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The Companion's eyes are dark as the void of space outside and make Jon several times less comfortable. Jon knows what to expect from the stars—indifference to his little life and the lives of his crew.
People aren't so easy.
Etiquette has propelled Jon, spine straight and shoulders squared, through situations far more awkward than greeting a passenger aboard Ghost, the transport ship he inherited from his father.
Jon extends his hand, "Welcome aboard Ghost. I'm Jon Snow, the captain."
The Companion raises their arm, sleeve of their robe an indeterminate, shifting jewel tone, and takes Jon's hand. Smooth palm and a firm grip. "I thank you for the welcome, captain, and for your hospitality on my journey."
Closer, Jon sees flecks of a warmer brown in the Companion's eyes. In better light, they might be closer to the color of soil where shoots grow in spring, not that Jon had been planetside long enough to experience the changing of a season in years.
"No problem," Jon replies. "We've got a room ready for you. Arya will take you."
Arya, Jon's youngest sister and the ship's de facto security, melts from the shadows behind a pile of unused transport crates and sticks her utility knife back into her belt. The Companion laughs, louder than Jon expects. Arya
Hi sister grins, "Jon asked me to wait."
"I didn't ask you to bring a knife."
"I always have a knife," Arya shrugs, "sometimes I need it."
A emergency medical supply transport to a station outpost at the edge of the asteroid belt known as the Wall keeps Jon busy, and he nearly forgets about the Companion tucked away in unused quarters on deck two. There are always skirmishes along that unofficial border dividing Westerosi space and the unincorporated Free Folk colonies.
Jon might forget about the Companion, but the rest of his crew seems to have nothing else to talk about.
"Satin beat Sansa at cyvasse last night," Jaime, Ghost's pilot, tells Jon over a bowl of mortar-like oatmeal in the mess, "and you know how fucking hard that is to do."
Sansa, three years Jon's junior, had been beating everyone at cyvasse since she was eight.
"Satin," Jon repeats, "so that's what she goes by."
All Companions had fanciful, luxurious names. Fabrics. Flowers. Jewels. Jon met one in King's Landing a few years ago named Tourmaline and never forgot it. A courtesan—a whore—named something so silly was hard to take seriously.
"Satin" might be sillier yet.
"They, actually," Jaime trudges his spoon through the oatmeal. "Gender unspecified. And you didn't even know their name when you let them aboard the ship?"
Jon shrugs and pulls a protein ration off the shelf, "It's not their real name, and they'll only be here a fortnight. I was more focused on the credentials from the Guild."
Jaime hums with an upward inflection at the end, which means he's biting his tongue on a shithead remark that he'll tell Brienne later. "You should come hang out tonight. Live a little before your hair turns gray and your back hurts for no reason."
"Both of those things are already happening."
"Gods," Jaime says, "you're barely thirty."
Before the end of the week, Sansa, Arya, Sam, and Gilly—nearly the entire crew, save Ghost, Jon's direwolf and the ship's namesake—are all raving about Satin. They're good at games, well-read, and an asset at trivia night during a stop at an outpost for refueling. Jon can't help but think it's obvious that Satin is charming and inviting; Companions are trained from childhood. It's disappointing that his crew is falling for a mummer's farce.
Only Brienne doesn't bother Jon, at least not until they're working side-by-side making tweaks to the ship's waste filtration systems.
"I'm concerned," Brienne pauses, "about you."
"I'm good. Just busy."
"We're all busy. Doesn't mean we work double shifts and hole up in are quarters. Gilly told me you asked for something to help you sleep."
Nosy, the lot of them, and gods be damned if Jon's heart doesn't clench at the fact that there are a half-dozen people nagging him about his well-being.
"I'm fine, Brienne. Let's take a break after we finish this run, okay?"
Brienne takes a wrench off her belt and starts tightening a valve. "You mean that this time? Last time we went home you barely left the spaceport."
Satin kneels on the floor of the gym, petting the dense, weather-resistant fur on Ghost's flank. The direwolf raises his head, red eyes locked on Jon as the automatic door swishes closed behind him.
"I thought we'd never get a chance to talk, Captain Snow." Satin has a small smile on their face, and their voice has a seductive, practiced note. "Your crew have been very kind."
Voice like gravel, Jon replies, "I'm glad."
"They like you," Satin continues, "which, I think, is why they told me you were avoiding me."
"I've been busy," Jon repeats; if he were an action figure, that would be one of his stock phrases.
Satin's clothes today are the iridescent hues of a nebula but leave much less to the imagination than what they'd worn on their arrival. The robe is cut close to their torso, belted with a thick, embroidered sash, and their arms are bare save for some jangling bracelets. Dark curls frame Satin's face and flow onto their shoulders. Jon, who isn't often moved by a pretty face, acknowledges that Satin's upturned nose and full lips are just that: beautiful.
