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The wind off the Wall could cut through steel, Satin was sure of it, sharp and merciless as a honed blade. Even swaddled in his furs, crouched low beside the brazier’s meagre glow, the cold slipped through seams and stitches, slid beneath his collar, and clawed at his bones like some half-frozen wight determined to peel every layer of warmth from his skin. The flames snapped and hissed, a brittle sound against the immensity of the dark, but their heat felt thin, distant, as if the Wall itself leeched the life from every spark. Satin rubbed his hands together briskly, skin rasping against skin, the motion too frantic to be soothing. His fingers were stiff, pale knuckles catching the firelight, and he could hardly remember what it felt like not to ache with cold, not to feel the sharp little teeth of winter gnawing through his flesh. And gods, he was tired. The kind of tired that sleep couldn’t cure, not that he’d slept. Too much thinking. Too much wondering. About this. About him.
Jon stood a few paces away, silent and still as the ice all around them. The snow underfoot swallowed sound, making the world seem impossibly far away, as if only the two of them existed within this small, shivering universe of firelight and frost. Satin glanced at him from beneath his lashes, a quick, almost furtive look. Jon had that northern-bred steadiness about him, the quiet kind forged by long winters and harder lives. The cold had not only shaped him, it had chosen him. Satin could almost believe he was part of the Wall itself, carved from its ancient, unyielding ice. Of course, he wasn’t shivering. Of course, he wouldn’t bend to something as ordinary as weather. Satin wanted to be resentful of that, wanted to summon even a flicker of irritation, but instead he found himself tracing the steam rising from Jon’s parted lips, the faint gleam of firelight catching in his dark hair, the strong line of his jaw half-hidden by his cloak’s high collar. It was unfair, stupidly, cruelly unfair, that someone could look like that, could be like that, and not even realise the havoc they wrought just by standing there, breathing.
Friends. That was the word they’d used. What they’d told themselves and anyone who might have raised an eyebrow at the way they slipped in and out of each other’s rooms when the halls were quiet, or the way Satin’s chest fluttered at the sound of his name spoken in that rough, northern drawl. Friends, huddled close against the cold because what else could they be? The Wall had colder things to worry about than the shape of a man’s longing. Out here, no one would ask. Out here, longing was just another small, private cruelty to be endured like frostbite or loneliness. And yet.
A shiver ran through him before he could stop it, a small betrayal that rippled through the fragile silence. The air between them shifted, soft and subtle as falling snow. Jon didn’t speak, he rarely did when the words might matter most, but he moved, just slightly. A step, a lean, a gesture so quiet it might have been imagined. He shifted just enough to open a sliver of space beside him, enough for Satin to draw nearer, to let himself be pulled by gravity and the promise of warmth. And then, without a word, Jon tugged off his gloves. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, as though he knew precisely what the offering would mean. He held them out.
Satin blinked, unsure for a heartbeat. The gloves were thick and well-worn, the leather smoothed and darkened by use. Warmth clung to them, subtle but certain, and Satin could feel it even in the small stretch of air between their hands. These weren’t the thin, standard-issue things the Watch supplied. These were Jon’s own: built for snow and frost and endless wind. His gloves. Satin’s chest ached with something that had very little to do with the cold—an ache sharp and sweet all at once. He smiled, small and crooked and sharper than he meant, gratitude threading through it like gold he couldn’t name aloud. Sliding his hands into the gloves, he felt the lingering heat, the faint, rugged scent of woodsmoke and pine clinging to the leather, and beneath that, something subtler, something purely him. It tightened Satin’s throat unexpectedly.
“Oldtown’s never this cold,” he murmured, the words tumbling out unbidden, too fragile to be pulled back. He leaned unconsciously toward the brazier, toward the gloves, toward the steady, impossible warmth beside him. “Even in winter. Gods, I miss the smell of salt on the air. You could stand in the highest tower and see the sea stretch forever, all green and gold and wide as the sky. And the bells from the Starry Sept… they’d ring all morning sometimes, bright and wild. You could feel it right here”—he pressed a gloved hand against his chest—“like the sound itself lived under your ribs.”
