#jonsnowxreader

Author’s Note: Hello my darlings! It has been such a long time and I am so incredibly sorry. I swear I plan on eventually returning to consistent posting, but I have had one of the busiest and most stressful two year of my life. Thank you guys for supporting me and being so kind to my content in my absence, you are all incredible and I appreciate you. I will, hopefully, be posting content similar to what many of you follow me for: harry styles and jj maybank. both will be making appearances soon, i promise! for now, though, you’ll get a cutie little jon snow fic because this character is actually the love of my life. if you haven’t watched game of thrones yet, do it. please god. then come read this.

love you forever, thanks for being here. 

Hope y’all love this. It’s good to be back. 

It had been almost ten years since you had known Jon Snow, and yet you somehow learn new things about the boy each and every day. 

Yesterday, you learned that Jon Snow just didn’t like colors. Generally.

Last week, you learned that Jon hated hunting. Despite being skilled with various kinds of weaponry, the northerner found the activity to be deathly boring.

Six months ago, you learned that he actually did have a heart, and it was full of thoughts of you. 

You also learned that day that the bastard boy is a skilled kisser as well.

Today, you learned that Jon Snow is incredibly stupid. 

The discovery was not something you hadn’t considered before, yet today’s actions were a confirmation of the idea. You were walking down the halls of Winterfell, heading towards the courtyard from your bedchambers, when you were suddenly swept off your feet into a nearby door- then swiftly pressed against it. 

A pair of soft lips and a stubbled chin pressed against you in a passionate kiss, and it wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened. 

As your heart slowed its pace and the realization set in, you pulled abruptly away from the embrace and lightly pushed your boy off you. 

“Jon! Are you mad? I nearly died of fright, what is wrong with you? Anyone could have seen!”

Jon smirked, placing his hands back in their home on your waist and pulling himself closer into you. “I only wanted to kiss my beautiful girl.”

“Jon, anyone could have seen us. Anyone could walk through this door and we’d be caught. Is that what you want?”

Jon kissed your cheek and began moving his way down your throat, pressing his lips softly into your skin. The touch was feather light, but it sent shivers down your back all the same. 

“I want you.” He mumbled against your neck, moving his hands slowly up and down your sides.

Though it took all your strength not to melt and sink into his familiar touch, you stood your ground. “Not here, Jon. We’ll be found.”

“Let them find us.” He growled. His movements became faster and less delicate. He was losing patience, and you were losing your willpower. 

“Jon!” You exclaimed, making a weak attempt to resist his efforts. 

“Y/n!” He mimicked, almost groaning your name into your skin. 

“Will you please quiet down? They’ll hear you in the Red Keep, you are too damned loud.”

Jon chuckled, mouthing his way over your collarbones as he pulls your dress slowly from your shoulders. “I don’t think you can talk about being loud, my love.”

Your cheeks flushed pink and you remained silent until a sharp gasp was pulled from you as Jon began to suck and bite on the crook of your neck. “Jon, please-” You breathed out, not entirely sure what it is you were begging for. 

Jon didn’t reply, but continued his actions, slowly speeding up as he pulled your dress lower. 

“Jon..” Your voice still carried apprehension, though you’d almost surrendered entirely to your boyfriends’ advances. 

Jon continued on with a passion, kissing and sucking and pulling on your damned dress. 

You were moments away from giving in, until you caught the sound of footsteps headed down the corridor on the other side of the door. “Jon!” You whisper-shrieked, the intensity in your voice finally halting his actions. He pulled immediately away from you, looking into your eyes as he waited for you to speak. Though he liked to mess with you, Jon would never forgive himself if he actually hurt you or overstepped in any fashion. 

“Jon, I cannot explain to you how I wish we didn’t have to stop, but we do. We will be caught. I am a wardess, Jon, have you forgotten? They might send me away from Winterfell if they know we are together before my father’s sentence is through. We cannot do this here.”

Jon nodded, a look of guilt washing over his face. The poor thing immediately felt as though you were angry at him, and began murmuring earnest apologies into your neck as he helped you redress. 

You took both of his hands in yours, halting him and pulling him close. “I’m not angry at you, darling. I’m only trying to keep us together. I will be angry at you if you do not meet me in your chambers in five minutes and finish what you started.” Jon paused again, stopping in his tracks, overwhelmed by your words. You took the opportunity to fix your dress, reach behind you, and grasp the door handle.

You pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before smirking and exiting through the door behind you, leaving Jon open-mouthed in the room. 

