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Satin
It’s nothing strange at all, no one has any reason to be suspicious. After all, as the Lord Commander’s steward, it’s his job to sleep in his quarters and Ghost is a good watch dog. Or watch wolf. Satin has his place on the smaller bed in Jon’s quarters and the fact that they shared a couple of night’s together – sleeping, mind you – or that Jon kissed him on the mouth once, means nothing.
Satin is used to the kind of behavior the Lord Commander shows. Busy and aloof, avoiding even coming close to the subject while it’s painfully obvious for someone used to read the hearts of men, that there’s little else on Jon Snow’s mind.
So, while Satin’s past might be shameful for most people, he’s got use for it now. Whores are goods to be used, empty vessels to be filled with a thousand dreams and weaknesses of men who can’t satisfy them elsewhere and when the coins are left on the bed, whatever dream – or nightmare – the man paid you to act out with him, is over and you’re no longer attached to each other. You can be exchanged easy as tools or cattle and when the next customer knocks on your door, you’re empty again and ready to be filled. Selling your body isn’t a profession for those with bleeding hearts.
He wonders if the Lord Commander is relieved or confused by his steward’s behavior. For all the experience Satin has with men, Jon Snow doesn’t really follow any of the known patterns to the full. He’s distant, yes, but he doesn’t actually ignore Satin and he’s never ever cruel or even harsh with him. Satin performs his daily duties, does his share of the mandatory practice and tends to his blisters, cuts and bruises like everyone else. It’s just his heart that seems heavier than usual.
His saving grace turns out to be Samwell Tarly’s nightmare. The roof in the library is old and has not really been a priority with the sometimes limited resources they have for mending the castle and one morning, Pyp comes running into the hall where most of them are finishing their morning meal, shouting that there’s a leak in the library and they need to get all the books out quickly.
While some of the men are both annoyed and amused, even Ser Alliser Thorne and the cynical Dolorous Edd, understand the emergency of the situation and rush from their porridge and warm ale as if the fire was loose. Knowledge is their weapon up here, as much as the swords and crossbows, and so for once no one is teasing Sam when the saving expedition is over and two dozen books are so damaged it’ll take a small wonder and an amount of patience most of the men here don’t have, to copy them.
After a private discussion with Samwell and Maester Aemon, it is decided that everyone even remotely capable of writing or just copying even if they may not know how to read, must try out their skills – or lack of them – before the book lover’s critical eyes. With the way Samwell cares about the library and from what Satin has been told about the lord’s son’s first time here, there’d be no surprise if he took his chance to get back on those who were cruel to him, now that he’s the one the men must turn to for help and approval.
But Samwell Tarly isn’t cruel, or even impatient. He’s passionate and completely absorbed by the task, urging them to work as fast as they can, to not care if the copies don’t look beautiful as long as they’re readable. And he’s encouraging them all, praising the slightest effort and progress and running from brother to brother to assist whenever they need him. Dolorous Edd jokes about how Samwell will turn thinner than a White Walker with all this excercise and the laughter from the men isn’t sinister but more of the kind they share when joking about the hopelessness in their watch.
The wall needs more men, it always does, and while the Lord Commander has sent ravens asking for temporary aid with the copying to the Citadel as well as the nearest houses who aren’t openly hostile to the Night’s Watch, it’s a long journey few people will volunteer to. The Eyrie wont send help, Lysa Arryn is a suspicious woman and perhaps not so keen on aiding her dead sister’s unwanted foster son. Maester Aemon calms an upset Samwell down, reminding him and the rest of the brothers bent over their paper rolls, that while they all remember the oath they took, that they’re no longer a part of whatever house or craft or crime they were connected to before, the people who’re depending on them to keep watch, will always find a reason to forget.
Satin thinks, not without bitterness, that sometimes the Night’s Watch would need some of that forgetfulness as well to not see him as the whore he no longer is. And the Lord Commander… well, whatever he’s remembering or not, he obviously has no intention to show it, so while Satin mends and copies books with more and more skilled eyes and hands, that soft heart of his he thought had been hardened by now, is crumbling under the the black cloak.