Lovely and unreal. A projection.
"I wanted to thank you for your hospitality." Satin gives Ghost one last pat and rises in shimmery grace. "Especially given your discomfort around a Companion."
"Who said I was uncomfortable?"
"Your crew gave some hints, but your avoidance speaks louder. I'm not unfamiliar with that reaction."'
"Companions have a high social status in most of the Seven." Jon recalls people he's seen Companions with—nobility, politicians, scholars. That people like that pay money for sex doesn't surprise Jon because he's not a child, only that it happens so overtly. "We just don't have them on Winterfell."
"There has been attempts to establish a House on Winterfell, but it never takes root. Where does your discomfort come from?"
Jon likes sex. He's had partners both long and short term, men and woman. Ygritte, with fire red hair and a tool belt on her waist, was the longest and most recent. Now, she was far beyond the Wall on a salvage ship ,and they hadn't seen one another in months. She made Jon do crazy shit and kissed like she was trying to start a brawl. He missed her fiercely.
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit and feels a little inane. "If I'm with someone, I want it to be real."
Satin tilts their head, hair shifting to reveal silver earrings with green stones. "And you think a night with a Companion isn't real?"
"It's a transaction."
"That's a facet, yes, but it can be many things. Respite. Discovery. Transformation. Do you think those things aren't valuable? Are they not real?"
Jon doesn't know how to answer, but he thinks about the question for the rest of the day.
Later, alone in his quarters and so tired his body feels like he's weighed down by the gravity of an entire planet, Jon reads through the paperwork Satin submitted before coming aboard. Opening the file feels nosy, which is ridiculous because Jon really should've read it through himself. Sansa had taken over that sort of task lately, and Jon was doing his best to let his sister help without peering over her shoulder.
An identification photo of Satin appears on the tablet screen, ordinary enough that Jon's taken aback. Backed by the drab gray of some government office, Satin looks very little like the ethereal person who spent the last week charming Jon's crew. Not even a Companion looks good in government photos, apparently.
Most of the information is biographical. Given name: Satin. Surname: Flowers.
The combination is so fanciful, so on brand, that Jon would laugh if Flowers didn't indicate that Satin was born to an unwed mother. That itself wasn't significant. Millions of people in the Seven had the common last name of their home planet; Jon carried such a name himself. Companions usually come from affluent families who can afford the schooling.
Their gender is unspecified, and they're affiliated with the House of Oldtown. The destination on the travel visa is Braavos. A quick internet search tells Jon that there's no Companion House on Braavos or anywhere nearby. Sex work is legal, but not like it is in the Seven.
"Why are you going there?" Jon mutters.
People who go that far are usually trying to be forgotten.
Jon finds Sansa in the small biodome at the top of the ship, tending to a row of orange tomatoes. The garden isn't enough to feed Ghost's entire crew, but the green space is nice on longer stretches in deep space, and only Arya complained about salad at meals.
"I'm looking at the plants like I know what I'm doing," Sansa says. "Gilly asked me to prune the tomatoes."
"Better than me," Jon plucks a tomato off the vine and pops it into his mouth. "Can I bother you for a second?"
Sansa looks relieved to be through with the tomatoes, but Jon thinks she'll change her mind once he keeps talking. "Shoot."
"What do you know about Satin?"
"The same stuff we all know. Traveling to Braavos. They're a Companion, so they're absurdly charming and knowledgeable about a weird variety of stuff. You heard about trivia, right?"
Jon runs a hand over the two-day's worth of stubble on his face. "I'm not talking about trivia, Sansa. I want to know if you've noticed anything…suspicious."
"No," Sansa twists the end of the thick braid over her shoulder. "Satin's cool, and I don't know why you don't like them. If something bothered you, why'd you let them onboard?"
"It's nothing specific. I just wonder why they're going all the way to Braavos."
Sometimes, Sansa looks at Jon like she thirteen-years-old again, about to tell him to get a life. "Satin's business is their own, Jon. I just think you have a problem with Companions."
"I don't have a problem with Companions."
"We were raised on Winterfell surrounded by pretty, um, militant people. Do you know how hard it was for me when I met Margaery? All those lectures from Old Nan about the Old Gods in the forest and sin. We heard the same words. It gets under your skin."
Margaery was a diplomat in King's Landing, and she and Sansa hadn't seen each other in several months. Sansa always seems a bit down.
"I'm comfortable with…what I like. I'm not a prude."