Author’s Note: AHHH there it is! My cute little return to tumblr. I hope all my Jon Snow sluts enjoyed this one. If you don’t, stay tuned for other content. I love you all. You mean the world to me. 

See you in the next one. Send requests- I want to write what y’all want to read!

Pain-registered on his face, and he drew a heavy breath, trying to fight the guilt that rose. 

“We ran away, and ended up worse off. This wasn’t what we thought it would be- if we go back... it has to be better than this.” Your voice broke off, and tears gathered on your lower lash-line, “this is agony.” 

“Do you want to leave?” He asked, his eyes dark and steeped in confusion, but never regret. 

“Not without you,” you were firm now, frustrated that he was still seeing some larger picture, one that grew fuzzier to you by the day, “I won’t leave without you.” 

He stood, his footsteps crunching in the snow as he closed the space between you, and kneeled in the snow at your feet, letting his eyes meet yours with an unknown intensity. “We could stay here,” he argued, taking your wrapped hand into his, “build a life outside the Wall. We don’t know what’s waiting for us over there, they could have told the Night's Watch who we are, and what we did, and-” he blinked, lifting your hand to hold against his cheek, no matter the roughness of the hide-gloves against the frost-bitten skin, “I don’t want to lose you.” 

“And the Wildling?” You couldn’t deny how his words appealed to your heart, but you reason and contempt held you back from falling into his arms all together. “Will she be coming with us too?”

He sighed, as though he’d been caught in some lie. “I have feelings for her too, Y/N, but I don’t see why that matters-”

“You don’t?” You interrupted furiously, pulling your hand free. “Because it’s all I can think about! I ran away for you, I gave up my life to live by your side, I sacrificed my name for a life of being beaten and thrown out into the cold, and you want me to stomach the fact that you’re infatuated with her?” 

“I’m not-” he looked bewildered, and uncomfortable at having to express himself like a man on trial for a crime he hadn’t committed, only pondered, “I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

“Not anymore.” You turned your face away from him, ignoring how the tears stung as you bit them back. “Not when it’s only in words and not in deeds.” 

There was silence for a moment longer, and then the staggered exhale of breath like someone in shock. “Then, I’ll take you home. You’re right, you don’t belong out here.” 

A second set of footsteps approached, and Ygritte was confronted with the intense tension of the campsite. “Did someone die?” she chided, laying the two dead birds on the snow, warming her hands by the dying fire. 

“She wants to go home.” His voice was empty, devoid of the hurt he must’ve been feeling, if you’d bothered to meet his eyes. “We need to go south.”

Ygritte scoffed, and you could feel her eyes on you, examining the obvious weaknesses you’d exposed. “We can’t.” 

“I can.” You insisted, shifting your eyes from the dead fowl to the petulant redhead. “I’ll put on my old clothes and go back alone. I imagine you have much more pertinent things to do.” Your eyes moved to Jon now, angry when he wouldn’t meet your eyes, heart still aching in your chest. 

“I never asked you to leave,” he mumbled, his eyes still locked on the fire, his expression neutral and stone-like. “You’re doing this for yourself, don’t pretend like I’m forcing you away.” 

“Whoa,” she interrupted, slinging her bow over her shoulder. “We’re a long way from the Wall, and it isn’t a journey you’d want to make by yourself. You’re being rash, you need to think about this.” Concern, however veiled it was, laced her expression, “you can’t even hunt. Snow, why haven’t you talked her out of this?” 

“She’s more than grown,” he didn’t budge, “if she wants to run, let her.” 

You bit your tongue, nodding to yourself, and reaching for the pack at your side. “Goodbye, Jon.” 

He didn’t look up, and he didn’t respond. 

In truth, you didn’t know where Jon had planned to house her. There was a room very near to yours, you supposed, that she could have. You would have offered her your own bed–it was grander, and you had little use for it. But appearances had to be maintained, and no information should be offered unasked.

Higher and higher you climb into the keep, up the spiralling stairwell that–as you now notice–brush the sides of your grandmother’s bulk as she walks. Would this hindrance keep her above stairs or below, you wondered?

Her flinty eyes glance about the corridor; even here she was vigilant, even when there was nowt here but ageless grey brick.

“And where do you sleep, Y/n?” she asks, with all the subtlety of a woman known for carrying a mace.

“I sleep there, grandmother–just at the opposite end of the hall.”

“By the other stairwell?”

“Yes.”

Her brows narrow into a knowing scowl. “And where do those stairs lead?”

