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Chapter Text

The phone rings and Jon silences it again, groaning into his pillow. His head is throbbing, and his stomach feels like its started to eat itself. Apparently, one cannot survive on bourbon and cigarettes alone. Noted. He rolls over to bury his forehead in the cool silk sheets and bumps into a figure beside him. Shit. He forgot he wasn’t alone. He hates the morning after. When every last drop of stage adrenaline is used up and his liquor-fueled confidence reads empty. When his anxiety grows horns.

The urge to burrow under the blankets until spring is strong but the call of nature is stronger and he stumbles from the bed. Cursing, he searches for his boxers amongst the clothing scattered across the floor. He leaves the bathroom light off and leans heavy into the medicine cabinet, gulping down the dregs of bourbon left balancing on the back of the toilet.

Seriously, someone is playing the double-bass pedal on his temples. He is gonna need something stronger than bourbon. He blinks at his watch, fucking 9AM. He had only gone to sleep a few hours ago, what day was it anyway? A small knock at the door and he doesn’t bother to suppress another groan.

“Your phone won’t stop.” Mr Blue eyes passes him the phone and he manages a grunt before he closes the door in his face.

What the fuck was his name? He doesn’t dwell on it. Last night was clearly pretty forgettable. Still, those eyes.

Another ring, and his temper snaps as he smashes the green button. “For fucks sake, what?”

“Jon, what the fuck?”

“Yes Edd, WHAT the fuck?”

“Have you even looked at your phone this morning?”

“Fuck no, its not even morning Edd. What kind of manager calls me before 11AM?”

“Are you married?”

No. Of course not. But he sneaks a glance down at his left hand, thinking very hard about what actually went down at the bar last night. Nah. He’d remember something like that.

“No Edd, what the hell?”

“Oh ok, so you don’t know a… a Tor-mund. A Tormund Giants-bane?”

Jon’s mouth goes dry. He could easily admit to never thinking about Tormund, but it would be a fucking lie.

“Judging by your lack of response, I have reason to worry”

No. Tormund would have taken care of this. He may have let it ride for a year or two on the off chance of successfully pissing Jon off but eventually…

“Jon?”

“I’ll take care of it”

He lets the phone tumble to the vanity and splashes cold water on his face. He tosses Mr Blue eyes to the curb and calls his lawyer.

It made sense now, how his long buried past rose from the dead. That damn reporter Jon had tossed halfway through his last interview. The guy had gone all touchy feely. Asking him about his northern roots and growing up in the rural wilderness. Did he have any high school sweethearts when he was a nobody from nowhere? He dodged, but the guy kept pressing, until Jon remembered who the fuck was in charge. He sent the guy packing and smashed his camera for good measure. But the fucker clearly wasn’t finished. He had managed to dig up some old Winterfell county records and a handful of photos from a treasonous old acquaintance or two.

There he was on the front page of Entertainment Weekly, skinny and knobby kneed, leaning against a giant with a ridiculous grin and wild red hair. His companion’s strong arms were on full display, one tucked into his jean pocket and the other laying across Jon’s chest. Possessive. Something inside him burns.

“Married, you?” Gren laughs, choking on the smoke filling up the bathroom.

“I told you, not anymore” Jon huffs and reaches for the bottle balancing on the bathtub. It falls and spins away from him making Gren laugh more. Jon sinks lower in the tub, kicking his heavy boots up to rest on the ledge. He hasn’t slept in days. He wishes he were numb, but his skin is on fire. His shredded tank rides up and his back sizzles as it meets the cool tiles beneath him.

“Who in their right mind would marry you?” Pyp snickers and leans into Jon’s space, sliding the bottle back into his waiting fingers. He drinks and he burns.

“Crowds about to lose their shit”, a voice from outside calls. Nobody moves.

“So if you’re still married is this dude gonna take you for a ride now that you’re famous? Doesn’t he get like, half?” Gren looks serious now, but Jon just closes his eyes.

The thought of Tormund trying to go after his money was hilarious at best. When they were young, the big oaf wore the same 3-4 outfits consistently and built and re-built the engine of his rusty pickup truck.
He stayed in the same drafty old cabin, even after the last of his family had passed and left him with a decent bit of coin.

“Its all just a misunderstanding”, he sighed. God he was so damn tired.

“Then why did he send the papers back?”

His stomach turned. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know anything. His lawyer had sent out the divorce papers to be signed and called when he received them back. Nothing but ashes in the envelope. He’d be happy to resend them, and bill Jon again of course. What the actual fuck Giantsbane!

The door flies open and Jon meets Ed flustered face.

“Jon! What’s going on in here? Are you drunk? Of course, you’re drunk”

“Chill Ed”, Pyp is still laughing, billows of smoke roll out of his mouth, “you know the people will literally wait all night”

Ed just hands Jon his phone.

A paparazzi frenzy is unfolding. He doesn’t know what he is looking at, until he does. Fiery red hair pushing through a sea of cameras and recorders. He isn’t ready for that voice. The northern burr that rattles his spine. No comment, no comment. The man has nothing to say to the hoard outside his door. Reporters ask him. Does he have something to say to Jon Snow? The man turns and stares directly into the camera. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and he runs big hands through his beard. I guess we’ll have to fucking wait and see.

Tormund fucking Giantsbane.

The bathroom is silent until Gren moves to his feet, lifting Jon from the tub and swatting him on the back. “Aww congrats man! Does this mean more groupies for us?”

Jon flashes his best fuck-you smile and lets himself be pulled on stage.

A few songs in and the normal stage buzz he relies on is painfully absent. Sweat pours from his body but he feels nothing but ice in his veins. At least three quarters of the set is over. What the hell had they even been playing? The crowd is deafening. Idle fingers ghost over the scar on his chest and 10,000 screaming fans can’t fill the hole he imagines there.

The music is so distorted he doesn’t think anyone would notice if he just stopped singing completely. In fact, he knows they won’t. Jon slides across the stage, shoves his guitar into Pyp’s stomach and leans in close.

“I’m going home”. And the smile Pyp’s been carrying all night dies on his face.

Jon’s already climbing album sales go through the roof. Fans download every angsty love song in his library and flock to social media to pull apart lyrics and gush on the most intimate pieces of his lost love life. He ditches the subtle limo and pulls out the silver Ferrari he keeps to appease the paparazzi. Its easier to be what he’s expected to be. He sets his sites on the past and drives.

He puts the hot rod in park outside the local record store and passersby are already starting to gawk. He steps out stretching and meets a few stray cell phone flashes. This was gonna be easy. His black leather pants are painted on, clinging dangerously low on his hips. He is dripping in gunmetal piercings and his torn-up t-shirt pops under a well-worn studded jacket that hits him in all the right places. He runs black nails through his dark lose hair, wild and long past his shoulders. He smirks, adjusting his shades as he takes his first autograph request.

Twenty minutes later and he’s in the middle of a sea of bodies stretched across main street blocking traffic. He steels himself against his growing anxiety, setting his jaw and firing through autographs and selfies. He’s here for a reason. He’s gonna shake up Tor’s quiet little life so badly he’ll sign whatever Jon asks him to. When the news crews arrive he starts pushing through the crowd to the nearby hardware store.

A bell chimes over his head as he enters. The crowd behind him surges forward and he slams the door in their faces, muffling screams and rouge camera flashes. He meets the eyes of two men at the counter. An old man with thinning grey hair stares, mouth on the floor. The red head next to him is a statue, face unchanged, as if it was any normal Thursday afternoon.

“Roger” Tormund mutters, stepping from the behind the counter, “have you met my husband Jon Snow?” And he smiles. The fucker smiles, like he’s been waiting on Jon all day.

“Oh uhhhh” the old man stutters a moment before stepping forward with an outstretched hand, “I… I believe my grandson is a big fan”.

Jon doesn’t move. Doesn’t take his eyes off of Tormund. He hears the old man excusing himself somewhere in the background. Hears the door chime again, the screams of the crowd, then silence.

“Well, I know you are some kind of rock god now, but you don’t have to be rude to the customers little crow” Tormund scolds casually.

Jon shudders at the pet name but schools his face.

More silence. He starts to worry he has forgotten how to speak.

“Its nice to see you Jon”, Tormund grins moving his eyes down his body, literally drinking him in. Jon clenches his jaw and remembers himself.

“My lawyer got the divorce papers” he hisses. “Mailing the charred ashes back was a nice touch”

“Are you thirsty?” Tormund reaches into a nearby cooler and pulls out a soda, “Seems you put on quite a little show out there”.

“You need to sign the papers”

“I can’t, sorry.”

The door opens slightly, and Jon kicks it shut, locking the door and throwing up the closed sign. More camera flashes.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“Well, I believe I’ll pack up for the day.” He takes a long swig of soda, looks out the window at the crowd and sighs dramatically, “Don’t think there will be many more sales with all this excitement”

“Tormund, I’m not leaving until you sign”

“Great so you’re staying, come over to the house tonight? I’ll cook us up some dinner. You do still eat don’t you?” He looks him up and down again. “Or do you just drink your calories these days?”

“I’m not coming over to the house, we’ll get fucking mobbed”

“It’ll be fine, just leave the security to me”

“Tormund, what the fuck do you want? You want your husband back? You want that quiet, insecure nobody who couldn’t take a piss on his own? I don’t even know who that guy is anymore.”

Tormund barrel laughs, and pats Jon on the back hard. He grabs his bag and moves to the door. “Well, little crow, allow me to remind you.”

Chapter Text

He drives for a while, until he is certain he has ditched the crowd. He slides off the leather jacket and pulls a hoodie over his head. He checks into the local motel and is grateful when the teenager at the front desk hands over the keys without bothering to lift his eyes from his phone. The flyers plastered all over the entrance announce the upcoming Winterfell Summer festival and he has a sudden overwhelming urge to jump off a cliff. Fuck it. Fuck this whole thing. The only thing that stays him is the thought of Edd nagging incessantly upon his return. He has to take care of this tonight.

The door to his room barely latches and it smells of stale bread and booze. He thinks about buying the place so he can burn it to the ground. The complimentary mini fridge is empty, and he kicks the door closed. The walls rattle with the impact and a cloud of dust rolls off whatever dead animal is stuffed and mounted on the wall. Gods, he hates the north. He hates that he doesn’t hate it.