Jon
Maybe the library disaster is a blessing in disguise. The tension between Alliser Thorne and his likings, and those of the recruits they take every chance to mock, has eased with this temporary separation and some of the men who used to be cruel to Samwell or Satin, seem to look at them with a newfound respect, small as it is. And the pretty man from Oldtown is smiling again, albeit not while Jon is looking.
The arrival of two clerks, one from the Citadel and another one from House Mormont at Bear Island is helpful too and not just for the work with books, but because they bring tidings and gossip along with some new books – from the Citadel – something that makes Samwell look like a boy getting his first own horse and several kegs with dark ale, sweet mead and rich red wine from Bear Islands that make the rest of them toast to House Mormont and especially young Lady Lyanna at every opportunity. Even Dolorous Edd is smiling and the grim look on Ser Alliser’s face is easing up a bit.
Yes, the men are showing lighter hearts and certainly a bit more brotherhood these days, but there’s one smile missing and that’s Satin Flowers’. The boy hasn’t brought up their kiss and Jon can’t bring himself to do it. It was wrong of him, taking advantage of his brother and steward like that, and Jon regrets it deeply. Well, partly. He regrets giving in for a weakness he didn’t know he had, one that’s frowned upon in many places and while he knows that there are occasions when some brothers share a bit of less brotherly comfort in the darkness, it’s the kind of secret that everyone knows about but will never admit even in the form of a whisper into the night.
Many things that Jon was unaware of or appalled by when he first arrived here, are now his truths and his doings as well. In the light of the White Walkers and the cruelty of the living, it’s not as easy as it was, to condemn all the secret things men do to remind themselves that they’re still men beneath the black. They may have sworn to not father sons, but they’ve not specifically promised abstinence and maybe that loophole comes from a place of true innocence and ignorance of the intimacy that goes beyond giving and bearing children, but Jon has never even thought of exposing, shaming or punishing those of his men who can’t bear the loneliness every night.
It’s never spoken of, not even insinuated, and Jon might be an innocent man in some sense, but he also knows it means that whatever is taking place under furs and blankets in the dark, it doesn’t go far enough to expose or accuse anyone of being a catamite. His encounter with Ygritte, now dead and burned, is his own secret and sorrow to bear. And while he’d like to experience that again, he’s not completely sure if her womanhood was a prerequisite or simply an opportunity. She was right when telling him, over and over, how he knew nothing.
What he knows now, is that while Satin lacks the rounded hips and breasts of Ygritte, his body is warm, his skin soft and his scent sweeter than Summer’s wine. He knows how his ample backside feels when spooned in his embrace at night. Jon’s body reacted but he didn’t act on it. He just suffered through it and now as Satin no longer shares his bed, the memory is still there, aching and demanding. Jon waits until he can hear his steward’s gentle snoring before taking matters in his own hands and as much as he tries to will the memory of Ygritte to life, it always fades away the moments before his lonely relief, and the imagined body underneath him looses it’s curves and wetness, taking the shape of the lithe man in the other bed.
Satin
He does it because he’s stupid and reckless, Dolorus Edd grunts, and Samwell just looks sad. Neglecting a fire while on fire duty could’ve become a disaster and Satin has nothing to say for himself, other than that he doesn’t care – which he wont say out loud. It doesn’t matter that he only fell asleep for a moment, the fire is life and death up here and Satin has enough shame in his body to not try and come up with an excuse.
The Lord Commander is disappointed and he’s right to be. He orders Satin to remove his cloak, jacket and shirt in the hall and in front of all his brothers, Satin receives six strikes with a stick. The Lord Commander rarely hands out whippings, but as the Northener he is, he believes that the one giving the sentence should be carrying out the punishment as well. Satin doesn’t move or scream when he’s punished and not because it doesn’t hurt. He takes his whipping like a man, not a boy, and if anyone hoped he’d be crying, they’re disappointed.
After the sixth and last strike, the Lord Commander reminds all of them how serious their duty is and then he reaches his hand down to help Satin to his feet. When Satin meets his eyes, there is no anger or disappointment left and the pat on his arm is friendly. Satin looks right at him.