He laughed then, softly, breathless, the sound vanishing almost instantly into the night. The memory of it, of warm bread spiced with cinnamon and cloves, of flowers blooming even in narrow alleys, wrapped around him for a heartbeat. “And the bread,” he said, chasing the thought like a child chasing fireflies. “Always fresh, always warm. And the air—alive, even when the sky was grey. Not like here. Here it’s just frost and smoke and—”
He stopped. He hadn’t realised how close they’d gotten until the words caught in his throat, until the world narrowed to the soft brush of breath against his cheek. Warm. Steady. His breath. Satin turned his head slightly, just slightly, and there Jon was, so close Satin could count the snowflakes tangled in his lashes, each one a fragile miracle of ice. His face was unreadable in the firelight, shadows pooling beneath his cheekbones, but his eyes… gods, those eyes held the weight of something vast and unspoken.
The cold hadn’t vanished, of course, it hadn’t, but it had receded, dulled, as if the world itself had decided to step back and let this moment unfold. What burned now wasn’t the brazier’s flames or the borrowed gloves. It was older, deeper, a heat that had been waiting quietly beneath the surface of things all along. Satin didn’t move. Didn’t dare break whatever delicate magic had gathered between them. He simply breathed him in, the woodsmoke, the pine, the faint trace of steel and leather, and let the longing fill him, whole and aching and alive.
He didn’t need to breathe again. Not yet. Not when the world had gone so still. Not when the space between them felt like the only warm place left.
“I like it when you talk about Oldtown,” Jon Snow murmured, his voice low and rough, as though the words themselves were reluctant to leave the safety of his chest. “Despite everything, I think you were happy there.” His dark eyes softened in the firelight, a rare flicker of tenderness slipping past his usual reserve. “I like imagining it.”
Satin’s smile came slowly, warm as the brazier’s glow against his chilled skin. He shifted closer, just a breath, just enough that the space between them narrowed and the scent of woodsmoke and pine seemed to wrap around them like a cloak. “You’d stick out horribly,” he teased, laughter curling around the edges of his words. “Too dark and brooding for a place so full of light.”
Jon’s lips curved in the faintest, shyest echo of amusement. “Maybe,” he allowed, a ghost of a grin that made Satin’s chest ache. “But if I’d been the type to go to harbour towns…?” He let the thought trail off, unfinished, offering it to the quiet. Jon was not a man who gilded things with words, he left the spaces open, and Satin had always been better at filling them.
“It’s friendlier to people like you and me there,” Satin said softly, his voice dipping into something tender. “Not perfect, no—but we wouldn’t have been an uncommon sight.” He reached for Jon’s hand by the brazier, their fingers brushing once, twice, before he laced them together. His hand was small against Jon’s broad, calloused palm, but the fit felt inevitable, like a map folding along its creases. “I would have walked hand in hand with you along the docks, among the market stalls bursting with colour. There’s a thousand sights I’d take you to see—masts tall as towers swaying in the harbour, the spires of the Starry Sept catching the sunrise, and the old fishmongers calling out their wares with voices like cracked bells. We’d taste sweet wine from Myr and bread still warm from the oven, and I’d show you where the alley cats sleep in the sun.”
Jon’s fingers tightened, a small, rough squeeze that said more than words. His huff of amusement was low and almost shy, but it carried a note of wonder. “I like the North too much to ever leave,” he admitted. “But… I could stand the heat if you were there with me.”
Satin’s breath caught at the edges of his throat, and he smiled, a soft, dangerous thing. “When you got too hot,” he said, his voice dipping lower, “I’d take you swimming in the waters, where the waves curl green and gold beneath the sun.”
Jon’s mouth twitched at the corner, an almost-smile that tried to play at indignation. “Like a shaggy dog grown thirsty?” he said, deadpan, but the faint light in his eyes betrayed him.
“Exactly,” Satin laughed, the sound light and quick, like a bird darting between branches. “You catch on quick.” The laughter didn’t quite chase away the tremor in his shoulders. Even with Jon’s gloves warming his hands, the chill clung to him stubbornly, biting at his skin beneath the layers.
Jon’s gaze flicked around the silent battlements, quick and cautious, the way a man does when he’s lived too long on the edge of danger. When he was certain no one watched, he stepped closer, closing the last inches between them. Without a word, he wrapped one strong arm around Satin’s shoulders and pulled him close. The embrace was steady, unhurried, as though it had always been waiting there in the quiet. Jon bent his head and buried his nose in Satin’s curly hair, breathing in deeply. Satin could feel the brush of his breath against his scalp, warm and sure, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond the Wall, the frost, the darkness, the unrelenting cold, seemed to vanish. All that was left was the weight of Jon’s arm, the faint smell of pine and steel, and the fragile, fierce certainty of being held.