He peels off his leather pants and slides into equally tight fitting, but slightly less flashy jeans. He pulls on a fresh shirt and ties his hair back, then rings the front desk. The uber is there surprisingly quick, and the address rolls off his tongue before he can talk himself out of it.

The guy on the radio is blabbering about the last leg of his tour and he sinks lower in the back seat. Three more stadium shows and he’ll be off for the end of summer. The fear creeps in as he thinks about the show packing up and the band heading their separate ways for a few months. His LA mansion can get surprisingly cold, his thoughts surprisingly dark.

The turn down the gravel road is hauntingly familiar, but when he steps outside, he thinks they must have gotten lost. This was not the same cabin he spent his awkward teen years in. This was certainly not the place he would run too when his father was being particularly awful. It was still old, certainly, but fixed up solid. Lanterns hung from the wrap around porch, bathing the outer logs in a pleasingly warm glow. The door is solid oak with ornate hand carved patterns throughout and he runs his hand across it in admiration.

The door opens before he has a chance to knock, and his nostrils fill with the smells of fresh saw dust and spiced rum. Tormund ushers him over the threshold and leans in as if to hug him before apparently thinking better of it. He backs away a bit, looking at Jon like he’s an injured animal. He is close for only a moment, but he breaths in a combination of fresh citrus and cedar and the familiarity of it sets his skin aflame again.

“I hope you are hungry! Just a warning, I made way too much food”.

He is hungry, when did he last eat? But no. He is going along with this. Whatever this is.

“I didn’t come here for dinner Tormund; I came to get you to sign the papers and I’ll be on my way”. He holds up the envelope and shakes it in the red heads face but gets no response.

He watches him move across the room to turn on the record player. Old stuff they used to listen to when they were young. Stuff he still plays only when he’s alone.

“You really should try something this century” he snarks

“I like the old stuff” Tormund closes his eyes to the beat and smiles. “You remember how you used to write 3rd verses to some of these? You used to write the most beautiful lyrics”

“I don’t remember the words”

Tormund’s eyes sparkle a bit at that. Incredulous, challenging, and achingly blue. He lifts his chin to cover the lie and earns a laugh for his trouble.

“Stay, have dinner with me. I’ll sign when we are through”

“Really? Just like that? After all this trouble?”

“I’m not clever like your southern friends little crow, if I say I’m going to do something, I’ll do it”.

He bristles.

“I’m not your little crow anymore”

He wants it to hurt, but his opponent does not flinch. He simply takes a step closer and raises his hand to Jon’s face. Rough fingers glide across his cheek and cup his jaw while a thumb sweeps gently below his lower eyelid. He holds his breath. It takes everything he has to not lean into his touch. Tormund pulls back his thumb to reveal a bit of smudged black eyeliner and smiles. Jon rolls his eyes.

“Smells ready, let’s eat” he says as he sniffs the air and moves into the kitchen, leaving Jon alone in the living room.

He doesn’t need this, whatever this is. He gazes at the door. Go, just leave. The fire in the hearth crackles and he closes his eyes to the warmth. The front door is a million miles away.

He steps into the kitchen and finds the table piled high with food.

“Are you expecting an army?” he laughs.

“You used to eat nearly as much as me don’t you remember?”

“No one eats as much as you.”

He sits down slowly, and Tormund pours him a large glass of wine.

He runs his hands across the grain of the kitchen table. Beautiful, soft as silk. He catches Tormund looking at him with a grin and he grabs up the wine glass to have something to occupy his hands.

Tormund shoves a plate full of food at him and starts to tuck in. It smells amazing which is irritating.

“Since when do you cook anyway?

“Can’t survive on pizza and beer and expect to keep my girlish figure”, the redhead jokes, “I’m not 20 anymore”

Speak for himself. He could eat several thousand calories a day and still bounce quarters off his stomach. Still, whatever Tormund is or isn’t doing to his figure, its working.

“Phew, hot as hell in here with the oven on” Tormund stands to crack a few steamed-up windows, then peels off his trademark flannel. Jon’s eyes skate across wide shoulders. It is fucking hot in here.

He looks toward the front door, and Tormund follows his gaze.

“You’ve been here 5 minutes and you’re already itching to leave?”

He doesn’t respond. A glint catches his gaze. No fucking way.

“I can’t believe you are still wearing that” he points with the rim of his glass.

Tormund looks down at the gold band fastened tightly to his upper arm. A northern symbol of love and commitment.

“I’m still married. Where’s yours?”

He laughs. “I have no idea”

“You lie. You were always so sentimental about things like that”

“People change Tormund. I haven’t seen that band in ages”

Tormund smiles at him then piles more food into his face. No one else would have noticed, but Jon can see the hurt there. He holds it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

He pushes the tinge of regret from his mind and downs the wine in his cup.

He changes the subject. “So, how is the hardware store?”

“Oh, I can’t complain. Business has been good to me.”

“Must be. You can’t find quality craftsmanship like this down south.” His hands glide across the table again. The texture reminds him of freshly blown glass. “Must of cost you a fortune”

“Yes, a paid dearly for them”

Tormund is still inhaling his food. His mouth is starting to water. He really is starving. He tries to remember the last real sit-down meal he had and can’t. His resistance breaks and he brings a heavy fork to his lips. It tastes even better than it smells. Garlic and cloves tickle his taste buds as he tucks in. From the corner of his eye he sees Tormund smiling again but he doesn’t let it stop him. He listens to Tormund fill the silence with more trifles. He eats till he can’t breathe and finally pushes the plate forward. He doesn’t even realize when the man across the table stops talking.

“What?”

“I said, how are you?”

“Dandy”

“No really, I want to know.”

He sighs and grits his teeth. Now where is this going? “I don’t have to be here for this Tormund, just look me up in your favorite tabloid. Just Google me.”

“I’m not asking about the outfit you wore to the grammys, or how hot your latest fuck was crow. I want to know how your life has been”

He recoils. An unfamiliar twinge of guilt rises in his stomach. No, no way. He has nothing to feel guilty about. This was finished a long long time ago. He tamps down the flush at the base of his neck and grips the table a little harder.

“You don’t need to worry about me anymore Tormund. I’m a fucking household name.”

He leans back in his seat for effect. He’s a god damn rock star and he doesn’t owe anyone any explanations. Still, he can’t stop his own tongue.

“I have a mansion on the coast and this entire cabin would fit in my bedroom. My last 2 albums went platinum in a matter of days. I’m surrounded by thousands of screaming fans and I get everything I ask for.”

“And that knife to the chest, did you ask for that?”

Tormund had a gift for cutting to the quick. Timing always perfect, words like jagged glass.

He kicks his chair out and hisses “What do you know of it?”

Tormund throws his hands up. Eyes wide, regret clear and heavy on his face.

“I’m sorry crow, I didn’t mean it.”

“Fuck this” He can barely hear over the pounding in his ears. He makes to leave but Tormund throws an arm out in front of him.

“Wait, please wait.” His voice cracks a bit. “You said you’d have dinner with me”

“We had dinner” he pushes forward again.

Tormund stands too, “We haven’t had dessert”

He pauses.

“You made dessert?” His voice upticks, all sarcasm and surprise.

“I bought bourbon”

A laugh escapes his lips and the tension dies a bit. Moments later Tormund slides a tumbler into his hand, and he downs the first few swallows and shakes it for a refill. The red head ticks an eyebrow but obliges with another heavy pour.

They move back into the living room gingerly and Tormund throws another log on the fire. He’s full and tired and can feel the warmth from the bourbon spreading across his chest. He could fall asleep right here on his feet. His gaze falls back on Tormund who’s moving to the envelope near the entranceway. He pauses and starts feeling around his shirt pocket for a pen.

“What are you doing?”

Tormund looks a little surprised at the question. “I made you a deal. Dinner and then I’d sign”

“Really. After weeks of dodging my lawyer, burning papers, challenging interviews. After all that you are going to roll over and sign”

“I wanted to see you.”

Jon flashes his best “yah right” look and Tormund sighs deep.

“I wanted to see you, to see if there was still something between us. But since you’ve been here you’ve done your best to convince me otherwise. You’ve got one foot out the door, and you’ve…” He pauses for a minute and grits his teeth. He has his face turned and Jon wishes he could see his eyes.

“You’ve gotten rid of your band. I think you’ve made things perfectly clear for me. Maybe now I can move forward.”

“Move forward?” He tries to ignore the piercing pain in his gut.

“Ygs set me up a few times. I’ve had a few flings, but they’ve never really worked out. Can’t move on with someone when your past still haunts your dreams.”

He leans down to sign the papers and Jon is speaking before he knows what he’s saying.

“Don’t be an idiot. At least have your lawyer look them over. I could be taking you for all you’re worth”

Tormund snorts and stares at him for a long time. “Of course, you’re probably right” And he leaves the pen laying across the opened envelope.

He stares at the pen and thinks of Ed. He would fucking kill him if he had heard what he just said.

He watches as Tormund seems hesitant now, wringing his hands nervously. Jon sees the moment he makes up his mind. “Wait here a moment” he gestures to the living room before sliding down the hallway.

Nope. He hates waiting. He follows him and finds himself in what used to be Tormund’s parent’s room. But it’s different now. Cedarwood and spicy citrus waft from the en suite. There’s a heavy bearskin blanket across the four-post bed and the nightstand is filled with carving tools, half-melted candles and little stacks of old books. He finds Tormund reaching over the fireplace, face shadowed by embers from an earlier fire. Its cozy and far too intimate and he regrets following him in instantly.

“I didn’t realize this was your room now.” He turns to go back the way he came but Tormund stops him.

“You’re still my husband, aren’t you? I think you’re allowed in my bedroom”

Jon feels that flush he’s been holding back creep up his neck, but moves to inspect the box that the bigger man has pulled down for him. It’s covered in fine dust and when he opens it he finds a pile of his old things. Black eyeliner, because of course, and a smattering of cheap hair products. Some really terrible cologne. He really has no idea what his younger self was thinking. Rummaging around at the bottom he finds a leather-bound journal filled with lyrics and half-written melodies. The leather is soft in his hands and the sight of it has him choking back a sob. He had never gone anywhere without it. Inspiration would hit him and he’d pull it from his back pocket and scribble down all the pieces of his soul.