Sansa falls into giggles. "Alright, Jon. You're not a prude, and I'm not cooler than you."
"Please," Jon smiles, "Arya is the coolest. We can agree."
"Seriously, though," Sansa says when she's done laughing. "Have you talked to Satin? About work? About anything? Being a Companion's just a job, and they're just a person. I really think you'd get along."
"I just think they're hiding something."
"Don't we all have secrets? And you can ask, if you get to know them."
Ghost is a week of deep space travel away from Braavos.
Satin will be off the ship, soon, and their secrets beyond Jon's concern. Still, the conversation with Sansa sticks in his mind. After dinner, Jon presses the communicator panel next to the door of Satin's quarters.
Everything on the ship is a generation old, so there's a delay and a crackle before Satin's says, "Hello?" They sound tinny and further away than behind a motion-activated door.
"It's Jon."
"Just a second."
The communicator goes dead; Jon watches his scuffed boots, regretting listening to Sansa before the conversation even begins. The door whooshes open. Satin stands there, no makeup and hair loose, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of loose, floral pants that gather at the ankles.
Attraction, gut-wrenching and sudden and bordering on unhinged, nearly makes Jon lurch forward. He takes a breath through his nose.
"Hello," Satin repeats, "I wasn't expecting a guest, so forgive my appearance."
"Don't worry about it." Jon wants to bury his fingers in Satin's hair and nibble on the bit of collarbone showing at the neckline of their hoodie. "You do look different."
"These are my pajamas." A slow smile crosses Satin's face, "Did you think I wasn't a real person?"
Their tone is light but the accusation stands. Jon flushes up to his ears.
"You just always looks so," Jon fumbles and switches to waving his hand, "…put together."
"Companions are supposed to maintain a certain appearance. There's an element of sacred, yes, but it's not like we wear vestments. I'm not a septon."
"No," Jon blurts, "they're celibate."
Satin laughs, "Why don't you come in?"
The quarters are the same as Jon's—he gave the two larger rooms to Jaime and Brienne and Sam and Gilly—but the room feels different. Satin dimmed the lights and put a stained glass lamp on the bedside table. The standard bedding has been replaced by a brocade pillow and duvet of sage green and muted gold.
"You made yourself at home," Jon says.
"Just items I brought with me. They're comforting, I suppose."
"Are lamps and pillows normal luggage for a Companion?" Jon thinks of the duffel he stuffs his clothes and toiletries in.
"You let the transport crates into your cargo hold, captain. I'm not bound for a short journey."
"I wanted to ask about that." Jon isn't sure if he should sound stern like a captain or concerned like Satin could be a friend. "Braavos is way beyond Seven space. Why there?"
Satin's shoulders tense, and they glance away. "You're suspicious of me. Was the paperwork I submitted before boarding not enough?"
"No, it checked out. I just…my crew has gotten to know you, and they're worried."
Something cool and professional comes over Satin's face. Their tone is a command, "Tell me what you're really thinking, captain."
"Braavos has pillowhouses, but Companions don't work in them. There's no House there, no temple for you to live in. Why are you going so far, and with so much luggage?"
Jon hadn't meant to say all that all, and from the way Satin's expression stays flat as a tablet screen, it wasn't his brightest move.
"For someone who's judgemental of Companions, you certainly did your research."
"Ghost is my home. The crew my family. I need to know what's happening on my ship."
Satin sits in the room's only chair, pushed back from the small desk, and their expression cracks. Worry lines appear between their brows, and their mouth turns downward.
"Companion training starts at age twelve," they say. Jon must blanch because Satin smiles and continues, "Not the physical part. That comes much later. Studying is intense: psychology, history, politics, art. We are intended to be whatever someone needs. It's a very cloistered childhood."
"I didn't know that."
"It's not exactly common knowledge," Satin continues, "and clients don't care why or how I know some political intricacy that's relevant to them. They want advice, and for me to fulfill something that's missing."
Jon nods.
"Companions choose their clients, and we can refuse any request. A Companion offers utmost confidence and counsel. The walls of the House are thick. But there was someone I chose who…" Satin trails off and wrings their hands together in their lap. "An error in judgment."
A protective instinct rears itself in Jon; something Satin wouldn't appreciate or find warranted, so he stomps it down. "Did they hurt you?"
Satin shakes their head, "No, but they told me something I couldn't keep a secret. I broke a vow, and it kept someone safe. It's not a regret, but I was asked to leave the House. I kept my license, but there are no freelance Companions. So, I thought…Braavos. I know a few people there."
"A few people?"
"I thought I could start over."
Jon makes a point to attend the next crew game night, even if he has a dozen transport manifestos to review to plan their route over the next few weeks.
