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It’s something all of them do on especially cold nights; after all, there’s only so warm dead furs can get a man in comparison to a live body. Satin has bedded down for warmth with many of his fellow men since he’s been here at the Wall, almost as many as he’d bedded down with for reasons other than warmth before he came. He’s Lord Commander Snow’s steward now, which means there aren’t so many men for the bedding – for warmth or otherwise – but Lord Snow is a man like any other, and the Wall is colder than a fishwife’s teat, so it’s not even especially worth noting when Satin ends up huddled in Snow’s bed more than a night or two. Granted, Satin might have noticed how fair of face his Lord Commander is, he might have indulged himself in a few daydreams of how Lord Snow might put that pretty mouth of his to good use, but that’s not what’s on Satin’s mind the nights they huddle shivering beneath a heap of furs almost heavy enough to crush them. All he thinks on then is how very cold his fingers and toes and ears are, and how glad he is of any tiny scrap of warmth.
Lord Snow sleeps tighter than any man Satin’s ever seen. Even in the depths of slumber his shoulders are tense, his mouth pickled into that frown it carries so often. He stays to his side of the cot, only barely touching Satin, his body a warm presence from shoulder to ankle. He stays to his side, that is, until the night he doesn’t and Satin wakes in the milky light of the coming dawn to his Lord Commander pressed to his side, cock hard as a frozen anvil for all that he’s fast asleep.
This isn’t anything unusual either. Black brothers often enough take comfort and companionship in the only way truly allowed them. Other men may have made noise at a one-time whore being made steward to the Lord Commander, but plenty of those men had been the ones most frequenting his furs. Some of them never met Satin’s eye or spoke his name when they saw him in the yard, or even when they invited themselves to his furs with no say so from him, when they pushed their cocks into his hand and demanded release. But they’d spilled at his touch just like all the others, his name on their lips or no. In the end, men of the Night’s Watch were no different than any other men when it came to their cocks, at least far as Satin could tell. So he thinks little on Lord Snow’s cock hard against him beyond companionably easing the ache, and certainly it’s something he’d rather do with Lord Snow than with any of the rest of them; this is something he’d choose for himself, which makes it a nice change. He thinks nothing of it, but Lord Snow’s eyes flutter open when Satin works a hand beneath his breeches, he groans and catches Satin’s hand, stills it with a tight grip. It takes him one deep, shuddering breath before he pulls Satin’s hand away, and he shakes his head, though there’s no anger or censure in his eyes. Instead there’s need in them, need and some form of desire, something Satin finds curious, as most men here think nothing of indulging their baser urges and Lord Snow is in more of a position to do so without consequence than most. Then Lord Snow slides from the bed, cold air ripping through the cocoon of furs and stripping away every bit of warmth Satin had managed to collect. He chips the ice from a ewer of water with his knife, splashes his face and washes his hands, and reluctantly Satin gets up as well, despite the early hour. If Lord Snow is up, so must he be, and that’s something much the same as it was when he was a whore.
Lord Snow goes back to his side of the cot that night, and the next and the next. It’s the longest cold snap Satin can remember and he wishes it would let up, if only so they could go back to separate beds without freezing and Lord Snow wouldn’t have to carry that pained mien about all the time. I could ease that for you, Satin wants to say, I would if you’d let me. I’d even rather like to. But he holds his tongue. It happens again, though, as do most things. Once more Satin wakes to Lord Snow hard at his hip. He doesn’t intend to do anything about it – Satin is not one to press his attentions on another – but Lord Snow’s hips move when Satin shifts against him, they seek relief, and his face seems so much younger when he sleeps, even pulled as it still is into its perpetual frown. He wears responsibility on his shoulders like it’s a cloak made of iron and stone. It’s not right that he should wear it even in sleep. Especially not when Satin can do something about it.
Satin’s hand is light when he eases it down to stroke over the front of Lord Snow’s breeches. He watches Lord Snow’s face carefully, keeps his movements slow and steady. A curious sense of pride curls through him when Snow’s face loosens in his sleep, his breath quickening and his mouth dropping open to show even white teeth. When Satin manages to get his hand beneath Lord Snow’s breeches to free his cock, Lord Snow makes a sleep-muddled whimper that tugs at Satin’s gut. Lord Snow – Jon, really, since Satin feels once you’ve touched a man’s cock you’re allowed to use his given name – urges his hips to Satin’s touch, a touch still light but firm enough to give the release he’s sought. Satin grins, amused. It seems even Jon Snow can only cling to honor for so long.
He still sleeps when his hips stutter into Satin’s grip, his release spilling hot on Satin’s hand and hip. Satin works him through it, wrings the last of his pleasure from him, and then stills his hand and merely holds Jon’s cock as it softens, liking the simple human contact of it. Satin has always been a creature of warm pleasures. This life at the Wall has been more than a bit of a change. When Jon’s body relaxes entirely, Satin eases his hand away. Jon’s release coats his fingers and he lifts them to his mouth, sucks each finger clean with a certain amount of relish. It’s smooth on his tongue, tasting almost spicy, and Satin unthinkingly makes an appreciative sound as he licks the web between thumb and forefinger. It’s a surprise when he hears an answering sound, and he opens his eyes to find Lord Snow watching him, hot and hungry. Satin drops his hand to his chest, and he stares at Jon, waits for him to become angry, to order Satin away. He might not even be surprised if he kissed him, given the need that makes his eyes black and his cheeks flushed. But he surprises Satin, only rolling from the bed and tucking his cock away before washing his face and walking from the room.