He had left it behind by mistake the day he packed his bags.

He leans against the bed and lifts his eyes to Tormund.

“Why didn’t you file for divorce when I left that day?”

Tormund seemed caught off guard by his question but manages a little shrug. Jon spots a rare bloom in his cheeks now.

“Because I thought you’d be back”

He laughs at that, completely surprised. “We fought all the time”

Tormund nods. “Yes, yes we did. And like all the times before, I thought you’d cool off and come home. I heard of your record signing and your first album and I was thrilled for you. I expected you to burst through that door and rub it in my face. I imagined we’d make up, like we always had.”

He should be embarrassed at the inference, but he smiles. He watches as Tormund gets misty and he thinks about how happy he was about that first album. How desperately he had wanted to call Tormund to tell him about it. He’d gone looking that night for something to fill the hole inside him, even the warmest blue eyes in the room hadn’t come close. He can still feel the ache there. Tormund keeps going.

“I saw you on TV at Yg’s bar a few months later, playing your first sold out stadium show. You looked so… I..” He clears his throat and Jon has to look away. Fuck, he has to get out of this room.

He lifts off the bed to go but stalls mid-stride. A familiar shape in the corner of the closet has his eyes nearly popping out of his skull.

Tormund follows his gaze. “Oh yes, I nearly forgot”

He pulls the guitar from the far edge of the closet and slides it into his shaking hands.

When the solid neck falls into his grip he is nearly overwhelmed with relief.

“I thought… I thought I destroyed this”

Tormund laughs. “You did! An impressive smash against the living room wall that day. True rock god in the making. I had the boys at the music shop repair it”

He needs better lighting. He rushes to the living room and slides down the wall across from the fireplace and begins to tune. A few twists and turns of the pegs and she sounds amazing. He runs excited fingers through the leather book and finds a familiar half-written melody. He loses himself in it. He vaguely notices Tormund drop into a nearby chair, hunk of wood and carving knife in hand. He doesn’t know how long they sit there. Hours maybe, it doesn’t really matter. He hums and occasionally jots down notes while Tormund whittles and taps his foot to the tune.

Something howls in the distance and he gets goose bumps. He rubs his arms and shifts a bit, ass numb from sitting too long on the hard wood floors. He sneaks a look at Tormund and finds he’s made serious progress on the simple wooden figure in his hands. A dog he thinks, or a wolf maybe. His fingers move with a steady, purposeful rhythm. He looks at Jon when he notices his strumming has stopped. In the fire light his eyes are sapphires. Were they always that blue? Of course, they fucking were, who’s the sap now? He leans forward a fraction.

“It’s late.” Tormund yawns. “Do you want to stay? I have the guest room made up”

He hates the suggestion, but he’s not completely sure why. He does know he’s full and weary and he definitely doesn’t feel like ubering it back to that shitty motel tonight.

It’s a terrible idea, really.

“Yeah” is all he can manage.

He wakes and finds the house empty. He stumbles into the kitchen just as the coffee begins to drip. Seems Tormund has remembered his propensity to sleep till early afternoon. A peak into the master bedroom and he spots a gold band abandoned on the nightstand. He stares at it for much too long.

The envelope near the door is gone, a small handwritten note in its place.

Jon, leave an address where I can send the papers. You don’t need to worry; I’ll be sure they go out to my lawyer today. There is a number for a taxi on the fridge, just in case. It really was amazing to see you. You know you are always welcome here. Always. Yours, Tor.

He gets himself dressed and reads the note again. He runs through an incredible range of emotions and ends up laughing at himself on the couch. How did he get into this mess?

His phone rings and he struggles to pull it from his front pocket.

“Well? Did he sign? Do you have the papers?”

He reads the note once more and sighs deep.

“He’s stubborn Ed but I’m not giving in. I’ll have them soon, don’t worry. I’ll meet you tomorrow at O’Hare for the show.

Ed is raging and he hangs up on him mid-stream.

He calls for an uber and asked the driver to detour through downtown. The sign on the hardware store says closed and he’s more than a bit confused now.

He makes it back to the motel but can’t bear to go inside and pack up. He leans heavy on a nearby picnic table and closes his eyes to the glaring sun.

“You have a phone call”

He very nearly falls off the table.

“What?”

“A phone call, at the office” the front desk kid grumbles, never lifting his eyes from his cell.

Who the fuck knows he’s here? He checks his own cell. Nothing but a few pissed off messages from Ed he’d ignored on the way over.

He slides off the table and follows the kid inside. He has no idea what to expect when he lifts the phone to his ear.

“Jon fucking Snow”

He’d know that voice anywhere. Same northern burr as Tormund, but much higher pitched. Sarcasm dripping, she could even put him to shame.

“What the fuck do you want Ygg?”

“I need you to come down here”

Ha. She’s gotta be kidding. He doesn’t know why he told Edd he was staying. Tormund was no where to be found and that was clear enough. He wasn’t spending one more moment in this fucking town.

“It’s Tormund, he’s drunk”

He covered the emotion in his voice with some sarcasm of his own. “Good for him. Not my problem”

“Snow”

“Ygg”

“I” she paused for a second, and he heard the subtle shift in her tone. “I haven’t seen him like this in a long while. I tried to get him a taxi but he just won’t let go”

“And no one can make him” he said as he stood leaning on the front desk, tapping the phone to his temple. I’m an idiot. I’m a god damn fucking fool. He breaths deep, then pushes every last drop of air from his lungs and shakes his head.

“I’ll be there in 10.”

Chapter Text

He groans as he clicks through the radio stations. Fuck it. It appears they are talking about him on every fucking channel. Some reporter trying to top all the others had gone and dug up an actual old high school friend of the couple. He hears a name he does vaguely remember, and groans again. They ask this old friend to describe the young pair all those years ago. She’s brief and polite. Says she doesn’t recall many details. She simply remembers two young men in love. One final sound bite on how sorry she was to have heard they didn’t make it. Which was apparently when she saw him stick his tongue down the throat of the hottest male supermodel on the MTV movie awards that year. Memories. Nevertheless, he thinks there’s something rather satisfying about what she remembers. They really had been, in love. Good friends for the first few years, they had officially gotten together Junior year and barely made it through graduation before they tied the knot. But their love had been less an everlasting flame and more a bonfire, burning hot and bright. He had left for good one cold night in early spring, about a month shy of their first-year anniversary.

He pulls his hot rod to the back of the bar and hopes no one will notice it there.

Ygritte’s Pub. Just the kind of run-down, hole in the wall establishment he would purposely seek out down south to drown his sorrows while hiding from paparazzi. The sun is still high in the sky when he enters the bar, and it takes his eyes several moments to adjust to the darkness.

A quick scan of the room puts him slightly at ease. Only a few locals have accumulated this early in the afternoon. He locks eyes with Yggrite and she flicks her head to the right. He follows it around the corner and spots Tormund at the far edge of the bar, loudly holding court with anyone that will listen.

He makes to walk to him but is stopped cold by a large figure in his path. A biker, heavy in leather and metal chains, slides off his stool and enters his personal space. Too close. Much too close. He can smell the booze emanating off his skin. He steps back and waits. Fuck. He’s used to bodyguards dealing with this kind of bullshit, but no one is coming now. He thinks about that night a few years back, and anxiety swells in his gut. He kisses his teeth and lifts his chin despite his nerves.

“Do you mind, I need to get through?”

“What’s the hurry sweetness? Pull up a chair, let me buy you a drink.”

“Not interested.” He steps forward but is blocked again.

“Of course, you’re interested. The man tuts, reaching out for him. Drunk and clumsy, he manages to catch on his belt and haul him in close. “Anyone coming in here dressed like that might as well be begging for it.”

Anxiety overwhelms him and hes flashing back to that epic LA show. He’s high on adrenaline and whatever Pyp had in his back pocket that night. A couple fans appear out of nowhere and get right up in his face. He pushes his unease aside and forces a smile; rock stars aren’t allowed boundaries. He leans in, but his ears are ringing from the amps so bad he can’t understand what they’re saying. He pulls a marker from his back pocket. There’s gotta be something he can sign to get these fuckers to back off a touch. Suddenly they are gone, and he would be relieved if he could breathe. He falls to his knees, but it does not help. The pain wrenches his well-earned high away and leaves only the cool taste of metal on his tongue. Clarity barrels over him when his eyes land on the knife buried deep in his chest. He tries to call out, but he can’t make a sound. He braces himself against the cold loneliness seeping in, and he thinks about Tormund.

Someone is screaming. It isn’t him. The next moment he’s back in Ygg’s bar and the biker’s on the floor at his feet. Biker boy is spitting blood from a rapidly swelling lower lip. It takes a second for his anxiety to ebb, and as it does a laugh escapes his lips. How absurdly small this biker looks now, lying flat on his back with a giant leaning over him. He realizes its Ygg that is yelling, but he can’t hear much over Tormund’s low-pitched growl. It reverberates through him, twisting and unfurling over his spine like a shield.

A few locals respond to Yggrite’s directions, lifting the bleeding biker and hauling his ass out of there.

Tormund turns to him, and like someone flipped a switch, he smiles. Muscles soften, arm slides up Jon’s shoulder to pat him on the back.

“Hi hi hi little crow,” he slurs. “I thought you were long gone. I’m happy you are here. You are just in time for a drink. Ygritte, SHOTS!”

He’s swaying and sloppy, but he follows along when Jon sets his feet and pulls him in the opposite direction.

“Nope, big man, you are cut off”.

“Don’t be silly Snow, the night is young!”

He ducks to avoid getting knocked over by the red head’s exuberant hand waving.

“Yes, so young its broad daylight still” he mocks, and pushes him toward the door.

He lifts his wallet toward Ygg and she waves him off.

“You two have fun” she bellows as he kicks the door open, Tormund leaning heavy on his shoulders. He scrunches his face at her as the door closes behind him.

Tormund is still mumbling in protest as he props him up against his car. There’s a flyer on his windshield so he grabs it and pushes it into Tormund’s hands to keep him busy.

“Oooooh, crow its for the Summer festival. FREE HOTDOGS?! We gotta go, we gotta go right now!”

“It’s not now Tor, its in a few weeks”. He slides the passenger seat as far back as it will go and sighs. They didn’t have northern giants in mind when they put this southern hot rod together.