Sansa and Arya beam at him, in perfect harmony for once, when Jon comes into the mess hall and takes the seat they always leave for him. Arya holds a deck of playing cards, and Sansa pulls a bottle of liquor out from under the table.
"Gilly's got our backs tonight," Sansa waggles the bottle at Jon, "so you can live a little."
The crew takes turns sitting watch on the small bridge; Jon usually feels relieved and then a little guilty when it's his turn. A lecture sits on the tip of Jon's tongue—sure, they're traveling faster-than-light in deep space through a stable region, but you can never be certain. Shit happens. Shit has happened, and they all know it.
Jon takes the glass. Whatever it is burns pleasantly, and he doesn't take another drink until they're a few hands into the game. Winning doesn't matter much—it's just a game, after all—but he plays especially poorly because he watches Satin the entire time. Things Jon had been trying to ignore about Satin are incontrovertible truths.
The first is that Satin folds into the dynamics of Jon's crew like they've been there for months. Satin talks to Sansa about fashion and Arya about knives and Sam about some book they've both read, or that they flirt with Brienne in a harmless, teasing way that makes her laugh.
The second is that Jon wants to kiss Satin. A few days have given Jon some clarity on the physical part of what he wants: Satin, as they were at the door of their room, unadorned and honest. Not that Satin isn't beguiling tonight, dressed in another flowing robe with smoky eyes.
When the card game is done, Satin comes to sit beside Jon. The two of them are alone at the table.
"It was nice to see you having fun. You almost won."
Jon shrugs, "I have five siblings and grew up on a remote planet. Played a lot of cards. Boardgames, too."
Satin smiles, "An especially good showing since you kept watching me."
"I was not."
"I'm used to being watched. I'm meant to be watched."
Sansa's liquor loosens Jon's tongue, "You're beautiful. That's always been true."
"But?" Satin inclines their head.
"I was thinking about our conversation the other night and how you looked."
Satin raises their eyebrows but their smile gets wider, "Now that's interesting."
Jon puts his hand on Satin's knee and feels his callouses catch on the glossy, delicate fabric. A glance around the room tells him that, for fucking once, no one is paying any attention to him.
"Do you want to come back to my room?"
Of course, the whole crew will look if Jon's question goes well.
"Do you know how you're asking me that, Jon?"
Jon leans close and whispers, "I doubt I could afford you."
Satin laughs, "You might have to sell the ship to get into the solar system of what I cost. Are you asking me as payment for room and board?"
That concept turns Jon's stomach sour and almost causes a sanity check. He should get up and forget this whole thing. Satin is still smiling at him.
"You paid for that already when you boarded. I'm just asking for your company, if you want to give it."
Satin's fine-boned, smooth hand covers Jon's on their knee. "Lead the way, Jon."
When everyone looks as the two of them leave, Jon doesn't notice at all.
"Your quarters are the same size as the guest ones," Satin says once Jon's door closes.
"Sam and Gilly have the captain's quarters. Gilly's having a baby, and I don't need the space."
Jon's room is boring. There's a shelf of books and some sentimental trinkets. Ghost's bed takes up too much of the limited floor space. The wardrobe is too small, so there's always a pile of once-worn clothes dumped onto an extra chair. At least the surfaces are free of clutter, and Jon changed the sheets yesterday.
Satin goes to inspect the books on the shelf, humming as they look at the spines. "You have good taste."
"What happens," Jon blurts, "when a Companion takes a client?"
They turn from the books to look at Jon. "With very few exceptions, clients come to the House. There's more paperwork than you might think. A tea ceremony and burning of incense. I might dance or play music. Sometimes, the client wants advice—personal or political. Other times, there's less talking."
"And then you fuck."
Jon wants to kick himself in the face.
"If that bothers you, why did you invite me here?"
Jon paces his tiny room, the warm, bubbling desire he felt in the mess hall vanishing like he'd spaced it out an airlock. "I'm fucking this up."
Silence.
"I was judgemental when you came onboard, which was shitty of me."
"You could ask me what I think," finally, Satin sounds irritated, "about being a Companion, or anything else."
"Rather than making assumptions. Do you feel exploited?"
"Compared to whom? An asteroid miner out past the Wall? Their labor earns them credits, too, but their bodies will break long before mine. What's the difference when it's sex, other than the distinction you make in your head?" Satin comes to stand before Jon, smelling of jasmine. "I was born in the House on Oldtown. My mother was a Companion, and she took a lover who was generous enough to pay for my training. I've lived with privilege most never have, and now I'm unsure of my future. That's how I feel."