“I will not let you and my brothers down again, Lord Commander.”
He means it with all his heart, or would if he could remember how his heart felt like. Right now it seems like it’s nothing but a mechanical thing, with wheels and turns that have nothing to do with him – or any other person. Then the Lord Commander gives a small, almost invisible smile.
“I know you wont, brother. You will have three extra night’s watch as a reminder.”
The evening goes on as usual after that and when Satin starts his watch at midnight along with the rest of those on night’s duty, he uses the soreness in his back to stay awake and alert, staring out in the night where no stars are shining and the light of dawn is so far away. He barely notices when Grenn, his companion on his part of the wall, approaches and nudges him lightly as the watch change comes and they’re relieved from duty to get their morning meal before some much needed sleep.
The porridge is rich and sweet today, with honey and butter and when Dolorous Edd pats Satin’s shoulder, the shame doesn’t feel so heavy anymore. As he eats his morning meal, listening with half an ear to the men’s talking and about halfway through the porridge, egg and warm ale, joins the idle conversation himself, no one treats him any different than before the misstep and whipping. Or, not in a bad way, at least. Satin knows he might be deceiving himself, but it does seem like there’s a small sense of pride in their behavior towards him.
While he fucked up by falling asleep, he took the consequence like a man and not a whiny bitch. They respect that and for the first time, no one seems to think about his whoring days. Ser Alliser and Ser Janos Slynt aside, of course. They will never forget that a catamite was allowed to take the black or ever come to see him as a brother.
As all of those on night’s duty, Satin goes to his quarters after the morning meal and, despite his sore back, falls fast asleep. He wakes up shortly after midday, eats with the others and starts his library duties, smiling and waving off Samwell’s discrete concearn of his back before throwing himself into his work. He rarely sees the Lord Commander, and Satin tells himself that’s for the best, even though his heart has a different opinion. Satin has no intention of letting it be heard.
Jon
He did what he had to as the Lord Commander and he doesn’t regret it. Favouring Satin by being lenient would’ve caused problems for both of them and the fragile man took his punishment better than many stronger men. And instead of making the rest of the men despise him for earning a whipping, his composure and lack of whining has impressed them. Satin Flowers is a soft man, but not once has Jon seen him pity himself.
When the steward’s punishment is over and he returns to his usual duties, it’s as if no one even cares about the transgression or his past. And Jon is very relieved to let the snoring and sloppy boy who’s been Satin’s temporary replacement return to his stable duties. Satin himself looks around with disapproving eyes at the dusty corners, unmended clothes, muddy floor and unturned mattress before getting to work with opened windows, warm water and soap and sand.
Jon wisely moves his letter writings to the library as the steward turns his quarters upside down while cursing whoever let a dead rat lay in the trap for two days without throwing the cadaver out. It’s a little disrupting with this activity, but when Jon returns to his quarters for the night, he’s more than grateful for his dutiful steward. It’s so neat and clean, even Sansa would’ve found it acceptable with fresh bed linen, a fire going in the swiped fireplace and there’s hot water and soap prepared to clean up some from the day.
Yes, it’s a little sancturay indeed, and Jon realises how well Satin has performed his duties from the very beginning and how it’s become so normal for him that he only really appreciated it when the man wasn’t there. He’s such a hard worker, he’s making true amends but gods, does he look tired. His eyes are empty, cheeks still a bit pale and no, there’s still no smile on his lips. Jon has kissed them once, just once and it’s a memory he’s buried for a long time now.
“Is there anything else you need, Lord Commander?”
“Thank you, Satin. You’ve done wonders with this place. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Lord Commander.”
“Jon.”
“Well… Jon, then… Thank you, for giving me another chance. I know you didn’t have to.”
“I wouldn’t want anyone else as my steward, Satin. I swear Hugh couldn’t tell a carafe from a chamber pot.”
Now there’s a small smile.
“That would explain the smell in here, Lord C… Jon.”
It’s worrying, the effect that sad little curve has on him, but Jon doesn’t have it in him to dismiss his steward right now and he gestures at the visitor’s chair.
“Sit down with me, Satin.”