“Free hotdogs. Man, I could really go for a hotdog right now crow”

He rolls his eyes and peels Tor from the windshield.

“OK, Tor get in”

Tormund laughs as he hangs his head low and peaks inside. “It’s so little!” he squeals. “I feel like my ass is gonna drag on the ground!”

“I’ll drag your ass, all the way home if you don’t get in!”

The big man is still laughing as he scrunches himself inside and begins playing with all the knobs and whistles within reach. He slaps his hand away when he makes zooming noises and tries to mess with the shifter.

This is ridiculous. This is fucking insane. Still, he cant help but laugh at the delighted sound Tormund makes when he pulls the car into a fast food joint and orders his favorite.

Several cheeseburgers later and Tormund is laying back and smiling at him in a happy drunken stupor.

“What are you staring at?”

“You’re so pretty” Tormund preens.

“You’re so drunk”

He looks ahead and tries to ignore Tormund’s affectionate gaze.

“Man this part of town has really gone to shit” he tries to change the subject.

“Yah” Tormund scrunches his nose and looks around a bit dazed. Jon is pretty sure he has no idea where they actually are. “It’s certainly not as pretty as your sweet southern neighborhood is it?”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “When have you ever been to my sweet southern anything?”

Tormund fell silent for so long he thought he might have fallen asleep.

“When I heard what they had done to you.”

His voice was cold as ice. He nearly runs off the road when he tries to look at Tormund’s face.

A horn blows behind him and he reflexively throws his middle finger out the window. Spinning the wheel like hes in fucking nascar, he pulls off the road, gravel flying, and glares at the passenger seat.

“When you... what?”

When he gets a clear look at him he see’s his face has gone white as a ghost. No sign of the drunken goofiness that was there moments before. He finally answers.

“I was home when Ygg came over and told me. It was all over the news, but you know, I don’t watch much TV.”

He’s flexing his hands into fists as he speaks. So tight Jon thinks he may draw his own blood. He shifts in his seat and leans a little closer. He see’s the big man is trembling now, but Tor won’t meet his eyes.

“I lost it, broke a few things, I don’t remember exactly. I just threw some stuff in a bag and went down there.”

“You. You went down south?” He tries to control the sarcasm in his voice. He fails.

“Yes!” Tormund snaps back, matching his exaggerated tone and finally looking at him. “Believe it or not crow but I went down there. Your precious south. I found that fucking hospital and barreled in there and told them who the fuck I was!” He starts to laugh then. A wild, ridiculous sort of laugh that does not match his sullen face. “Those fuckers wouldn’t let me near you. Can you imagine? ME! Claiming to be the husband of Jon fucking Snow. What a joke.” he trails off shaking his head. Jon watches as he leans the seat back a bit more and stares out the opposite window. The silence stretches on.

He finally finds his voice. “I’m sorry I…”, he takes a deep breath and keeps going. “You said you hated the south; I just didn’t believe you would go down there.”

“You almost died Jon”.

He almost died. It was true. He had realized that shortly after waking from his second surgery. Still, to hear Tormund say it chilled him to the bone. He can’t think of any words to say, so he pulls the car back onto the road and drives. He’s thankful when they reach the cabin.

He helps Tormund from the car and steers him toward his room in silence. The big man thumps down on the bed in a huff and starts to take off his shirt. It gets caught halfway over his head and he sighs and helps him peel it the rest of the way off. Tormund sits there unmoving, eyes closed, so he nudges him till he falls flat on his pillow and throws a large comforter over his body. He clicks the bedside light off and moves to the door.

“I should have been there” Tormund sighs and begins to softly snore.

Jon stands in the darkened room for a long while, listening to his heavy breathing. He recalls once more the very worst day of his life. He had passed out on the cold concrete and woken up in a hospital room. People had fluttered in and out. Reporters looking for their sound bites, paparazzi desperate for their photos. His doctor had told him that he needed a second surgery, that it was risky, that they would do all they could. The world held its breath, worried that his injury would be career-ending. He would have given the world for a single person who worried HE might not wake up again.

Back in the living room he fashions a fire and sits at the front table rubbing his temples. It had been a long day. Shifting in his seat, he knocks over Tormund’s jacket. When he scoops it up an envelope falls from the inside pocket. On the front was the name of a local law firm. Inside he finds the divorce papers. Tormund had had them signed that morning just as he said he would.

This whole thing was a damn mistake. He finally has what he came for. He’s fine. Better than fine. He’s as single and free as he always believed himself to be. All he needed was to head back to his band, down a few hundred bottles of bourbon, and put this whole miserable weekend out of his mind. Tormund’s little day drinking escapades were over, and so were any obligations Jon may have to stay a single minute more.

His phone rings. It’s Ed of course, it’s always Ed. He’s worried that Jon is waiting till tomorrow. He can book him a private flight now, send someone to fetch his car. He can be in the windy city in just a few hours, ready for the show tomorrow night. His favorite hotel, room service, whatever warm company he wants.

He fucking loves room service. He feels so alone he could scream.

He lies.

When he hangs up he has Ed believing he’s sick. Crappy northern food has poisoned him. Send someone for the car tomorrow, he’ll rest at the motel and be on the plane in plenty of time for the show. Papers in hand.

He really has lost his mind.

He startles awake. He had fallen asleep in the chair for at least a few hours and the crick in his neck was massive. He stands stretching, tries to rub the pain away, and catches a glimpse of a beautiful sunset disappearing behind the trees out back. He makes his way to the back porch and is surprised to find Tormund has extended it. It wraps completely around the cabin now and its lined with lots of big comfy chairs and one very inviting looking porch swing.

He sits slowly and sways a bit, testing out the swing. Again, he admires the craftsmanship. Whomever Tormund is getting these pieces from is incredibly talented. He runs his hands across the back and stops when he feels a strange etching in the wood. It only takes a few moments for him to realize, and his stomach hits the floor. He doesn’t have to look any closer, he would know those letters in complete darkness. JS + TG.

Fuck.

He knows the carving is of his own hand. It’s a bit sloppy and uneven, Tormund would have been much steadier with the blade. It had come from one of the older trees on the property line. One Tormund must have culled to finish this very porch. Jon had etched into it the night his father had found out about the two of them. Needless to say, he wasn’t pleased, and Jon had the bruises to prove it. He had run to the cabin as soon as he could sneak out of the house, and Tormund had promised no one would ever touch him again. Of course, it was a ridiculous promise. No one can keep anyone safe in this shit world. Still, he made the etching and fell asleep in Tormund’s arms that night and had foolishly believed. He had gone to live with his uncle and cousins after that, and they had treated him well enough. Still, Tormund’s arms remained the only place he had ever truly felt safe. To this damn day.

Something in the woods broke him of his reminiscing. He may have missed it, if not for the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. He gets up slowly, squinting into the woods where only the last few rays of day remain. He thinks he imagines them at first. But moments later he catches them again.
Red eyes.

They move a little closer to him and he thinks perhaps he should be afraid. But a strange calm washes over him. A warm, peaceful sensation that caresses his wearied soul. A few steps forward and he realizes what he’s looking at. A wolf. A pup really. White as the late summer snows with fiery red eyes that seem to see right through him. He’s crouching down, like a damned fool. Reaching out. The pup’s nose is only inches from his outstretched fingers when its ears prick, and it bolts back to the trees from which it came.

“I’ve been trying to coax that pup in for weeks.”

The voice startles him from the trance. He looks up to find Tormund smiling at him from the screen door. His eyes are mostly clear, and Jon secretly wishes he too could recover from day drinking that quickly.

“Figures he’d come to you Crow, you always had a knack for charming beasts.”

He smirks at the implication and eases himself back down on the swing as Tormund opens the screen door and joins him outside.

“Nice nap?” he questions, with all the snark he can muster.

“No,” Tor answers simply. “Bad dreams”

He nods knowingly and sets his gaze back to the dark woods. With the sun finally gone an evening chill is creeping in, and he absently rubs the goosebumps from his arms.

“You’re still here” Tormund questions.

“I’m still here” he repeats back with more snark. He wonders if Tormund was hoping he’d be gone by now?

“Why are you still here?” Tormund presses.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, I don’t want you to go.”

He’s not convinced.

“Look, if me staying here is an inconvenience I’ll just… “

Tormund cuts him off. “I’d never ask you to go. I …”

“No!" He growls through his teeth. "Now you’re just being fucking polite. Give me a second and I’ll grab my shit and hit the road”.

He makes for the screen door but is stopped by Tormund’s outstretched arm.

“I’ve burned for you for so long… don’t you know that?”

The statement is one thing. The way Tormund says it is another. His heart launches into his throat and he’s suddenly much too aware of the heat radiating off the man in front of him. His eyes skate across worn down flannel, barely concealing muscles he shouldn’t be thinking about. He finds blue eyes and recognizes the longing there. Those damn blue eyes.

“So no, I don’t want you to go” Tormund continues, dropping his arm in defeat.

He should be grabbing his things. He should be slamming the door. He should be.

Instead, he pressed tight against that barreled chest. Arms wrap around that impossibly thick neck and tug until he pulls Tor down into a bruising kiss. The bigger man shutters a moment in surprise, then melts into him. Tense muscles uncoil, relaxing under his fingertips. Any fear he had about making the first move vanishes when Tormund moans into his mouth and holds him tighter. Nearly all the air in his lungs is gone but he doesn’t care. There are worse ways to go.

“This is a once off, for old times’ sake,” he warns, emphasizing each word, convincing himself. “I fly to Chicago in the morning”

Tormund buries one hand deep into his dark curls and pulls back hard, exposing his throat. The sound that escapes his lips in response is so needy he can feel his own ears redden.

“No time to waste then” Tor growls, teeth connecting with the sensitive skin there, dragging a litany of curses from Jon’s lips.

He throws a hand against the edge of the house to steady himself and hears Tormund whisper in his ear.

“I got you little crow”

Mouth still hot on his neck, he lifts him effortlessly, coaxing his legs around his waist. Tormund opens the screen door and moves down the hall and into the darkened bedroom without breaking a sweat, and it’s insanely hot that he can carry him like this.