Jon spent the last decade chasing security. Fixing up Ghost after his father's death, taking his sisters from Winterfell when they asked to go with him, meeting the rest of his crew. He swore an oath to himself to provide for them, to create a home for his family.
"I'm always," Jon admits, "a little uncertain."
"Because you think everything is your responsibility. Sansa told me that." Satin touches his cheek with their fingertips, so tenderly that Jon thinks he might collapse. "Would you like me to show you what I think you need?"
The kiss takes Jon out at the knees.
He wraps his arms around Satin, all the gauzy fabric trapped in the circle of his arms, and slides to the floor. Satin guides them to the empty space of rug between Ghost's bed and the nightstand. They kneel between Jon's spread knees and hold his face still between their palms. The kiss is a practiced dance: Satin nipping at Jon's lips and then soothing with an expert tongue.
Satin slides their fingers into Jon's hair and tilts his head back. It's an awkward angle, but with Satin's full attention on devouring him, Jon doesn't care. He parts his lips, and Satin's tongue bumps against his. It's been so long since Ygritte had him. Jon finds Satin's lithe body beneath the yards of fabric, clutching at their waist and hauling them close until every point of contact is realized.
Both of them are panting when they part. Jon wonders if Satin's makeup has rubbed off on him and finds the idea appealing. Satin's lips are shiny and kiss-bitten, and Jon tugs at the bottom one with his teeth to keep the momentum. Satin's laugh is low and intimate. They pull the tie out of Jon's hair and run their slender fingers through it.
Dumbly, Jon says, "Damn, you're good at that."
Satin smirks, "I'm good at everything."
A thrill runs down Jon's spine; his cock perks up, and there's almost no shame lingering. "Yeah, but what do you want?"
Their smile stays, and the rest of their expression softens into something that makes Jon feel like he's going into cardiac arrest. Maybe he found something new to ask. Satin doesn't answer immediately; instead, they kiss Jon again, slow and deliberate, and reposition themselves so they're straddling Jon's lap. Unable to resist, Jon pulls their hips flush until both of them groan.
"To have fun. You can undress me," Satin takes Jon's hand and places it on the sash around their waist. It's held firm with a complicated knot that reminds Jon of something from a historical sailing book he owned a s child.
It takes Jon's fumbling, sweaty fingers a long time to unpick it, and Satin doesn't offer to help. Mercifully, the bodice of Satin's robe is clasped with hook-and-eyes down their torso. Robes open and pushed back on their shoulders, Satin looks like a butterfly. Yards of shimmery, sherbet-toned fabric fall around them and over Jon's legs. Satin pulls a long, ornate pin out of their hair and the ringlets tumble around their shoulders.
Jon touches Satin's shoulder, pushing the lace straps of their camisole down. It's the color of champagne, sheer and trimmed with lace. The shadow of Satin's nipples beneath it make Jon's mouth go dry. So does the stripe of skin between the bottom of the camisole and Satin's underwear. Jon wouldn't describe them as skimpy, but they're trimmed in the same lace.
Now, Jon's tongue might as well be glued to the roof of his mouth. He's never seen a cock in lace before.
Satin doesn't have a woman's figure—their chest is flat, and while they're slender, there's a distinct lack of curve. No body hair to speak of, but that's easy enough to be rid of and seems like something a Companion might choose. Even at the end of the day, there's no shadow of a beard on Satin's jaw, which makes Jon a little envious.
He must be gawking or drooling or something because Satin snaps their fingers in front of his face. "Do I surprise you, Jon? Your mouth is open."
"Are these…" Jon rubs the lace at the neck of the camisole between his fingers, "….women's?"
"Custom. Companions have tailors," Satin glances down at their body. "I suppose this will be my last set. I'll have to be gentle with them."
"There goes dramatically ripping them off of you."
"Don't you dare."
Satin's whole outfit is probably worth more than Jon's entire wardrobe, even counting the gravity boots Sansa got him so he wouldn't keep floating away while doing repairs on Ghost's hull. Jon frees Satin's arms from each billowing sleeve and runs his index finger down their sternum. Satin pushes the straps of the camisole down so that it's bunched at their waist and sighs when Jon caresses their torso, lingering on their nipples and the soft skin of their stomach. By the time Jon's satisfied, there's a damp patch on Satin's underwear and neither of them can stop from grinding their hips together. Jon's lips tingle from kissing, and Satin has made good progress on divesting Jon of his jumpsuit.
"I want to get this ugly thing off you," Satin whispers into Jon's ear, "and then I want you to fuck me. Do you have what we need?"
"Is that a question of skill? Fortitude?" Jon feels those traits slipping with Satin molded to him. He might come now and derail the whole idea for a few hours.