“I should hate taking the late watch. It’s cold as a wight’s tit,” Satin whispered, his breath curling in fragile ghosts against the biting air. The night was endless and black, the Wall towering above them like some ancient, sleeping god of ice, its surface glittering faintly beneath a scattering of distant stars.
“But you don’t,” Jon murmured, voice deep and steady, like a hearthfire banked low. “Not if it’s with me.”
The certainty in his tone tugged at something deep in Satin’s chest, irritating and irresistible all at once. Jon always sounded too sure, too calm, as though he’d already read the truths Satin kept folded up tight beneath his ribs. Satin rolled his eyes, lips parting with the intent to scold, to offer some cutting remark that might deflect the weight of the moment. But Jon was already moving, already there, closing the space between them in a heartbeat.
The protest never left his tongue. Jon’s mouth was on his before he could summon a word, an all-consuming, searing kiss that stole the night’s breath away. Heat that had nothing to do with braziers, gloves, or furs shot through Satin’s body, sudden and fierce, a shock of warmth that raised the fine hairs at the back of his neck. His heart stuttered and then raced, faster, wilder. Satin gasped softly against the press of Jon’s lips before surrendering to it completely, coiling his arms around Jon’s neck with a desperate, instinctive need. He kissed him back hungrily, as though the Wall itself might vanish beneath them if he let go.
Jon let out a low, pleased grumble, more a growl than a sigh, as he drew Satin closer, one hand sliding confidently to his waist. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, but with a power that felt like winter storms breaking over frozen seas. Jon’s tongue slipped past Satin’s petal-soft lips, tasting, teasing, and Satin melted beneath the insistence of it. The world around them, the cold, the darkness, the threat lurking beyond the Wall, faded to a blur. There were only the two of them, only the rough scrape of stubble against Satin’s chin and the steady thrum of heat building between their bodies.
Jon’s hands roamed with a familiarity born of countless stolen moments. Satin knew this touch, the way Jon’s palms would trace slow circles up and down his back when they huddled together at night, seeking comfort in a world that offered little. Those nights, Jon’s touch was tender, soothing, a balm against the ache of cold and loneliness. But this was different. This touch was a claim, a silent, wordless vow carved into skin and memory. Jon’s fingers slid into Satin’s curls, tangling there, tugging gently but firmly enough to make Satin’s breath catch. Satin’s knees felt unsteady, but he didn’t step back; he couldn’t. Jon eased him backwards until Satin’s shoulders met the frozen battlements of the Wall.
The shock of cold bit through Satin’s furs like sharpened teeth, a jolt so intense it ripped a gasp from his lips. He could feel the icy stone through every layer, cruel and unyielding, but Jon’s heat pinned him there, sheltering him from the worst of it. The contrast was dizzying, the brutal cold of the Wall pressed against his spine, the fierce, living warmth of Jon pressed against his front. Satin’s gasp turned into a soft, breathless sound, half-surprise, half-need, and Jon swallowed it in another kiss, deeper and hungrier than the first. Satin clung to him, fingers fisting in Jon’s cloak, and for a moment, the Wall itself seemed to vanish, leaving only their shared heat and the taste of each other’s breath beneath a sky full of stars.
“Felt cold,” Jon mumbled, his breath ghosting over Satin’s skin as his mouth left Satin’s lips to trail a path of soft, searching kisses down the curve of his neck. His voice was rough, nearly breaking with the weight of the confession. “In here.” He caught Satin’s hand and guided it to the solid breadth of his chest, pressing his palm over the steady, hammering heartbeat beneath. “Since I left Winterfell, it has been cold here.” His words were a whisper and a wound, fragile as the night air. He grazed his teeth over Satin’s earlobe in a gentle nip that made Satin shiver. “You keep me warm,” Jon murmured against his skin, the syllables muffled by Satin’s curls. “Soft and warm and everything I ever wanted. You make me warm when I feel the ice creeping in.”
The admission sank into Satin like fire seeping into frozen earth. For a heartbeat, he could only breathe him in, the faint smell of woodsmoke, leather, and something that was simply Jon. Satin tilted his head, searching, and found Jon’s lips again. The kiss he gave was slow and deep, tasting of want and gratitude, of something aching and profound. “You make it warm too, for me,” Satin murmured against his mouth, his voice trembling with quiet need. His palm pressed more firmly against Jon’s chest, as though the weight of his hand alone might soothe every scar the cold had left behind. “Need you,” he whispered, the words breaking on a breath before he drew Jon in for another kiss, fiercer this time, hungrier, as if to prove the truth of it.