His back hits the mattress but he keeps his legs locked tightly around his waist, pulling Tormund down on top of him. The solid weight pressing him into the bed makes his head swim. He gasps for breath when Tormund finally breaks from his lips, lifting off his stomach and massaging the thighs still clinging tightly to him. He reaches down and hauls Jon up and into his lap, burying his face into his neck and kissing down his throat.

Tormund was always the more dominant in bed. But cocky youth has been replaced with a sexy, deliberate confidence that literally makes Jon’s jaw ache. During many a blacked-out weekend, if he ends up with a man, he usually tops because even though his bisexuality isn’t a secret, its hard to let himself want what he wants. The thought of giving up a single ounce of control to someone who might post the encounter on Tiktok the next morning is more than he can stomach.

It hits him all at once then. A cool rush of unfamiliar comfort. The lightness in his chest where some unseen weight has lifted. He’s safe here. The safest he’ll ever be. He closes his eyes tight and holds back a sob. He’s gotta speed this up before he actually starts crying in bed like a lunatic.

He squirms in Tormund’s lap, leaning back just far enough to sweep both their shirts over their heads. Straddling him again, he begins to shift his hips deliberately. He moans low in Tormund’s ear, an old trick he could never forget, and smiles when he feels Tormund’s breath hitch and his grip on his ass tighten.

“I see some things haven’t changed.” The redhead grumbles. “Still needy, impatient…”

“And you’re slower than molasses in Wintertown. Have you lost a step old man?”

Tormund huffs and scoops him up once more, planting his back firmly on the mattress and gliding big hands to the top button of his jeans. He’s breathing hard now after Jon’s playful challenge. His grip flexes purposefully across his waistband, but his hands move no further down. Jon finds blue eyes glued to his, head tilted in a familiar way. Waiting. And Jon knows oceans would dry up before he’d move forward without permission.

He swallows down another sob and wonders if he’s making a mistake. This was feeling less like ‘old times sake’ and more like…

“Crow?”

Tormund’s eyes look worried. When he doesn’t answer he feels his grip loosen. He starts to pull away until Jon grabs his hands and holds them there. He nods his consent.

Another switch, and Tormund lights up again, eyes like blue flame. He pulls at his waistband a few times and then lets go snickering. Jon flashes his best ‘fuck you’ smile while it takes two of them to peel his jeans off. Laughter dies when bodies collide again. He feels his thighs muscled apart, Tormund’s knee pressed heavy against him, the friction like tiny firecrackers across his spine.

Tormund’s mouth is everywhere, goose bumps roll up and down his arms. He hums his approval as the red head presses kisses down his throat and across his chest. When lips land just below his heart all movement stops, and a bolt of self-consciousness hurtles through him. Tormund leans up and kisses him then, long and deep. Then he moves back down to press worshiping kisses to his scarred skin. Its too much, and not enough. He wants to run out the damn door. He wants to stay here, in this bed forever. Fuck. He needs a release before his brain explodes.

He starts to squirm again.

“Tormund, I need…”

“Tell me what you need” Tor rumbles back instantaneously. Almost as fast as Jon regrets saying it.

Dammit. Like it’s that easy. Sex was never their problem after all. Each one igniting the other, passion fanning flames till they burned white hot. It was the fact that they were both absolute shit at telling each other what they needed.

Sometimes it was nothing. Tormund telling him to come to bed when he was up late frantically trying to scribble down a song that kept rolling around in his brain. He had thought Tor had grown tired of his manic, I wanna be a rockstar bullshit. It never occurred to him till much later, in a bourbon-fueled 48 hour bender, that perhaps Tormund simply couldn’t sleep well without him by his side. He had blamed a bad high that night for tossing everyone out on their asses at 3AM so he could cry alone in the shower.

Sometimes it was everything. Jon moving through the cabin, haphazardly throwing things in his bag as Tormund sat motionless on the bed. Neither of them spoke, and he left that night without ever looking back. How many times did he lay in bed thinking he might have stayed, if Tormund had asked him to.

This has definitely blown right past ‘old times sake’.

“Just…just fuck me” he growls, sliding onto his side just a fraction and biting his lip.

Tormund eyes go a little dark, as he watches Jon’s tongue dart out. He throws a little rockstar smirk in for good measure and Tormund snaps.

“Yes, my king” he rumbles, flipping Jon with ease and pressing a few kisses to the base of his spine as he rummages desperately in his nightstand.

He’s just about to bitch again about how slow he’s moving when he feels the palm of Tormund’s left hand press hard between his shoulder blades, grounding him. Slick fingers slide in slowly and stretch, and his head empties as he wraps himself around the burn. His body arches involuntarily when Tormund skillfully finds the perfect angle. A third finger has him panting, but its not enough, not nearly enough. He presses back hard against Tormund’s hand, signaling he’s ready for more. He can feel Tormund smirking behind him. To his credit, he doesn’t ask Jon what he needs a second time.

White hot lightning courses through him when Tormund presses himself in.

“Torrrrr” he rattles out as the bigger man leans into him. Torturously slow, inch by inch, until his hips are pressed flush against his ass.

“I have you crow” he whispers, and Jon believes.

Big hands cling tightly to Jon’s hips as he waits there unmoving. He watches Tormund’s nostrils flare as he holds, desperately trying to give Jon time to adjust.

He holds so long Jon thinks he may literally explode with need. Until finally, gloriously, he starts to shift back and forth. The burn is still nearly overwhelming, but its gradually replaced by pleasure as he focuses on Tormund’s whispers of adoration in his ear. Tormund slides both hands under his stomach and lifts him to his knees. A litany of curses spill from his lips at the new angle. One arm wraps possessively across his chest, pressing him firmly against his body. And Jon thinks about the mirror on the ceiling of his own bedroom, how he’d like to see Tormund’s muscled chest reflected in it. Pressure builds at the base of his spine and begins to creep upward embarrassingly quickly. He thinks he may not be alone, when he feels Tormund’s hips begin to stutter off pace. He reaches up and grabs a handful of Tormund’s hair, pulling him in to a desperate kiss, all tongue and teeth. They shatter over the edge together, mouths pulling apparent only to helplessly chant each other’s names.

His knees are shaking badly, he would literally collapse if Tormund wasn’t holding him up. A few more soft kisses to his neck as Tormund eases them both down to the bed once more. A deep, satisfying calm settles over him like a blanket, and in a very non-rockstar style, he lets himself be tucked into Tormund’s chest before sleep takes him.

Chapter Text

Crisp morning air fills his lungs as he moves through the tree line. He can smell him before he sees him, a mix of cedar and smoke, comforting but still foreign. His eyes travel over him, leaning heavily against the fallen trees, head hung low. He hasn’t noticed him yet. He paws the ground and watches his head snap up. Eyes rimmed red, like his own. Not broken, but shattered, the man speaks but makes no sense. He inches forward, straining to comprehend. The man growls, lowering his head into his hands. He aches.

Jon wakes with a start as the flight attendant gently shakes his shoulder.

“Mr Snow, we’ll be landing in Chicago in a few minutes. Is there anything I can get you?”

Yes, he needs something. Something to dull the ache that’s settled firmly behind his eyes. He shakes his head, the smell of pine in his nostrils so real he can taste it on his tongue.

“Coffee.” He manages. “Please, keep it coming”

He sits in a makeup chair while a blinged-out makeup artist with bright purple hair applies ridiculous amounts of guyliner across his lids. He’s too old for this shit isn’t he? He flinches when the trailer door opens and the raucous screams of his adoring fan club bellow into the trailer before the door is slammed closed again.

“Fuck, it's good to see you man” Ed pats him hard on the back causing the makeup lady to swear under her breath and huff at him.

“Man you had me worried. How was your trip? Got those papers all signed so we can finally put this nightmare behind us?”

Jon flinches at the word nightmare but recovers quickly.

“Tormund is sending the papers, they should be with our lawyer any day now”. He lies. The papers are currently burning a hole in the bottom of his travel bag.

“Dude, you’ve got to be joking! I thought you were going to take care of this?”

“Chill Ed. Tormund doesn’t lie. The papers will be here if he says he’s sending them.”

He lifts from the chair and throws the makeup towels that were surrounding him on the counter signifying he’s had enough. The make-up lady opens her mouth to complain but Ed waves her off.

“Alright man, alright. I’m sure it's all gonna work out. What do you need? A drink? A smoke? You’re on in 30 and the boys are looking for you”

He reaches down and pulls his Martin into his lap. It was the first thing he had bought himself when he finally hit it big. And when he had first run his fingers across it, it had felt like a promise and a prayer. To this day, the weight in his hands is a tether, a link to the happiness he felt when this was all grand and new. A time full of possibilities, when the thought of going through it all utterly alone had never even crossed his mind.

“Yeah, I’ll be ready. I’m always ready” He starts strumming out a lazy tune and doesn’t chance another look in Ed’s direction. He’s got to keep his shit together tonight. He hears Ed leave and relaxes into the silence of his trailer.

He’s entirely sober, forgoing his normal pre-show high for some not entirely clear reason, and he feels his anxiety teetering on the edge. He waved off at least 3 incredibly attractive groupies on his way into his trailer this afternoon, and the reason for that IS entirely clear. And fucking ridiculous. He laughs at himself. Sober and celibate? What a joke.

He calls Tormund.

“I forgot my journal.” He says it as a matter-a-factly as possible, in a tone suggesting it was somehow Tormund’s fault.

“Right, ok. Tormund’s voice wavers for a second and then he clears his throat. Jon thinks he sounds a little tipsy but the background silence means he’s forgone Yg’s bar, for now at least.

It’s hard to believe just hours ago he had awoken plastered to Tormund’s chest. Sweet solid warmth seeping into his very bones. Dawn light had flooded the bedroom much earlier than he would have liked, and the redhead had kissed him then. Kissed him like they were still married.

“Do you want me to mail it to you?” Tormund continues.

“No” he grumbles.

Maybe he does need something stronger than coffee to take the edge off tonight. Sobriety stings. He holds the phone against his shoulder and slides his guitar case over with his foot, fumbling with the pick compartment and rummaging through it for any left-over secret stash.

“I can send it to you today” Tormund offers again.

“I said you didn’t have to” He huffs his frustration, digging some more. His fingers ghost across a familiar object and he stops, eyes widening.

Fuck.