"Lube," Satin bites Jon's earlobe and tugs, "I'm asking about lube."
A few minutes later, Satin is sprawled on their stomach picking through one of the drawers under Jon's bed. "This is more than I expected of you, Jon."
Jon paces the small arc of floor that isn't taken up by Ghost's bed. The arms of his jumpsuit dangle around his waist, and his undershirt is lost somewhere between the bed and the wall. "My last partner, Ygritte, kept bringing things, and suddenly there was a drawer."
Satin, naked save the underwear and camisole bunched around their waist, going through a drawer of sex toys makes Jon feel lightheaded. It's no secret where the blood's going.
"Did you use them?"
Heat crawls up Jon's neck, and he wishes he could open a window without letting the vacuum of space in and killing Satin and himself. "Some, yeah. Others were…ambitious jokes."
"Where's Ygritte now?"
"On a salvage ship out past the Wall. She's great, but our lives just don't line up."
Satin hums and pulls a couple items from the drawer before closing it. The lube is the obvious item, and Jon doesn't glance at the rest. They look Jon up and down, and Jon isn't sure if he's ever been eye-fucked so overtly before. He's going to start sweating.
"Can you take off the rest of your clothes?"
Jon strips with alacrity and absolutely zero sex appeal. Satin is laughing by the time Jon's naked. He's fit enough, he supposes, but a bit banged up from life. The scars on his chest are the worst; Jon hopes Satin doesn't ask.
When Jon is flat on his back, Satin straddling him and grinding his cock against Jon's, the lacy fabric between them wrecking his concentration, Satin says, "I'm going to ask you a few questions."
Fuck, they sound so professional.
Satin grabs one of the smaller dildos, a blue sparkly abomination, and says, "Has this ever been used on you?"
Jon shakes his head, "Only, um, fingers."
"Next question: do I need to get myself ready?"
"I'll not neglect you, Satin."
"For a client, I'd usually get ready beforehand," Satin finally looks bashful, "but it'd be sweet for you to be one."
Jon feels a little guilty, but the image of Satin, decked out in Companion finery, prepping themselves to get fucked gets lodged in his mind. Instead of that, he focuses on Satin before him. Satin spreads themselves across the bed, over Jon's outstretched legs, and rests their head on folded arms. Jon touches their scapula and follows the bumps of their spine to the swell of their ass. Satin raises their hips for Jon to push the underwear around their thighs.
The lube is cold on Jon's fingers, so he warms it by rubbing them together. He starts by sliding his thumb along the cleft of Satin's ass until it's pressed against their entrance. Satin looks over their shoulder and nods; they press their ass into Jon's hand in encouragement. Jon's thumb sinks into Satin like their body is waiting for him, beckoning him. Satin moans into their arms as Jon penetrates them over and over, pressing in as deep as he can and moving his thumb around. Satin seems unable to decide whether to try and get friction against their cock or more of Jon's thumb.
"Get," Satin gasps, "one of the dildos—the second biggest."
Satin laid the set of cocks on the nightstand when they were rummaging through the drawer. Ygritte thought they were the funniest thing in the fucking galaxy when she gifted them to Jon.
"That's," Jon handles the thing, testing its size, "bigger than me, Satin."
"I know. To the base. Don't stop."
Jon obeys, but he teases Satin for a bit longer first, uncertain if he's done enough. Satin unambiguously presses back against his hand, making soft noises into the bedspread. Jon lubes the dildo and lines it up, and Satin's whole body shudders. Jon shudders with them. The cock slides in with no resistance, and Satin shouts when the flared base presses against the ring of muscle. The way it's stretched makes Jon think of his own cock, of the fact that, in minutes, he'll be buried in Satin just the same. He pulls the dildo out halfway and then slams it back, pushing the base as far in as it will go.
Satin sounds beautiful—Jon's name, gasps, profanity; Jon drinks it all in, entertaining the fantasy that this is the truth, raw and unadulterated. Feeling expressed without performance.
Eventually, Satin pushes themselves up on their hands and rolls over. Their face and chest are flushed and a couple ringlets stick to their forehead. Jon's legs are asleep, but he ignores the tingling and moves to a position where he can bend over Satin.
He just wants Satin to keep feeling.
"You look beautiful."
"Jon," Satin puts his fingers in Jon's hair but doesn't push him away.
They yelp when Jon takes the head of their cock between his lips, but Jon doesn't think it's surprise. Shock, maybe. For a while, he loses himself to the task. It's not something he's done more than a handful of times, but the rhythm comes easily enough. Satin keeps his fingers threaded through Jon's hair, still neither pushing nor pulling, and Jon swirls his tongue around the shaft of Satin's cock. The demure gasps and moans Satin makes encourage Jon and make him notice his own neglected erection. He reaches beneath himself and grips it.