Satin
He’s washing up a bit first. After the Lord Commander, of course, and then changes into a clean shirt. He’s not sure of what this is all about, only that it truly seems that he’s not only forgiven but has earned a bit of trust again.
“Wait.”
He stops in his movement, halfway into the shirt, when the Lord Commander – no, Jon, right now it’s Jon – walks up and lifts the course fabric.
“Have you not asked Maester Aemon to tend to these?”
“Uhm… No, Lo… Jon. They’re not… bothering me that much now.”
“They should, because they’re not properly cleaned. Sit down.”
He obeys and hisses when Jon takes the wet cloth to his skin.
“I’m sorry, Satin. I never intended to…”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not. Why didn’t you seek out Maester Aemon?”
“I… I guess I saw it as a part of my… punishment.”
Jon snorts.
“That’s so stupid, I should take you over my knee and spank you like a little boy for it.”
“As long as it’s not in front of the others, I would take that over the stick. Some men pay good money for that.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“No, you don’t. And I will seek out Maester Aemon next time.”
The cloth leaves and Jon moves to sit in front of him, with an exasperated look on his face.
“Next time? Do you think I enjoyed doing that to you, Satin? By the gods, what kind of man do you think I am?”
“One of the best.”
“And yet, you count on me to do that to you again? To not want you to tend to the wounds? What happened to you to make you think so little of me?”
Trust me, you don’t want to know.
Satin can't bring himself to answer. He sits still and lets Jon wash his back and then treat it with some aloe. It’s both endearing and frustrating, this innoncence of Jon Snow and Satin decides to ruin it a bit further.
“I had this regular once, a highborn lady, not too pretty but friendly and she had a beautiful laughter. She paid good and I didn’t even have to fuck her.”
“Sounds like a waste of coins to me. What did she do? Sobbed on your shoulder?”
“No, I was. Over her lap.”
The movement stops and Satin can almost feel Jon’s breath on his neck.
“What do you mean?”
“She wanted me to be her naughty boy, so I would lay across her lap and let her spank my bare ass with a brush while I cried like baby.”
“She… you what?”
“Believe me, it’s not the strangest nor the most unpleasant thing I’ve been paid to do, Jon. When she was done, she had me laying in her arms while singing lullabies to me as I suckled her breast.”
“Please, stop.”
“Compared to the noble knight who used to tie me up and fuck me without oil while telling me how he wanted to see my insides on the floor, her sagging tits and ivory brush came off as a blessing. In time, when she’d had a bit more practise, that brush could feel pretty good.”
Jon
He doesn’t. Take the boy over his lap, that is. Of course he doesn’t, because that would be more than wrong and Jon really didn’t need that image in his head. A writhering, whimpering Satin with trousers down his knees and that lean backside turning bright red from… By the gods, what a shameful thing to imagine. And Satin doesn’t need anymore treatment that makes him feel like the whore he once was.
Satin was right. Jon didn’t want to know and as is the truth with most men, the worst of the things he doesn’t want to know about, are often never told. The taste of Satin’s truth is vile, but if this is just a sip, then how big is the filled cup and who’d be able to swallow it? How’s Satin managed to, without getting insane or inhuman? The sweet, gentle and warm-hearted boy doesn’t add up with the image of someone people have whipped and humiliated for their own pleasure.
The wounds from the lashes are treated and Jon should stop touching them, but he can’t bare to loose contact with Satin yet.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For whipping you. For all the things others did to you in the past. Had I known…”
“You didn’t. I’m not angry with you, if that’s what you think.”
“Then why have you stopped smiling?”
“What?”
His cheeks heat and he swallows, the mixture of anger, worry and confusion making his stomach uncomfortable.
“You used to smile all the time. Now, for the past weeks, you look like… a grieving Dolorous Edd.”
“I did not know I was required to smile, Lord Commander.”
“Satin, I… fuck, I’m not telling you to bloody smile. I just miss it.”
“You mean you’re used to it.”
“I meant exactly what I said. I miss your smile, Satin. Simple as that. And I’m honestly not sure what’s happened that made you look so dull, apart from… the whipping. I’m sorry for that, Satin, believe me, I am, but what’s been going on with you of lately?”