They don’t speak of it. Lord Snow neither chastises him nor invites him to go further. But again in the night he presses on Satin, his cock bumps hard against Satin’s hip, and they come to an unspoken agreement: Satin will touch Lord Snow only when he’s asleep, and if Lord Snow pretends to be asleep when he’s not, well then, that’s all the better for both of them.
The cold only deepens. It stretches like a living thing, blanketing Castle Black and driving everyone indoors whenever possible. Satin stays abed as long as he can manage, loath to ever lift the furs and allow the cold in. Luckily there’s much to occupy him there, and either Jon sleeps more than usual or he grows more adept at feigning it. Satin learns Jon’s body, learns what makes him shiver and gasp, learns all the places he’s most sensitive. Jon never asks, he never makes any demand of Satin at all – indeed, Satin thinks he doesn’t realize he can – but the hitch of his breath each time Satin finds him with clever fingers makes his desires more than clear. It’s endearing, really, how he’ll only encourage with his response, refusing to impose or take advantage of his position. Rarer than pearls, such men are, that much Satin knows for certain. And if Satin wouldn’t mind Jon’s touch on his own cock, he understands why such a thing wouldn’t happen, and Jon makes no complaint when Satin sees to himself, he doesn’t move away, instead keeping himself warm and still at Satin’s side. Satin doesn’t know if Jon is aware of how he populates Satin’s thoughts when he touches himself, but something makes Satin think maybe he wouldn’t mind so terribly.
One night Satin finds Jon asleep in his chair at the hearth, exhausted by duty and responsibility. He spends such long hours at his work, taking such efforts to smooth over the presence of the wildlings, to manage too many groups of too disparate people inhabiting too little space. No surprise that he’s slumped before the fire, spine slouched and knees spread wide, a soft snore issuing from his slack mouth. Even his wolf is asleep, the great white beast sprawled so close to the fire that Satin could swear his fur is singed and throwing off sparks. Satin’s not touched Lord Snow outside his bed. But then, asleep is asleep, be it in a bed or a chair or anywhere else.
A hard stone floor under his knees is something entirely familiar to Satin. He slides his hands up Jon’s thighs then cups his palm over the front of his breeches, moving it gently until he feels Jon’s cock stir and harden to his touch. Jon’s breeches unlace easily, the cords pulling free with the slight hiss of leather against twill. Jon’s cock in his hand has become just as familiar to Satin as the hard floor beneath his knees, and he wants something unfamiliar with Jon now, he wants something new and different and real. He wants it and he’s in just the position to take it.
Jon’s groan when Satin takes him in his mouth lets him know that he’s no longer asleep, but Satin continues undeterred. As long as he doesn’t open his eyes, he can’t see if Jon has opened his, and as long as he can’t see if Jon has opened his, they can both pretend that Jon is still asleep and that this breaks no unspoken rules. He works his mouth all the way down to press his nose to Jon’s abdomen, the dark hairs there curling into Satin’s nose and making him have to fight the urge to sneeze. The smell of him is strong, insistent, and Satin breathes it in, lets it get under his skin. His throat is crowded and full, his own cock stiffening when he swallows and Jon jerks and moans at the tightening of Satin’s throat around him. Satin would smile if he could. He’s always liked doing this, enjoying the power of it, the intimacy. He pulls his mouth up and sinks back down, draws on Jon’s cock with firm, insistent pressure, he circles and teases with his tongue until Jon’s thighs take up a violent tremor under his palms. Jon’s hand is in his hair; it tangles in Satin’s curls, but not to control him in any way, Satin doesn’t think. Jon doesn’t push him down, doesn’t hold him still to thrust into his mouth. He only curls his hand behind Satin’s ear and keeps it there, rubbing blunt fingertips along Satin’s scalp to make him shiver.
“It’s all right,” Satin says, pulling back to wrap a hand around Jon’s length and squeeze, to thumb at the sensitive spot beneath the head. “Come on, Jon, come on.” If Jon thinks anything of Satin using his given name, he says nothing. Satin supposes it’s hardly the worst of all his transgressions at the moment. Jon is quivering so when Satin takes him in his mouth again that it takes only a few encouraging sucks at him with hollowed cheeks to make him spend. He does pull with the hand in Satin’s hair then, trying to tug him away, but Satin resists, he swallows Jon’s release down easily. Jon makes a choked sound at the feel of it, one that echoes in Satin’s ear afterwards as he lays his cheek to Jon’s thigh. They stay that way for quite a while, until Satin can no longer hear the heavy throb of Jon’s pulse under his ear. Jon’s hand has gentled, stroking through Satin’s curls, his touch giving a simple pleasure that Satin hasn’t known for longer than he cares to consider. When Satin rocks back on his heels to stand, Jon stops him, he curls forward in his chair and catches his other hand behind Satin’s neck to hold him there. His gaze is intense, almost uncomfortable. It takes considerable effort for Satin not to flinch away from it. Just when it’s stretched out so long that Satin thinks he’ll have to say something if only to break the tension, Jon leans forward and brushes his lips to Satin’s. It’s the last thing Satin thought he would do. They look at each other a few moments longer, and then Satin pushes to his feet and busies himself with all the tasks still left to be done.
The cold breaks mid-day, the afternoon sun shining bright enough to melt the ice that’s built up in everyone’s marrow. It’s warmed enough by evening fall that they wouldn’t need to share furs. Satin shares Jon’s anyway. The cold recedes, but Satin remains, and it’s well enough as there’s no such thing as too much warmth on the Wall, no matter what or who it comes from, nor when nor how nor why.
title from Poppy Z. Brite