps you seeking more. Your palm curves around the head of his cock, matching the movements you were grinding against his leg, and it drags a shuddering sigh that morphs into words.

“Ah, min rionnakh,” The words are unfamiliar, but the heaviness of their implied meaning sends heat straight to your heart, and further South, “Be more selfish with me. Take what you need from me, and then I’ll get mine.”

You don’t let him go, but your stroking stops and you simply keep a firm grip on his cock as you do as he orders you to. His knee pushes against you a little harder, an encouragement of the lewdest kind, and you accept it like you have with all his other affirmations - with eagerness.

Propping himself up with one hand, gloves squeaking with the pressure of his grip, he backs away to bring his other hand to his lip and catch the seam of his gloved fingertip between his teeth. You know you must look wild beneath him, hands on his cock and rubbing your cunt against his leg with an obvious wet spot left in your wake.

Jerril tugs the glove off with one swift movement, and it drops to the floor unceremoniously as he finally touches you with his bare hand. Scarred and callused fingertips start at the hollow of your throat, tracing your collarbone up your shoulder and then down your chest. With a curl of digits around the top of the cup of your bra and dress, he pulls it down enough to free your breast to the chilled air of the theater.

Just as it was in your mouth, Jerril’s tongue is unfairly skilled as he kisses down your breast to catch your nipple between his teeth. It’s sharp for a bare moment, making you whine at the sensation before it’s soothed away with the flat of his tongue. Here is where he leaves marks, where no one’s eyes will see - the soft sides of your breasts, the imprint of his teeth around your nipple, a single bruise sucked into your skin below your sternum where the dress would cover easily.

Signs to show that you’d been with him, had belonged to him if only for a moment. Jerril did say he wanted you to be more selfish, and it would be the ultimate greed to hope that this would continue again - into forever, if he’d be so inclined.

As you reach closer to your peak, your movements becoming frantic and sloppy, Jerril stops you with a hand on your thigh - his bare hand, that slides beneath the hem of your dress and drags along the sensitive skin on the inside. His knee backs away, taking the pressure away with a whimper from your lips, but it’s soon forgotten as he pulls the wet fabric to the side and his fingers find your clit without fail.

“I want you desperately, min rionnakh,” Jerril looked up at you through his lashes, watching the twist of your face as he touches you in ways you could never hope to achieve by simply rubbing yourself against him. You swallow audibly, your throat feeling blocked with the thickness of disuse and your arousal.

“Then take me, Jerril.”

A smile against your breast, teeth and all, and he’s working those fingers a bit more nimbly until your eyes are fluttering shut with a chant of his name beneath your breath. It takes not more than a few more seconds until you’re bucking against his hand, lip pulled tight between your teeth to hide the keening whine you wanted to release.

Jerril guides you through it, slowing his pace until you’re shaking your head with a silent plea against the oversensitivity. There’s a moment that he allows you to take to catch your breath, and the moment you’re looking at him with lucid eyes once more he’s tugging you to sit at the edge of the seat, leaning back as he looms above you.

His gloved hand catches your knee to hike around his waist, keeping you open as he takes his cock in hand and rocks it against you with a disbelieving sigh that seemed to shake as it fell from his lips. He’s coating himself on your arousal, picking up the natural lubricant before the head of his cock catches against your opening.

As if sensing your worry, Jerril’s free hand catches yours and he laces your fingers - there’s a stark difference in the shapes, in the textures between your relatively soft hands and his scarred ones. It’s oddly beautiful with the dichotomy of your lives.

There’s a stretching that would be uncomfortable if Jerril hadn’t given you such attention beforehand, and even as you tense there’s a shushing noise that comes from him. His forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked and keeping you entranced until his hip bones are pressed tightly against your inner thighs.

“Are you ready?”

“Please,” Your voice is airy and without substance, and there’s a crinkle at the corner of Jerrils eyes that betrays his amusement. Slowly, he drags himself out of you, and before you can get used to the sensation of being empty once more, you’re filled with his sharp thrust that nearly makes you yelp.