Jon groaned low in his throat, a sound half-pleasure and half-pain, and the tension in it vibrated through both of them. He shifted his hips with a subtle, restless roll, just enough for Satin to feel the tremor of longing beneath his furs. “Want to make you warmer,” Jon said, and the words came out hoarse, almost whiny in their desperation, stripped of the distance he wore like armour before everyone else. The sound of it, the way he said it, unguarded and aching, sent a hot, electric pulse through Satin’s veins. Jon’s hands slid over his back in slow, searching arcs, tracing the edges of Satin’s body as though mapping a place he’d longed to return to.
“Please,” Satin breathed, the single word trembling on his lips, fragile and fleeting as a snowflake on the winter’s wind. It slipped into the darkness between them, a plea carried away by the bitter air, but Jon caught it, held it, as if the night itself had conspired to deliver it only to him.
Jon gathered Satin close, his arms circling him with a quiet certainty that stole Satin’s breath. In one smooth motion, he turned him, guiding Satin until his back pressed against Jon’s broad chest, the heat of him seeping through layers of fur and wool. Jon’s chin brushed against Satin’s curls as he lowered his face, burying his nose in the softness of his hair. The faint, familiar scent, soap, woodsmoke, a whisper of salt from some memory of Oldtown, wrapped around him. He nuzzled there, breathing Satin in like a man starved for warmth, and then his lips began to move, scattering tender, reverent kisses across the nape of Satin’s neck. Each kiss was unhurried, as though Jon meant to map every inch of skin beneath the cold night sky. “Want you all to myself,” he murmured, voice low and rough, the sound of a truth too heavy to keep hidden.
“Already yours,” Satin whispered back, his voice breaking on the edges of want. He braced his palms against the icy stone, the cold biting into his skin through the gloves, a sharp reminder of where they were, and how little it mattered. Behind him, Jon pressed closer, more insistent now, the firm weight of his body unmistakable through the layers of winter clothes. Satin could feel the hard line of Jon’s arousal against the curve of his rear, the pressure demanding and undeniable, and it sent a shock of heat spiralling through him so fast it stole the air from his lungs.
The nights they had shared before had been quiet, careful things, hours spent curled together beneath heavy furs, seeking warmth in a place that offered none. Jon would cradle Satin against his chest, and Satin would cling to him in return. Sometimes there were kisses, soft, fleeting brushes of lips meant more for comfort than desire, but they had been chaste, a tender defence against the frost that surrounded them. This was different. Jon was different now. There was tenderness still, yes, but beneath it pulsed something deeper, hotter, something that made Satin’s heart lurch and his stomach tighten with molten want. Jon’s touch was no longer simply protective, it was hungry, aching, a wordless confession that burned hotter than the brazier’s flames.
Flames curled in Satin’s belly, coiling low and insistent, fed by every subtle shift of Jon’s hips, every breath against his neck. Satin felt the world narrow to the space they occupied, the Wall’s frozen battlements, the distant cry of the wind, the press of Jon’s body like a brand against his own. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him: the rough wool scraping lightly against his skin, the sharp chill of the ice beneath his hands through the gloves, the searing warmth blooming everywhere Jon touched. Satin wanted him, wanted him with the same quiet ferocity that had kept him alive through long, merciless nights. And now, under the indifferent stars, wrapped in the steady strength of Jon’s arms, he wanted nothing else.
Jon gave an impatient whine and eased Satin’s breeches just beneath his hips, not wanting him to get cold. Satin pressed back against him, eagerly pushing his rear back. Jon spat on his hand, and Satin gasped when chilled and slick fingers caressed his entrance. Jon’s breath was heavy against Satin’s ear as he eased in his ring finger.
Satin let out a strangled groan as discomfort and pleasure mixed within him. Jon responded by holding him tighter, his arm crushing Satin against his chest, shushing him with gentle reassurances. “Shh… Shh… you’re alright, relax.” He murmured softly. Satin stilled and the next sound to leave his lips was a moan as he eased up and Jon’s movements became easier. The shallow thrusts of Jon’s first finger made his breath hitch and spilt breathy sighs and moans from his mouth. Jon’s touch lit a fire under his skin, making him all the warmer.
“Jon…” Satin sighed his name breathlessly. He was painfully hard, and the drag of Jon’s hand and the heated hardness pressed to his backside left him wanting more.
Jon nuzzled against his neck, murmuring soft praises, and slid his middle finger to rest snuggly beside his ring finger inside the clutching heat of Satin’s rear. Jon was careful as he tried to make what would come next easier for Satin. “Tell me if it hurts too much.” He mumbled close to Satin’s ear.