It’s here. Of course, it is. Tucked in amongst spare strings and his favorite picks, so familiar it doesn’t register anymore. How many times must his eyes have traveled over it, pretending it wasn’t there. He pulls the metal band out and rubs his fingers across the silver finish. A familiar date shone through the thin coat of dust.

“Jon?”

He slides the sleeve of his T-shirt up and hooks it across his arm. Still fits.

“Jon, are you ok?”

Jon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Tor, I didn’t get rid of my wedding band. I just, I just needed you to know.”

Tormund is silent on the line for a long time.

“I’ll keep the journal here. Maybe you can visit again” the uptick in Tormund’s hopeful voice makes his stupid heart clench.

“Sure. Maybe.” He shakes the cobwebs from his head angrily. He really must be in love with the pain. “Just, I wouldn’t hold your breath”

He exhales and ends the call. He tucks the Martin in close to his chest and strums an old familiar tune.

Out there in the spotlight, you’re a million miles away.
Every ounce of energy, you try and give away.
As the sweat pours out your body, like the music that you play.
Later in the evening, as you lie awake in bed.
With the echoes of the amplifiers ringin in your head.
You smoke the days last cigarette, rememberin what he said.
What he said.

Three more shows and his summer obligations finally end. When the tour finishes, Jon announces he's taking a few months off and no one really complains. Ed’s busy setting up his newest record deal. Gren met a girl and she could be the one, imagine that. He’s taking her home to his family’s farm to meet the folks. Pyp has started to record his own music, with Jon’s blessing he hopes to frontman his own band one day.

Jon hasn’t been to his family’s home since his father’s death. The thought of returning to that house makes his stomach sink. But he’s put off making some of the final arrangements for too long now. He doesn’t call Tormund. There’s no reason they would run into each other if he kept to the older part of town. He has the papers, and he’ll send them to his lawyer when he gets a free moment. There’s nothing more he needs from him.

His hands run over the cool stone archway as he passes over the threshold of his family’s estate. He had paid a maintenance company to come ahead of him and drag out whatever life could be pulled from these old stones. They had done a decent job ridding the place of the inches of dust and grime that likely accumulated in his absence. A fire blazes in the main hall but a familiar cold settles over him as he moves through the house. This place had never been warm. And even with his father’s death, it will never be his. He had found some comfort at his uncles for a time, but the only real peace he had known was miles across town… deep in the woods.

Moving upstairs, he finds his old room mostly untouched. Minimalist was a generous word for the space. He hadn’t been allowed to paint his walls a nice teenage angsty black or cover them with posters of his favorite musicians. Self-expression, individualism, were sins of the highest order where his father was concerned. He runs his thumb across his freshly painted nails, black as coal, and smiles a bit. If his dad could see him now.

He lays on his old bed and stares out the window as he had done a million times before. When they were together, Tormund and he had never spent much time in this house. Still, on the rare occasion, his father would have business abroad, Tormund would sneak over and keep him warm amid these bitterly cold stones. He can feel his back pressed warm against a teenage Tormund’s chest. Strong arms wrapped around him, fingers running softly through his dark curls. He's teasing the giant about his feet hanging clear off Jon's bed, and Tormund whispers something much less innocent in his ear. He shudders at the memory. He shifts when he catches something out of the corner of his eye. Its moving across the field surrounding the estate, but its much too dark to make out. He shakes his head, tamping down the sudden ache in his chest and pulls himself up.

He’ laying in his childhood bedroom, wallowing. Pathetic.

It’s time to sell, he knows this. But he’s not sure he has the strength or the will to completely let go of this place. Once the house is gone, he’ll truly have no more ties. Untethered.

“For the best” he whispers to the empty room. He listens but receives no reply. A draft skitters across his skin and he shivers again. How had he forgotten how lonely this place was?

He makes a few calls, sets up a few appointments. It won’t hurt to discuss his options with a local realtor at the very least. It’s all he’s got in him today, and he sets off down the road to the closest bar he knows of.

He pulls up to the front around 7oclock and finds it fucking closed. Stupid small-town bullshit. He scoots a little further across town to the next bar. Lights off, parking lot empty. What the actual fuck? Its not the big city, but last he checked, it was still Saturday night. He can’t go any further across town or he’ll run into… familiar faces. He sighs. Lingering for a minute, battling with himself. He squints at the handwritten sign splashed across the front door.

“Closed for Winterfell Summerfest”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He knows it doesn’t matter where he heads to next, the entire town will be closed down. Every bar. Every supermarket. Every liquor store. He's desperate to quench the burn he feels rising in his veins. But how desperate? After a solid 5 minutes of milling about, he points his car toward the main street and sighs again. Pretty damn desperate it would seem.

“Hey mister. Can I get your autograph?”

Jon smirks at the familiar voice and slinks out of the shadows he has been clinging to. He makes his way up to the make-shift beer garden in the center of an open air barn that hosts nearly all the main events in downtown since the beginning of time. Though the barn is full of people, the beer garden is pretty empty, and he saddles up onto a nearby stool, keeping his hood up and shades on.

“What are you doing here Snow?” Yg asks, wiping the bar in front of him.

“Apparently, this is the only place to get a drink in this godforsaken town”

“Ha!” she smacks a small hand on the bar top making him flinch. “Yes, it is your highness. This weekend at least.”

Someone else approaches from behind and Jon tenses. When the man reaches the bar he locks eyes with him, and Jon notes the recognition there. He flinches again, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of selfie requests and social media updates pinging his location. It won’t take long before he’ll be swarmed and he just needs a damn drink.

The man gazes at him a while in awe, then Jon sees something shift in his expression. He turns from Jon quickly, fixing his eyes on Ygritte and orders a beer in a gruff tone. She moves around the bar to comply, but the stranger's eyes stay locked on her unnaturally. Likes he’s trying desperately not to catch Jon’s gaze again. She slides the beer across the bar and he mumbles a quick thanks, leaves a $10 and skips out of there like lightning without waiting for the change. Jon watches him leave just a tad confused.

He could have sworn he was recognized. Maybe he should pack it up and head out anyway. This was probably a bad idea.

“Don’t worry” Ygritte throws a hand over his as he starts to get up.

“Last time you were in town Tormund told everyone to leave you be.”

He laughs incredulously at that, “Ya right”

Yg’s face turns serious. “No really, he threatened to beat the shit out of the entire town if they messed with you. No one is to bother you in any way or there will be hell to pay. Believe me,” She laughs a bit and shakes her head knowingly. “Rock god or not. No one is gonna press their luck for an autograph tonight Snow”.

Jon can feel his face flush. It's suddenly very warm in this huge airy barn. With the risk clearly negated a bit, he peels off his hoodie to try and cool down.

“Are you still married?” she asks with a smirk as she slides a freshly poured bourbon into his hands.

The question surprises him and he turns on his deflective charm.

“Why? Thinking of asking me out Yg?” He downs the drink and shoots her his patented rock god smirk. Waggling his eyebrows at her for good measure.

“Maybe if you weren’t wearing a wedding band.” She quips back, a wolfish smile spreading wide across her face as his own eyes land on the silver band still wrapped around his arm. He hadn’t taken it off since he’d found it.

He’s generally pretty good a lying, but he can only hum in response.

“Are you sure you only stumbled down here tonight looking for a drink?”

He opens his mouth to protest. He had tried to go to a nearby bar or three to drown his sorrows! He had no idea this shit was even happening tonight!

Except, he did. He thinks on the flyers that had been plastered all over his motel room during his last visit. He had pressed one into Tormund’s hands to distract his drunk ass only a few weeks ago. He knew Winterfell’s end of summer party was tonight. He knew who would be here.

He huffs and fidgets with the empty glass to hide his trembling hands.

Yg’s smile dies a bit.

“Maybe have another bourbon…” She says, pouring him another without waiting for his response, “and take a walk around?” She tilts her head toward the main part of the barn. “Plenty of new jewelry and guyliner at the sales tables for that pretty mug of yours”.

She kisses her teeth as he rolls his eyes at her. She keeps pushing.

“There’s even a kiddie battle of the bands starting up soon. Might be a chance for you to finally get some fresh material. That last album of yours was so 10 years ago Snow.”

Her smile is all teeth, and he can’t help but laugh at the jab.

“Take it easy Yg” he sighs, grabbing up his fresh pour, and tentatively sliding toward the shopping crowd.

He moves from sale table to sale table, occasionally picking up any clothing or hand-crafted jewelry that catches his fancy. He feels many eyes settle on him, but as he connects with them, each one abruptly shifts away. It’s definitely NOT nonchalant, and he has to school his own face to keep from laughing. He moves through the crowd in a tiny Tormund-made bubble, and no one approaches.

He feels lighter than he has in years.

He comes across a particularly beautiful oaken table, stacked high with wooden trinkets and carvings. The name of the business is unfamiliar, but he lingers as he takes in the logo. It’s a small black bird. A crow, if he’s not mistaken. Its head is thrown back like a phoenix, wings spread high and wide across a fiery backdrop. The surrounding flames may have felt unsettling, such a tiny soul against such a hopeless scene. But the artist was careful in his depiction, and the flames felt less like doom and more like the tendrils of a new life. Reborn from the ashes, kissed by fire. He smiles.

His attention is drawn away by a steady drumbeat coming from a makeshift stage nearby. The local battle of the bands had started up and he drifts closer to the sound to check things out.

The kids are young, maybe 14 or 15 at most. Long hair and store-bought torn jeans. Terrible makeshift mohawks dyed Kool-Aid red and blue. He smiles again. They haven’t started their set yet, but they are all buzzing with anticipation, and he remembers feeling that unbridled excitement and joy.

He feels something bump his hip and looks down to find a younger boy at his side. He doesn’t say anything; just lifts a guitar up toward Jon’s chest and smiles. Jon glances around in confusion only to spot another man watching a few feet away. He must be the boy’s father, and when he locks eyes with him, Jon can tell he’s nervously clenching his jaw. Jon laughs and marvels at the respect and, well, fear that Tormund must command around in this town. He nods at the dad and gives him a little wave to ease his nerves. Then accepts the offered strings from the boy. He reaches into his pocket for a marker to sign it and the kid steps closer, shakes his tiny head and pushes the guitar a bit closer to Jon, asking for a tune without asking. Jon starts to protest but the kid gives him his brightest smile and he can’t find it in his heart to refuse.