“To–” you catch yourself before you can say Jon “–Lord Stark’s solar. And Lady Sansa’s.”

“You’re at first names with Lady Bolton, are you?”

“Many here at Winterfell–at least, those who weathered the Boltons– have known her since she was a girl. She is still very much Lady Sansa in their eyes.” You throw a glance around the parameter. “It’s not my place to say, but...for reasons very dear to Lady Sansa, she prefers to dispense with the name Bolton.”

“I don’t blame her. When I heard she’d been yoked to Ramsay Bolton I shuddered.” She does so again, at the thought. “Having to bed that repugnant dog’s pizzle of a man...” She shakes her head. “Though I suppose the gods are good after all–she bore him no children and kept her fingers.”

You make a sound of weak agreement, though your mind is full of objections. You know that Lady Sansa’s stories are not yours to tell.

“They seem to have smiled on Lord Stark as well,” she continues, “collecting so many titles so soon. King in the North. The White Wolf. Now Jon Stark, heir to Winterfell.”

You nod. “I think he will do well by his name,” you offer, as you both approach her room. You’re exhausted physically as well as emotionally: the fear, the surprise, the general disquiet of the whole night has taken its toll.

You open wide the door, giving place a quick inspection before allowing your grandmother inside. There is a cold hearth, piled with tinder and straw; the bed is half pelts, and looks as if it could stand up, shake, and walk away; a small chamber pot is visible underneath. Yes, you think, this will do fine.

“I hope this suits you, Grandmother.”

She takes a sweeping glance in the near-darkness. “It will serve.”

Good enough. “I’ll leave you this candle, then, so you may light a fire if you wish.”

She turns to you with eyebrow cocked. “And what sort of thankless child are you, that you would not kneel to light a fire for an old crone? Come inside, come inside!”

She kicks at a pile of logs with a leather boot, stuffed with hides and bound around her leg in leather scrap. When no mice or rats escaped, she seized a cask-sized log in both hands and slammed it into the grate, snapping the twigs underneath.

“Close the door, girl–you’ll let the draft in!”

You do so, and cross the room to offer her the candle’s flame. She nearly snatches it from your hand, and sets the straw and kindling alight.

She clearly hasn’t lost an ounce of strength since last you saw her, you think, so why does she play the crone now?

When at last she has the log set to burning, she stands–with not a groan nor a creak–and sits at the foot of the bed.

“Come, Y/n, and give me a hand with these boots. My old fingers are still-half frozen.”

On your haunches, you kneel before her; she sets a boot onto your thigh. You see now that the scraps and cords of leather are not one piece, but several pieces tied end to end. You recognize the hides inside as squirrel and mink. It is less a boot than a paw–tough and furry, more animal than human. What’s more, the smell of feet and old fur and rotting leather turns your nose. Still, you resolve to be Good, and begin to pull at a knot.

She leans in closer to you. “I’ve heard it said that you are serving here as Lyanna’s consul.” Her voice is flat and soft now.

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“And Lyanna bid it so?”

“Yes, Grandmother.” You’re unsure which is more bothersome, the knotted leather or the prying questions.

“Did Lord Stark have any say in this appointment?”

“I don’t know, Grandmother,” you say, sure of your honesty in at least that answer. “I was only asked, not consulted.”

“I’m surprised. It’s said you have Lord Stark’s ear and more.”

So that had left the castle’s gates. How far had it flown, you wonder. Your cheeks can’t help but flush a little–the thought of the whole of Westeros knowing how you spent your nights. What else had passed through these broken walls? Did all of Planetos know he had taken your maidenhead?

“If I remember right, you took to each other as children,” she continues.

“Aye, we did,” you answer through gritted teeth, unwinding the wet leather from around her calf.

“Did you ever wonder why you were never betrothed?”

The question takes you off guard. You had wondered, so very long ago; but that was before you were a woman flowered, and many young men had caught your eye since.

“I suppose Lord Eddard had planned on urging him into the Night’s Watch?”

“No, child.” She lay a hand on your shoulder. You look up to meet her eyes. “Eddard Stark knew Robert Baratheon from boyhood. He served as Robert’s Hand. Do you believe that the king would hesitate to grant him any favor he wished?”

You shake your head No.

“Lord Eddard could have had Jon made legitimate with a stroke of the king’s quill. He’d be the second son, yes, but a full and trueborn son all the same, with the rights to name and title... Many men would offer up their maiden daughters for a chance at even that glass jewel of a Stark.”