Satin comes with Jon's tongue pressed against the underside of their cock. Jon has no trouble taking it, but Satin's hand falls away from his hair the second their hips jerk off the bed. The sounds Satin makes are less restrained, and Jon grips the base of his cock harder than he means to.
Before Jon can swallow, Satin pulls Jon up to kiss him, tangling their tongues together and licking his own come out of Jon's mouth. Jon groans, a heady melange of surprise and arousal coursing through his body. Fuck. Satin didn't even hesitate. Jon's so lost in the feeling of the kiss, of Satin rushing to taste himself on Jon's tongue, that he almost misses Satin guiding Jon to where the bed meets the wall.
Straddling Jon's thighs, Satin breaks the kiss and says, "Replace the dildo with your cock, Jon."
Jon fumbles pulling the thing out and drops it on the bed. He grabs his cock with one hand and Satin's hip with the other, lining their bodies up. Satin guides themselves down until they're seated in Jon's lap. It's so easy, so smooth, that Jon tilts his head back against the wall and gasps.
"Can you even feel me?"
Satin laughs, "Every inch, sweetling, and see how easy I took you?"
When Satin starts riding Jon properly, once again, all he can think is expert. Satin rolls their hips and rises up, never quite releasing Jon's cock, and then uses their weight to impale themselves to the base again. When Satin clenches, Jon makes a noise that could definitely be heard from the corridor should anyone be nearby. He feels like he's whirling through one of the galaxies speeding by outside the window.
"Jon," Satin presses their torsos together, "it's too much. Can you take over?"
Satin just came, and the dildo kept them open and ready for Jon the entire time. Hells, Jon would probably be half asleep on the bed, forget climbing on someone's cock.
"Aye, I'll get us there," Jon replies. It's pretty unsexy that he's using his 'captain on the bridge voice.'
Thrusting up into Satin's body is easy; they're light and lithe, and Jon's hands on their hips guide them both. Jon doesn't bother switching positions; he fucks Satin until his entire body is wound tight and ready to snap. Satin clings to Jon's shoulders, forehead resting against his as they pant into one another's mouths.
When Jon comes, he clenches his jaw so tightly he swears his teeth creak. Satin tightens his thighs around Jon's, and the two of them move together through the aftershocks. Once his breathing calms, Jon falls onto his side and pulls Satin with him.
"I'll hold on to this memory," Satin whispers after a long while. "Thank you, Jon."
"Me too."
It's definitely more than a memory that Jon wants to hold onto.
They're half a day from Braavos when Sansa comes up to Jon in the captain's chair and says, "We held a vote."
Jon won't lie, even to himself: his mind was drifting back to two hours ago when Satin had him bent over the desk in his quarters. He'll be feeling that for the rest of the day.
Too slowly, he intones, "A vote on what, Sansa?"
His sister's smile is smug, and she crosses her arms over her sweater, "On offering Satin a spot on the crew, if they want it."
"I don't recall voting on that."
"We didn't ask because we thought you'd," Sansa pauses and moves her hand in the shape of a talking mouth, "prattle on about something when the obvious answer is everyone likes Satin, they're a damn good addition to the crew, and it's a really simple decision if they're interested."
"Everyone is supposed to be present to vote on ship business," Jon quotes, nearly verbatim, the rules they'd all decided on.
Sansa comes and sits on the arm of the captain's chair and takes Jon's face between her hands, like she's going to call him an idiot sandwich. "You didn't answer your communicator, and Satin was in your quarters, so we did it without you. Actually, we figured the last few days made your vote pretty clear."
"You can't just assume that!"
"No, we've barely seen you, or Satin, for three days. Please, please don't give me the details, but Gilly made a good point when she said this seems different for you."
The last three days were an exhausting and magical liminal space. Satin was leaving, and Jon was used to taking refuge in scraps of time and living off them for long spells in between.
Enough time passes with Jon lost in thought because Sansa pats his cheek to get his attention. "We haven't asked Satin yet. You're the captain, after all. But, you're also my brother, and I want you to be happy. We all want that. The vote was unanimous, by the way."
Jon stops himself from even a second of imagining Satin staying around. Still, he sounds a little hopeful when he says, "Truly?"
Sansa releases Jon's face, "I know Ygritte refused you more than once. That doesn't mean Satin will, and you should ask before you lose the chance. What's your vote, Jon?"
"Aye."
"Then go. I'll mind the chair."