He peaks around a bit and finds no one is really paying attention. It’s certainly noisy enough in this barn to go mostly unnoticed. He could play a few chords, sign something for the kid and then be on his way without much fuss. He accepts wordlessly, a small nod in the boys direction, and laughs when he’s met with an excited little fist pump and a stool to lean on.

He tucks the guitar into his lap and thinks about his last album and what song this kid would likely want to hear. He lets his fingers walk a bit, strumming a tune he doesn’t completely recognize. Muscle memory urges him forward and when he opens his mouth to sing he realizes it’s one of his old songs. One from the little leather notebook Tormund had saved for him all these years. He can’t quite remember the words, and then he can. And he’s belting out a 10-year-old love song in the middle of Winterfell’s summer festival.

It’s a song for Tormund. Back then, they all were.

He finishes and silence surrounds him, unnatural silence. His eyes creep open and he finds the entirety of the room focused squarely on him, unmoving. Embarrassment begins to well up within him. This isn’t exactly the type of music he’s known for, and he feels utterly exposed without the rock god bravado he brings on stage each night. Then, the little boy in front of him jumps in delight and begins to clap. The entire town follows, applause erupting from every direction.

His cheeks are red hot as he signs the guitar and hands it back to the boy with a sheepish grin. A murmur goes through the crowd and a path begins to part in front of him like the red sea. Hundreds of eyes shift toward the path and then shift away abruptly. Sneakers scuff, backs turn, and Jon is suddenly safe in his bubble once more.

He notes a single pair of eyes on the path brave enough to fully take him in.

“Subtle crow. Flying well under the radar I see” Tormund smirks as he reaches Jon near the stage.

“Yes well. My charm simply cannot be contained”

“Clearly.” Tormund laughs gesturing at all the people listening but NOT listening.

“Tough crowd” Jon jokes, “Your doing?”

“Yes, well. I have charms of my own” Tormund answers, and they both laugh.

“Didn’t think I’d…” Tormund starts, stops, and starts again. “Didn’t expect you here tonight crow”

“I do as I please” he tries to sound indifferent and fails.

Tormund hums, a familiar smirk sliding onto his face. “And what pleases you tonight crow?”

Jon falters under his gaze but recovers quickly.

“Some music” he gestures to the stage as the band finally gets underway. “And perhaps a refill?” he finishes, wiggling his glass and coaxing another smile from Tormunds lips.

“Aye. I think we can manage that”

They listen to the kids play for a long while. A few old friends find them, and fresh rounds are poured and ridiculous stories are recounted. He warms every time Tormund belly laughs or slaps him lightly on the back. It’s simple, and its easy. And although he’d never admit it, it's one of the best nights he’s had in years.

It’s fairly late, and the festival is clearly winding down. Tormund says goodbye to another acquaintance and turns to him.

“Will you continue to hold court or would King crow like a ride home?”

“Home.” He says without thinking. “Please.”

Tormund's smile is blinding.

When they make it outside to the parking lot he just has to laugh again. Tormund reaches for the handle of what has to be the same old beat-up pickup truck he’d been building and rebuilding since they first met. Some things never change.

“What?” Tormund huffs at his laugh. “They don’t make ‘em like they used to”

Jon nods and buckles in, watching Tormund closely as he fires up the truck and pulls out onto the main street. He reaches the town's main stop sign and idles there a bit. A left will take him back to his father’s estate, but a right…

“Home” Tormund sighs just under his breath.

He watches as a flicker of anxiety washes across Tormund’s face, his hand taps nervously on the shifter between them. His blue eyes shine in the radio's dim light and Jon can see when he finally makes up his mind. He turns the wheel to the right, laying down hard on the gas as he sets his sights toward the cabin.

Jon doesn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The silence is comfortable. Even as they pull up to the cabin and make their way across the threshold, neither of them speaks. On que, Tormund heads for the fireplace, stoking the embers till its crackling and roaring back to life. He watches, milling about, hands firmly in his pockets.

“Hungry?” Tormund questions “I have some leftovers in the…” But he stops when Jon waves him off kindly. He slides into the kitchen and out of site for a moment, and Jon turns his attention to an end table where some carving tools lay scattered about.

He picks up a small totem and recognizes it as the one Tormund had been carving when he was last here. Its nearly finished now, and its breathtaking. A wolf standing proudly on a rocky pedestal, head raised as if howling into the wind. Its frame is adorned with smaller forest etchings, trees and streams and mountains. Jon runs his hands across it in awe. He smiles as he remembers soft white fur and haunting red eyes. His soul aches for something he can’t quite place.

“It’s for you crow”

Jon snaps out of the daydream, and when he realizes what he’s suggesting, he immediately protests.

“Oh no, I couldn’t. It’s really amazing Tormund.” He runs his fingers across it one last time and sets it back down. “It belongs here with you.”

“As do you.” Tormund whispers.

He blinks at the sudden shift in conversation, but Tormund continues, sliding a glass of bourbon into his hand and moving to lift the totem and examine it for himself.

“Every night since you left, he’s come looking for you.” He says it while gesturing to the carving and then to the woods beyond the back porch. “Before, I’d only catch a glimpse of white fur when the moon was full. But now every night he slinks in close, nearly to the porch steps, and stares at me with those haunting eyes. And I know he’s not here for me.”

Tormund takes a large swig of his own bourbon and continues.

“I tell him you’ve gone. I tell him you’ve this whole new amazing life to lead and you aren’t coming back. But I’m afraid he’s just as stubborn as you little crow.” He laughs then, downing the rest of his bourbon and plunking the glass down on the end table as he settles himself onto the couch.

“And now, every night I’m afraid. Terrified in fact, that one day the moon will rise and he won’t come. He won’t come looking because he knows what I already know deep down. That you deserve better than this place. That you’ve decided there’s nothing here for you.”

His eyes have glazed over a little and he picks up his empty glass again to try and stop his hands from shaking.

Jon is frozen in place. He’s been holding his own glass to his lips but hasn’t taken a swallow. Hasn’t breathed since Tormund starting speaking. He can feel his soul pulling in opposite directions.

Half of him wants to agree. He has a different life, one he fought desperately for. He’s got dreams he still hasn’t reached, and if he stays here he’s afraid. Afraid he’ll lose the freedom that only comes from doing what he loves on the road. Afraid he’ll be nothing, exactly what his father said he’d be.

But the other half. The other half of him buzzes with need. Thrums from the passion he felt last time he was in Tormund’s bed. Waking completely whole, in the peace and comfort only this quiet northern life can afford. That half wants to climb into Tormund’s lap and kiss the pain right off his face.

He’s held his breath too long. He has to say something.

“Our lives are… complicated.” He breaths out. “Too complicated. I live in a different world now Tor. We signed the divorce papers”.

“And yet, you’re still wearing your band.”

Jon’s eyes travel to his own forearm once more. The silver he finds there is untarnished, unchanged. Tormund gets up from the couch and moves toward him. The look he’s giving him locks his knees, but he manages not to fall. Tormund slides his hands up his forearms to steady him, caressing the band with this thumb without taking his eyes from Jon’s.

“When you left a few weeks ago I let my heart shatter properly. Thought I had resigned myself to the fact that this was well and truly over. But when you called that night, talked about this band, told me not to hold my breath, I knew. I knew no matter how much it hurt, no matter how long, I’ll never be able to let you go.

“It’s been 10 years Tormund.” He lets his eyes fall, shaking his head. “You and I, we know each other less than we did when we were first married. Northern, southern. Rockstar, small-town nobody. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Who I want to be. How can you be sure you want this… that you want me?”

Tormund sighs and lets go of his arm to lift his chin so they are eye to eye again.

“Whoever you are now Jon Snow. I want you. I will always want you.”

He hesitates, but Tormund continues.

“You have some idea of what a normal relationship is… what it has to look like. Your aunt and uncle home every night, playing bridge and eating leftovers. But that doesn’t have to be us. Sure, you have your record studio down south, but you can write music anywhere.”

“And your shop?”

“I’ve got help. I’ve been spending more time away from the shop, branching into…”

Jon interrupts, “Into one of the most popular new carpentry businesses in town from what I’ve seen.”

Tormund blushes a little. He’s so handsome. Jon can sort of picture them rolling up to some award show together. Tormund disarming them all with his charm, unapologetically sliding his hand into Jon’s back pocket, claiming him as the cameras flash.

Wow, is he really entertaining this?

“I’ve been doing ok financially.” Tormund continues. “And not to put too fine a line on it crow, but, you’re sorta rich.”

He laughs.

“Money can’t buy happiness Tor” he snarks, but there’s no bite to his tone.

“No, but it can buy plane tickets. So we aren’t together every night, that doesn’t mean we cant be happy. Tell me, are you happy now crow?”

No. But he can’t say it outloud. This is crazy. No one in their right mind, with a life as calm and beautiful as Tormunds’ is, should be contemplating spending it with him.

Love and hope and a bit of mischief all twinkle in those blue eyes, but his face turns serious as he leans in close to Jon and whispers.

“For the last 10 years, there hasn’t been a single day when I’ve felt whole. I want this crow. Whatever you’re willing to give.”

He circles the room, running nervous fingers through his curls and trying not to hyperventilate. Imagine not being alone, when he didn’t want to be alone. Imagine having what he wants AND what he needs. He finds Tormund’s hopeful eyes once more and lets the comfort in them wash over him.

The wolf inside him howls.

“You’re crazy, and I’m crazy, and It’ll be a fucking disaster” he says as he leans his forehead against Tormund’s. But maybe it will sell an album.”

He smirks and watches as a wide grin spreads across Tormund’s face.

Jon pushes on his chest gently, walking him backwards till his knees hit the couch and he falls into his original seat. Slowly, Jon climbs into his lap, straddling his hips with his knees and running his fingers through wild red hair. He feels Tormund exhale deeply, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him in close. Tormund buries his face into his neck and breaths him in. Neither of them moves for a long while, content to simply lap up the comfort of this embrace.

“Come to bed crow?” Tormund whispers into his neck.

Jon pulls back just enough to press their foreheads and noses together, then gives him a soft smile.

With little effort Tormund stands with him still wrapped around his waist, and walks them to his bedroom. He’s holding him like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever carried, and the soft ache in Jon’s heart wars with the desperate tinge of heat creeping low in his belly.