Satin nodded. It didn’t hurt, and he was sure it never would. Jon was gentle with him, he’d never hurt him.
Jon kissed and nipped at Satin’s neck, eager as a hound to mount him and bury himself deep inside him. “Please, please… Satin, need you.” He mumbled desperately. “Can’t wait anymore.”
Satin moaned in agreement, with a soft whimper when he lost the press of Jon’s fingers. He felt woefully empty without the warmth of Jon’s hands. He squirmed and pressed his forehead to the ice, hoping it would steady him.
The cold emptiness was quickly remedied as Jon unfastened his breeches to free his cock. The insistent press of it, hard and hot and already leaking, was pleasant against Satin’s arsehole. He moaned in pleasure at the aching stretch as Jon, with his spit-covered member, slowly took him. Jon held him tightly, arms like iron bands around his waist as he slowly fucked deeper into Satin’s bowels. He grunted and growled in Satin’s ear, deliberately holding back.
”Stop that.” Satin murmured. “Take me as roughly as you like.”
Jon didn’t need to be told twice, and his hips snapped forward. “Mine. Stay mine.” He said shakily as he fucked him with hungry desperation. Jon’s grip was bruising, and the drag of his cock made Satin’s knees weak.
Satin turned his torso just enough to catch Jon’s lips in another kiss as Jon fucked him hard against the battlements. Jon’s lips kissed him eagerly, with little wanting nips finding Satin’s tongue and lips. Jon seemed hungry as a wolf, Satin thought, and was surprised at how eager he was to be devoured. His mind drifted on the sea of warm pleasure pooling through him. He thought of the open sky and the stars above him, the sting of snowflakes on his bare skin and how quickly they melted in the heated pleasure. He wondered if Jon’s Old Gods were watching. The thought that they might sent a thrill rushing through him.
Jon snaked his hand down and into Satin’s breeches and palmed at his cock, murmuring something vaguely possessive but mostly unintelligible in his ear. Satin cried out, the stimulation inside and out sending him reeling. Nothing had ever felt as good as Jon did, nothing ever would, and he was sure he wanted the moment to last forever.
Jon’s murmured possessiveness turned into sloppy kisses against Satin’s neck again, and his hips stuttered. “‘M close.” He mumbled and fucked him harder.
”Please, Jon, please,” Satin whined, not entirely confident what it was he was begging for; his own release or Jon’s.
Jon held his breath and gritted his teeth, trying to keep his composure a little longer for Satin’s sake. “You first.” He mumbled and Satin almost laughed at the notion, ready to tell Jon it was not something to be done on command, but was cut off by Jon’s cock catching on an especially sensitive place inside him. Jon kept going, and when he felt the spurt of Satin’s release coat his fist, a pleased grin curled over his expression.
”So good, so perfect for me.” Jon mumbled breathlessly, and fucked Satin hard and fast through his peak until he finished too. He emptied himself into Satin and let out a guttural and satisfied groan against his neck.
“So warm,” Jon mumbled, the words rough and reverent, carried on a shaky breath. He hadn’t moved, only held Satin close, their bodies pressed so tightly together it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. His voice was a low rumble against Satin’s skin, a sound meant for no one else but him. “Could stay like this forever,” he added, and there was a quiet wonder in his tone, as if the thought itself surprised him.
The words struck Satin with a force as intimate as the touch of Jon’s hands. A soft moan slipped past his lips before he could stop it, the sound trembling in the space between them. “Would let you,” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges, fragile with longing. He tilted his head slightly, just enough for Jon’s breath to ghost across his cheek, and closed his eyes against the sudden swell of emotion.
Jon chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest and into Satin’s back. The laugh was unguarded, a fleeting crack in the quiet armour he wore for the world. His fingers flexed against Satin’s waist, holding him tighter, as though the Wall and all its merciless cold might try to pry them apart. “Just for a bit,” he said softly, and the words held a promise beneath their simplicity.
“A short while,” Satin agreed, his own voice tender and sure, though they both knew neither of them was speaking only of time. Satin let himself sink into the steady weight of Jon’s embrace, the steady beat of his heart pressed against him, the faint smell of pine and smoke in his hair. The world outside was a frozen wasteland, endless and indifferent, but here, wrapped in Jon’s arms, it felt small, fragile, and achingly alive. They breathed together, their shared warmth a fragile flame against the ice, and for that fleeting, stolen moment, forever felt possible.