There’s a moment of silence and Satin’s voice is so small it’s barely noticable over the cracking fire.
“You tell me, Lord Commander. You were the one kissing me.”
The truth doesn’t sound so ugly when spoken with that gentle voice. He kissed him. Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, kissed his steward while thinking of summer’s wine and blossoming trees, like some girl, and that’s the problem. Satin Flowers isn’t a girl, no matter how much of that perfumed oil he uses.
And then, finally, it hits Jon, and he’s embarressed and horrified for not realising it sooner.
“I’ve been avoiding you…”
“Yes, Lord Commander, you have. And you’re not the first man to do so.”
“By the Old Gods and the New, Satin… I didn’t realise how it… I’m so sorry, little brother, I never intended to treat you like that. And please, don’t… don’t call me that right now.”
“Thank you… for telling me this. It’s… helpful. And just to be clear, Jon… I didn’t mind that kiss at all, nor do I think less of you for it.”
He’s lost for words, blushing down his neck but he has no right to run away now, not when Satin is more brave than the entired brotherhood in Castle Black and the night is covering them.
Maybe, this is Jon’s moment to make amends.
Satin
He’s inexperienced. Not like the almost unnaturally ugly men who, unless they rape someone or have coins to spare, will ever feel this kind of intimacy. Nor does it remind of those men who’ve been with only women and have decided to try something else for the first time. No, it’s a careful, tentative kiss, nervous in every way and Satin leans into it, to the swift breaths and how Jon’s hands don’t know how or where to touch.
The initiative both is and isn’t a surprise. Whatever the Lord Commander has been dwelling in, it’s obvious he’s not taken aback and Satin can’t help but relax a little further because while the whip was brutal, these hands are soft and kind and he’s had so little of that touch. He’s starved of it, really, and the way Jon caresses his arms and shoulders, avoiding the whipping marks, is giving Satin shivers of the good kind. The Lord Commander is a man, but he’s clearly never touched one like this before and the hands slowly grasping Satin’s hips are hesistant at first and then, in one suprisingly smooth move, he pulls Satin to straddle his lap.
“Oh…”
There’s a soft, breathy sound slipping Satin’s lips as he feels the bulge through the layers of fabrics. Jon isn’t just a little curious, he’s very interested, judging by the hardness pressing onto Satin’s own. And after the first initial contact, that interest shows more than well in the way Jon rubs against him, thrusting and grinding, fingers now digged deeply into Satin’s buttocks.
If this is Jon’s way of making amends, Satin wont protest. There’s something innocent and sweet in his touch and when Satin moves his face closer, the man is quick to kiss him again, as if though Satin wasn’t a former whore at all. The man from Winterfell is no experienced kisser, but he’s a fast learner and eager for a lesson Satin is more than willing to give. Jon’s swelling is prominent and straining against the course trousers, their belt buckles start to become uncomfortable and Satin moves to undo his own.
It drops to the floor but he doesn’t touch Jon’s, not yet sure if the man will tolerate it and after a few more rubbing thrusts on his lap, Satin feels a shaky hand slipping down to take the next step and the belt makes a clinking sound as it hits the floor.
The feeling of just woll and linen seems to make Jon bolder. He now presses Satin closer, letting him rut against his clothed cock that’s almost obscenely swollen and by the old gods and the new, it’s been far too long since Satin felt this good in another man’s arms. Jon kisses him again, more heated this time and one of his hands is cupping Satin’s ass while the other is struggling with the lacings on his trousers. The pantings are louder now, but not enough to be heard through the door and Ghost is laying still on the floor, meaning no one’s walking close to the Lord Commander’s chambers. Jon finally wins over the lacings and Satin moans as the hands now returns to slip down the trousers and cup his buttocks.
When Jon’s initial nervousness has gone, his touches seem to come natural and easy for him. He’s grabbing and rubbing Satin’s ass in his hands, handling the flesh like dough in need of a good work and Satin starts squirming a bit more on his lap, rubbing their cocks together with a little chuckle and receives a playful slap on his left buttock for the trouble. He starts feeling warm all over now and the lustful touches make Satin bolder.