He sets him down gently on the bed and then runs his hands down Jon’s chest till he reaches the hem of his t-shirt. His fingers wait there a moment, until Jon lifts his arms up, and then Tormund follows sweeping his shirt off and tossing it a few feet away. Tormund sinks to his knees on the floor between his legs and reaches for his belt. He nods again, and Tormund slides his belt off and slips his pants down his hips at a slow but purposeful pace.

Tormund stares.

When they were together weeks ago it was all claws and teeth. Burning passion in the darkness. Now, sitting naked under Tormund’s heavy gaze, he feels utterly vulnerable.

Minutes roll by, hours maybe and still Tormund doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch him. He can’t take it any longer.

“Well say something dammit”, he grumbles and starts to cover himself self-consciously until Tormund gently catches his wrists.

“Gods, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen”.

Jon feels his chest redden with the compliment.

“The first time I laid eyes on you, heard you speak my name crow. I couldn’t think of anything but how I could make you mine. How I could kiss those lips, have you all to myself forever.” Tormund gasps the words out, eyes darkening with the memory.

“And all these years later… you still want me?”

Tormund grits his teeth as if holding himself back, “Oh gods yes”

He flexes to sit up, grabbing Tormund’s beard and hauling him in for a kiss. He stops short, inches from him, startled by an unexpected sound in the distance. A real howl rises up on the wind, drifting into the cabin through the bedroom window and he shivers with it.

Their eyes meet and they both smile. Jon grabs up his face again and kisses him deep, siphoning a groan from deep in Tormund’s chest. The redhead hauls him to the edge of the bed and throws his knees over his shoulders. Jon’s on fire, biting his own lip in anticipation as he watches him kiss up the insides of his shaking thighs. Ages later, after he has properly kissed every inch of his body, Tormund wraps him in one hand and grips his hip hard with the other. The heat as he pulls Jon into his mouth has him jerking nearly off the bed. Tormund splays the hand on his hip wide across his lower back and pulls him deeper into his mouth, and a litany of incoherent words fall from his own lips.

Tormund pulls back a bit to breath, but his tongue glides over his sensitive tip sending lighting up his spine. He’s slow but deliberate, methodically inching him closer and closer to the edge. He’s panting now, tugging on his hair a bit in warning as he continues to lick from balls to tip. And when he bobs his head to take him deeper, Jon sees stars. Snapping like a rubber band, he releases, tension uncoiling across his body as Tormund takes it all in. He pulls off and uses his body to slide Jon farther up on the bed. Pleasure ripples through him in small waves, and he chants Tormund’s name under his breath as it fades. Their bodies are pressed close, and he loves the solid weigh of that barreled chest grounding him. Tormund pulls him even closer, breathing him in deep.

“I still can’t believe you’re…” the rest of his speech is indecipherable, his face buried in Jon’s neck, leaving a trail of love bites across his throat.

He smiles. His heart is racing from the feel of Tormund’s mouth on him, but he can still sense the long length of Tormund’s erection pressed tight in the pants hes still wearing. No doubt he is aching for his own release, but the bigger man seems content to just hold him close for however long he will allow it.

I want this crow. Whatever you’re willing to give.

Tormund will upend his own life, give him everything and demand nothing from him. The comfort of that realization rekindles his own fire. Red hot want burns from the inside, biting and clawing just below the surface. A growl starts low in his chest, and he grits his teeth against it. Warring with himself, he pushes the uncertainty down and lets desire rocket through him. He grabs at Tormund’s hair, pulling back sharply to glimpse his bared neck. Tormund gasped, a hint of surprise in his eyes when Jon rolls his body deliberately up and over his hips, pinning him.

He stares into those blue eyes, willing his desire, searching for understanding. Neither of them speaks, but Jon can see when realization finally washes over him. He doesn’t move for a long moment, and Jon worries he may not be on board with this. Then he feels Tormund relax into him, a small smile flitting across his face.

“Whoever you are now Jon Snow. I want you. All of you” he repeats, before he lifts his chin and turns his head. Neck barred, he removes his hands from Jon’s hips and slides them above his own head.

Jon growls again, running his tongue over his own teeth at the site of him. He slides one hand up his forearm to slip his fingers through Tormund’s, holding them in place, then drags his teeth across his neck roughly, tasting salt. His already hardened cock presses into Tormund’s stomach and the man below him arches into it, moaning. Jon trails a hand down his chest, stopping to unbutton his pants. When Tormund springs free and Jon grasps him firmly, he smirks at the desperate noise the man beneath him makes.

A cool breeze slips through the bedroom window sending goosebumps across his skin. Northern air, lighting him up. He’s not a fool, he knows Tormund could throw him off in an instant. Its about the possessiveness of the gesture, the claim he needs to make. And judging by how heavy Tormund feels in his hand, he’s enjoying the power shift as well.

He strokes him purposefully, reaching for the lube he hopes is still in the bedside table. Tormund keeps his wrists in place, but jerks harder into his hands as he applies a generous amount. He moves into a crouch, lining Tormunds impossibly large cock up. He feels Tormund grunt and unlock his hands to grab Jon around the waist.

“Too soon, I don’t want to hurt you cro..” his words die on his tongue when he catches Jon’s eyes blazing.

Jon drops Tormund’s cock and holds his hip down forcefully with one hand. His other hand glides up to encircle his throat, squeezing not nearly enough to choke, but enough to capture Tormund’s attention.

More surprise in those blue eyes. Then his own tongue darts out to lick his lips and Tormund eyes darken further.

He releases Jon’s waist and glides fingertips across his hard abdomen and Jon sighs at the touch. Tormund relaxes again, and Jon loosens his grip and slides his thumb gently across Tormund’s adams apple. Leaning down, he collides their mouths, kisses moving from passionate to filthy.

He takes his time sinking down on him, every inch elicits another delicious moan from his partner. Tormund doesn’t attempt to slow or stop him again, but Jon can see hes struggling to keep his hands to himself. After a long while he takes pity on him and grabs up the bigger man’s hands, sliding them across his own waist to land on his ass. Tormund groans, kneading his fingers into the soft flesh there. Jon watches his eyes roll back when he seats himself fully on top of him.

He lets himself adjust to the fullness, reveling in the safety and power he feels from this position. He’s feral with it, and he knows there is no one else who could make him feel this way. When he’s ready, he rolls his hips and Tormund gasps his name, nails leaving little crescent shapes in his heated skin. Tormund’s hands start to shift toward his cock, but stop when Jon bares his teeth in warning.

Tormund pulls back again and chuckles under his breath, “Perhaps I need to change your nickname, little wolf?”

He starts to move in earnest now, his weight pressing Tormund’s hips into the bed with every deep satisfying roll.

“Either.” He breaths. “Both.” And Tormund nods.

Both.

Hes setting a punishing pace, every muscle in his body straining to lift and seat himself full again. Words fall from Tormund’s lips but he cant quite make them out. He doesn’t care how his own muscles are burning, watching Tormund writhe under him is too good.

“Please.” Tormund whispers. He sounds desperate with it, wrecked. “Please crow, I need...”

“Tell me what you need” he snarls, echoing those words Tormund had demanded of him weeks ago.

Tormund’s mouth opens, but no words come.

He reaches down and drags Tormund up by the neck into a seated position. He wraps himself around Jon desperately, the new angle pulling moans and swear words in rapid succession. Jon doesn’t speak, but his eyes ask again.

“You.” Tormund cries out, “I need you” And just below the surface, hiding behind all the heat and lust, Jon can see the fear in his eyes. Fear that in the morning Jon will go again, fear that he won’t come back.

He grinds to a halt in his arms, sliding both hands into Tormund’s hair and dragging him forward so they are only inches apart. He’s buzzing with it, the decision he’s made. Just a moment ago. Weeks ago. The first day they met. Say it. Mean it.

“I love you. I’ll never leave you again” he breaths out. And he feels Tormund inhale sharply, watery eyes drifting closed, gripping him impossibly tighter. Then he rolls his hips one last time and they both shatter together.

A week or two pass, Jon isn’t sure. They kiss and fuck and make love in every conceivable way until they are exhausted and can only brush lips together and touch lazily. When they do finally peel themselves apart, Jon calls the real estate agent and puts his father’s estate on the market. It sells in record time and Tormund holds his hand as he passes the keys to the new owners.

That year, the MTV movie awards are a lot more fun than they ever have been before. And even though Tormund is a bit more nervous about the cameras than Jon would have thought, he looks the part in a striking new suit he bought for him. To his credit, he didn’t protest when Jon brought it home, even though he did squint pretty hard at the price tag. A champagne flute or two in, he’s made friends with the entirety of their starlit table. And when Jon wins his category and Tormund almost topples him with an R-rated lip lock, the building nearly caves in from the applause.

Tormund white knuckles it in the south but doesn’t complain about the sun or the heat. Not too often anyway. They soak up a few rockgod comforts, breathing in salty ocean air and lounging for hours on the pool deck. Tormund’s arms really do look amazing reflected in that mirror above his bed.

He tours a bit after the holidays, sitting center stage at his first big acoustic show, an insane idea his lover had suggested after too much mead at Yg’s bar. He plays his heart out, just him and his guitar, and he revels in the peace he feels every time he glances side stage and catches shining blue eyes.

They find themselves back at the cabin for most of early spring. Jon strums his guitar on the back porch while Tormund hums and whittles away the evenings. They’ve started dedicating their free time to a local conservation group. And Jon smiles when Tor sets a goal to raise enough money to turn the woods behind their little cabin into a protected sanctuary. A goal like that will take a few years. Years they have.

They laugh often and loudly. Never so heartedly as when Tormund shouts in surprise and backs slowly into the cabin after spotting him wrapped up in white fur on the porch swing. He could see how it might be slightly alarming even after all this time, the proximity of his new pet will take some getting used to.

The waiting list for one of Tormund’s beautiful custom pieces is miles long, but he never frets. He only crafts because it fills his heart with joy and because he loves the look of awe on Jon’s face when his hands glide over a new piece.

The wedding takes place 3 days after the ribbon cutting ceremony for that new sanctuary. A whole 15 people in attendance, which is 14 more than the 1 witness they had the first time. The bands are new, but they’re the same really, just a bit nicer, and engraved with two dates.