Satin is hunched over one of their cargo crates in the shuttle bay. Jon watches them without making his presence known, heart racing like someone's running at him with a knife. Another step closer; Jon's boots squeak on the metal floor and make Satin turn around. They give Jon a smile that takes up half their face and might literally brighten the room.
Suddenly, Jon's nerves loosen.
"I have an offer for you."
They put whatever they were holding back into the crate. "I can tell by your tone that this isn't something sexy, is it?"
Jon shakes his head, "No, it's not. The crew meant this morning and voted to offer you a spot on the crew, if you want it."
"This morning? That means you weren't there when they voted." Satin's smile turns into one with a more devious tilt.
"Sansa told me that my vote was obvious and didn't matter because the rest of the crew had majority."
"That sounds like a functioning democracy," Satin says, "and what would you have voted?"
Jon scrubs a hand over his face. "I might've voted no. Not because I don't want you here but because it feels like a conflict of interest to ask given how we've spent the last three days."
Satin comes close enough and puts their hand on Jon's chest, "That's very principled of you, Jon. In character, even."
"I don't want the organization chart for the crew to look like it's from a melodrama."
"Two-thirds of your crew are married."
"They're not…me. I'm the captain." Even to his own ears, he doesn't sound very convinced. "I'm supposed to make sure everything works."
Satin crosses their arms, billowing sleeves caught up in the gesture. A professional and almost distant expression comes across their face, which startles Jon because he's gotten so used to the warm, open way Satin looks at him when the two of them are alone.
"I'm interested, Captain Snow, and thank you for considering me. What are the benefits and compensation?"
A normal question that shouldn't make Jon feel like he's been slapped. It takes him a second to sort his thoughts, even though he knows how the ship runs like he knows his face in the mirror.
"All profits after operating costs are split evenly between the crew. One-seventh—well, one-eighth if you join. Room and board are included. I usually choose our jobs, but if you think something's a shit idea, please tell me. We vote on everything else. You've been onboard long enough to know what the ship and day-to-day life are like. Sometimes we get into trouble, but I try and avoid it."
"Everyone else is willing to take less of a cut? For me?" The slight uncertainty in Satin's tone hurts.
"Sansa sent me a list of ways you're, and I quote, a 'valuable addition to the crew.'" Jon hasn't looked at it yet because he doesn't need convinced, but he pulls his tablet out of his pocket anyway. "You speak three languages (that she knows of). You have a more comprehensive knowledge of current political tensions than any of us. You play the harp—I didn't know that—which will provide novel entertainment on deep space voyages. You're a decent pilot. You know a lot of cocktail recipes."
"Is that it?"
"No. The last one is," Jon sighs but keeps reading, "'we like you and you make Jon into less of a goblin.'"
"You're not a goblin."
Jon stuffs his tablet back in his pocket. "You'd be great, and if that means we stop sleeping together, I'd rather have you as a crewmate. I don't want the last few days to influence your choice, or for you think I'm expecting you to…to fuck me to be part of the crew. And I can be a goblin."
Satin thinks for an interminable span of time; truly, a running-errands-with-mom level of torture for Jon.
Finally, Satin asks, "Is there a contact?"
"Of course. Sam does all our documents. He can probably draw it up today."
Jon's whole life suddenly orbits around an idea Sansa posed to him only an hour ago. Satin can probably hear Jon's heart slamming into his ribs.
"The contract doesn't mention sex, does it? What I will or won't do, or for how long. What will happen if one party breaks it."
"I can't believe I'm not horrified by that question," Jon says. "And no, nothing like that. You can read the whole thing. I know you know your way around a contract."
Satin smiles, "I do."
"You'd be the same as everyone else."
"I've never been anything other than a Companion. It wasn't a bad life—good, even, most of the time. I was respected and wanted for little, but my value was narrowed to only a handful of things." Satin comes close enough to Jon that their chests brush, but they don't make any move to touch. "You're inviting me to be something new."
"I think so, yeah."
"You want to keep being lovers, if I choose it?"
"Aye."
"You believe I'm capable of choosing it?"
Jon wraps an arm around Satin, lace tickling his palm when he rests it on the small of Satin's back. "That's a stupid question. Of course you are."
"Then I accept. Both. For as long as you'll have me."
The crew is going to lose their minds. Jon needs to contact Sansa and tell her to adjust the ship's heading. Satin's arms loop around Jon's neck, the now familiar lines of their body pressing against Jon's. A kiss, maybe more, is imminent. Satin's eyes are as dark as the day they met, standing just a few feet from here in the same dim light. Now, Jon knows the lighter flecks of brown and gold near the irises. Satin parts their lips in invitation.
"I think," Jon whispers even though they're alone, "that could be a long, long, time."