He drops his mouth down to the ear that’s covered with messy curls.
“Would you like to fuck me, Jon Snow?”
Jon
Father never said a word about men being with boys – or other men – not to Jon’s face at least, and the rumors about Renly Baratheon and the Knight of the Flowers were known all the way up to the Wall, whispered about and laughed at by many, frowned upon by a lot – but no more than people were appalled by Robert Baratheon’s many bastards or disgusted and fascinated by the Imp’s famous appetite for whores.
There’s no secret that the Night’s Watch oath leaves room for a lot of things as long as no children are conceived and in Jon’s mind, foggy as it is in this moment, he can’t see how two men willingly sharing a bed in private could cause anyone, gods or men, any harm.
But he’s never fucked a man, he’s never been with a girl like… that and the only images Jon have of the act between two men, are tainted by crude jokes about catamites, threats of rape against the sweet man in his arms and the time he spent as a whore. Is there any pleasure in that for Satin at all or is it just what he thinks is expected of him?
Jon swallows and tangles a hand in Satin’s curly hair, looking at him.
“I’m not… I don’t want to hurt you, Satin.”
The smile is not teasing this time, only a little sad.
“If I thought you would, I wouldn’t offer, Jon Snow. There’s pleasure in it for me as well. Or, at least it can be. Plenty, even.”
Jon looks away.
“I’ve… I’ve never done it like that.”
“Well… would you like to? I’ve not felt a man like that for such a long time…”
“You… you miss it?”
The laughter is quiet but warm and Satin shakes his head, increadulous.
“By the Gods… you know nothing, Jon Snow.”
But this sweet summer’s child in the shape of a lithe, strong man, wounded yet still smiling so beautifully, does and Jon takes his hand.
“Then maybe you should teach me.”
Satin
The man on the bed looks like he truly doesn’t know what to expect. He’s naked and not a poor view at all, quite the opposite. Jon Snow is an attractive man, muscles playing under the skin that’s marred by plenty of small scars, many of them white now, after many years of almost daily practise with weapons. He’s a man who’s body and mind are made for war, Satin thinks, but the heart is still that of a boy.
The dark eyes widens as Satin brings the vial of oil used to keep the leather in the Lord Commander’s armour smooth and dips two fingers in it. He’s not done this in a very long time and Jon isn’t small. Not the biggest man Satin’s had inside him, but well enough equipped and, which is more important, clearly eager to have a taste.
Jon’s eyes grows wider as Satin prepares himself, moving two fingers to get used to what he once could do in a blink. His own cock is leaking quite a bit now and as it nudges Jon’s thigh, a string of wetness is forming. Some men don’t like the reminder that Satin has a cock too, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind seeing it on full display. Satin removes his fingers, pours a small amout of oil in his palm and then slicks Jon up in one, slow stroke.
“Oh, gods…”
The strained grunt is more than enough for Satin to know he can keep going and he grabs Jon’s swelling by the base, moves to drag it along his crack for a moment and then places it by the entrance.
Some men, especially first timers who’ve been with women before, tend to come off too eagerly and Satin places his other hand on Jon’s stomach, making him look up and meet his eyes.
“Don’t thrust at first, please. It’s been a long time…”
Jon just nods, clearly not capable of speaking now, but he moves his hands down to Satin’s thighs, relaxes down in the mattress and Satin slowly sinks down.
Jon
By the Seven and all things holy in this world, this is… Not Ygritte. That’s all Jon can think of as Satin’s slick warmth swallows him. It’s so tight it almost hurts at first, squeezing like a hot glove around him but after a moment, it eases up and there’s just that soft, tight heat surrounding his cock. It’s so clearly not a woman, it’s not the same feeling, but it’s maddingly good and when Satin raises again, Jon grabs his hips and thrusts upwards.
“Oh!”
The boy’s whimper is a hair too loud but Jon isn’t concerned about that now. All he cares about, all his mind and heart can reach, is how good it feels, how he’s carressed by the tight inner walls of his steward and how the lewd rhythm leaves him no room for anything but the way Satin bounces on his lap, the sound of slick flesh slapping together and how their combined scents tickle his nose, the musk and sweat and weak scent of herbs from the oil…
He could die like this.