Another shush, this time punctuated with a bare thumb on your lip as he lets go of your hand. Pink darts between your lips as you take in the faint taste of yourself from where he’d touched you. Jerril’s eyes darken when he realizes it, and suddenly the slow and languid thrusts turn shallower and sharper.

From this distance, where that blue fabric is brushing your bare chest and his sweating forehead is pressed against your own, it’s almost as if the only two things to exist in the universe are you and the man before you - inside you, repeatedly with little near-silent hitches of his breath. His thumb slips past your lips to find your tongue, and you cup against the pad of his finger eagerly as he holds it.

Reverently, he speaks your name and tacks on that strange term of endearment you didn’t understand the literal meaning of - but his tone and the way each syllable is wrapped with layers of affection is more than enough to tell you its intent, its promise. Your hand is shaky as you bring it to the back of his head, fingers twisting in the soft hair at the nape of his neck that curls around your digits with a mind of their own.

There’s a stutter in his rhythm, and it reflects in the way his eyes start to glaze over as it becomes arrhythmic and his angles change - he’s searching for his release, and you encourage him with little whines of his name and babbled words, “Finish inside of me, let me feel you, Jerril. Please, let me have you.”

“It’s as though… You don’t realize I’m already yours,” Jerril’s words are laced with exertion, cutting off sharply as his hips press against you bruisingly and his eyes flutter closed. You wished he hadn’t, if only so you could see each emotion in his eyes as he releases inside of you with a hiss through his teeth.

Heavily, like all the activities and implications have gained all their weight back, Jerril’s head drops to your shoulder as he catches his breath. It doesn’t take as long as you thought it would, and you’re only able to run your fingers through his hair for a few moments before he’s already pulling away and putting himself back together.

And then he’s helping you - wiping your inner thighs off with the inside of his cowl, righting your dress and removing any wrinkles, expertly pinning your hair with almost no instruction. His eyes travel over you keenly, taking in every detail before he’s satisfied.

The moment hangs between you, suddenly unsure despite the words the two of you had exchanged. You want to blurt out what you’re feeling, to give him the entire truth of it, but you have a feeling he’d already seen and accepted what you were offering the moment he’d brushed his lips against your own.

Instead of lingering longer as you would have liked, Jerril picks his glove up from the floor and clutches it in his covered hand, the other coming up to curl around the point of your chin with a soft grip, “Are you unhappy?”

“With you? Absolutely not. I’m not sure I could ever be.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, truly I do, but don’t say that. I’ve been known to defy that expectation. But I wasn’t insinuating with me - I meant with the way things will return to when you leave this box. Are you unhappy in your home?”

You look up at him with wide, wide eyes, wondering what the ulterior motive is with this line of questioning. Jerril’s jaw works from side to side, chewing on his words as he takes in the slight heaving of your chest and the trembling of your hands. Sweat still dots your brow, and if he pushed his fingers to your neck, he’d feel the racing of your pulse.

“The Emperor isn’t easily swayed, but perhaps it would be easier for the palace’s staff to have a tailor on-premises rather than to travel across the Imperial District. A well-placed suggestion is easily done, and just as easily acted upon. Keep that in mind, min rionnakh.”

That endearment again, and when your eyebrows pitch together in confusion, Jerril’s eyes soften and he takes a knee in front of you, chest cradled by your now-covered knees, “Min rionnakh. My star. A Kiharan phrase, meant for the one who holds your heart, who guides you home. We navigated using only the stars, they hold meaning.”

“You’re Kiharan?”

“I may fail with disguises, but I think I’ve worked this one out rather well, don’t you?” Jerril pinches your chin again, a gesture so small and delicate that it warms your cheeks, “I am known to be a patient man, but with distance between us even I will grow impatient. Don’t keep me waiting for too long.”

At his back is the final crescendo of the opera, a cacophony of lilting sounds and warbling vibrato that holds no meaning as Jerril kisses you one final time - long and lingering, a promise of more to come if you only reached out to Jerril and allowed him to pull you free from your bonds.