Satin moves like a wave, his belly moving with his hips, the dark curls around his cock soft as a woman’s and it drives Jon mad, he wants more, wants deeper, wants… He wants so much he didn’t know he did. Satin’s face is flushed but not worried. He looks free and strong like this, like a man proud of his skills and no longer a shamed and scorned boy afraid of the dark corners and their unwelcomed hands, never escaping the judging looks.
Jon stills Satin’s movement, puts his arms around his back and pulls him down onto his chest. He feels like he should say something, but there are no words he knows of that suit this. Instead he places kisses on the side of Satin’s neck, listening to the pleased sighs and the beating heart against his own. They’re still joined and Jon strokes the sweet man’s back up and down, as if to erase those markings from the six lashes the stick left on him, replacing the punishment and detachment with things that aren’t meant for those who’ve taken the black.
He carefully lowers Satin down on the mattress, Jon needs no guidance now, and he widens the boy’s legs to sink closer. He’s slow and careful, not sure how much he can let go and Satin closes his eyes on the pillow.
“You can… you can give me more… Jon Snow. Just use a bit more oil.”
What was unknown to him not half an hour ago, is now all there is. Jon pulls out, almost mourning the loss of Satin’s velvet like heat, and adds more of that oil before pressing inside him again. The angle is different, gives him more leverage and after a few slow, soft moves he gets bolder, the sensations of Satin’s hot, clenching heat impossible to resist and Jon picks up a quicker pace, thrusting harder and deeper and Ygritte was so right: he knew nothing, not about the sweet, sweet pleasure that laid within a man.
Satin
He’s not being fucked, he’s been made love to, imaginary as it is. But Jon takes him like a lover would and when he finds the right angle to hit Satin’s sweetest spot and Satin whimpers, Jon keeps pressing onto it, hits it with every stroke and he’s moaning too, his low voice mixing with Satin’s own whimpers as he’s getting closer to the edge.
He’s holding Jon’s arm with one hand, needs something to grab for grounding as the man pounds into him, hard and fast. He starts stroking himself now, matching the pace of Jon’s cock and he’s clenching, his thighs tingling and fingers digging into the man’s flesh when his release comes, wet and warm down his hand and belly, prolonged by the relentless thrusts onto his sweet spot.
Being who he is, he can tell when Jon’s about to come and Satin opens his eyes, watching the strained expression on his Lord Commander’s face.
“Look at me… Jon Snow…”
The whimper that leaves Jon’s mouth is almost as intoxicating as his incredulous gaze. Satin’s release is glistening in the dim room and Jon’s lips are parted as his seed empties inside him. He’s still moaning softly, thrusting mindlessly and Satin welcomes all of it and more. When Jon finally stills inside him, he sinks down onto Satin’s chest, unbothered by the mess they’ve made and they become still, not speaking or moving, only breathing together as Jon’s softening inside him and, with a sound that almost sounds like reluctance, slips out.
They remain like that for a while, Jon heavy but comfortable against Satin’s smaller frame. The man is petting his hair with sleepish moves, still breathing a little fast and his pulse is slamming through his skin. Or is it his own?
It doesn’t matter.
Jon moves, but doesn’t turn away. He props himself on his elbow, his hand wandering over Satin’s chest and smeared belly. He doesn’t smile, but doesn’t seem displeased or regretful either. Just… tired and perhaps a little taken by the whole encounter.
Outside the walls, the night is still dark, it’s colors in black and darkest blue, only the snow on the courtyard and mountains breaking the complete dominance of the grim stone. This is not a place for warmth, kisses and sweet words. They’re the protectors of the realms of men, of all the living, but their hearts beat too. The dead can’t protect the living, the frozen ones can’t move to defend neither humans nor beasts.
In the winter, you must keep warm, must stay close to those near and dear and Satin sighs as Jon moves him to rest in his arms. The long cold that’s been buried in his bones has left and Satin hopes that his Lord Commander has learned his lesson.
That you must keep the embers glowing, to be the light that brings the dawn.