You blink your confusion. You cannot say where this is going, but an uncomfortable churning begins in your belly all the same.

“Don’t you see, girl? Jon was their lord-under-glass. Should any ambitious match be found, a new heir could be made as quick as a raven flies. A lord with too many daughters could yet earn himself a new son–a Stark son–in return for his loyalty. Such ambitions aren’t served by marrying one of their own vassals.”

You nod slowly. “But why tell me this now? Jon is a lord in his own right. He won’t need to be married off now. And Lady Sansa could still marry well...”

“Sansa is twice married and only once widowed. As both a Bolton and a Lannister, she is cursed twofold. The whole of the North is cursed if she should let herself be taken in by Littlefinger.” A small sigh deflates her. “And for all the glory of this place, and all the lustre of the Stark name, there is very little substance to either now. The castle is half a ruin, and there are precious few men left to fight for it.”

You don’t notice, but your hands are beginning to shake. You only feel the tightness in your throat. “But the Manderleys...the Glovers...they’ve promised their swords to Jon. Surely their support...” Your voice falls away, strangled.

“And when he tells them about these White Walkers–will they follow their ‘king’ then? They dare not turn tail again, but they may march ever slower behind him. And what shall he do when no one is sworn to him but green boys and wildlings? Jon cannot make them an army–but he can marry into one.”

The air disappears from the room.

“There may be a lesser Redwyne who’ll give him men enough to march against the Lannisters–in return for a Northern ladyship, of course. Perhaps one of Mallister’s granddaughters, once she comes of age.” She efflares a laugh. “He may even make a good match for the little Dragon Queen, if she’ll have him...”

“Stop!” you cry. You’re panting hard now, struggling to breathe. You blink and find tears wetting your cheeks.

“Y/n...”

“No...” The word comes out in a mewling little whine, but you can’t stop from saying it over and over again.

“I’m sorry, Y/n...”

She kept talking after she spoke your name; you did not hardly hear it. Your mind is a thousand places at once, your thoughts running about in a panic. That all those nights should mean nothing. That the battle scars you still bore–that he had kissed half a hundred times–should mean so little...

“...leave Winterfell at the next clear day...”

Leave? But why? There was work to be done here, and there were aunts and cousins aplenty to secure the lodge for winter.

Were plans being laid even now? Surely Jon would not keep you in his bed whilst his marriage was being arranged. Then again, you think, if you’ve already given him your maidenhead, and can offer no more than the sworn swords of a treen and craggy island, you worth may be only as a bedwarmer now. You were not privvy to the talks that made you consul–why should you be present for the machinations of a marriage alliance?

“You may take a part of him, if you must...”

This only starts your tears afresh. “I...there was...I couldn’t...”

Your grandmother nods knowingly. “Moon tea.”

It was not moon tea, but it was close enough. And you haven’t the will or the words to explain otherwise. You simply nod your agreement.

“There is time, if you wanted–”

“NO!” You howl, another sob lurching through you. You, yelling at the grandmother you thought was dead. You could be no more ashamed of yourself.

“I couldn’t...I couldn’t do that to Jon,” you finally say. “His great fear is that he’d father a bastard himself. It’s no life for a child here...” If only she knew how different Bear Island was from the rest of Westeros...

She seizes your chin her still-powerful grip and lifts it so you meet her eyes.

“He is the son of a Lord and you are the daughter of a Lady. Bastards or no, you are equals. It cannot–it will not–be said that any child that comes of your bodies shall be any less.” You nod into her hand.

With a surprising tenderness, she wipes away your tears with her thumb. “You are his equal, sweetling. And he is no king–not yet.” She pulls her hand back. “But a man’s title is bought, sold, and traded as much as any maidenhead. Just know that he may yet be too costly for you.”

You nod again, and force a weak smile. You hope that it is enough to mask the heartbreak that twists like a knife in your chest. More tears are welling behind your eyes; a full cup threatening to run over. And for a moment, you wonder if throwing yourself off the battlements would break your neck, or if you’d only freeze to death in chest-high snow.

You stand–slowly, as not to spill the overflowing cup–and give her a little curtsy. “Can I do anything more for you, Grandmother?” You suck in a sob. “I should like to go to bed now.”

“No, child,” she says softly. “I should like to sleep myself.” She pulls at the heel of her boot before adding “I’ve not slept safely in many moons. Remind me to thank Lord Stark for his hospitality in the morning.”

“I will.” You back out of the room, barely holding your composure. “Goodnight Grandmother.”

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

You close her door behind you and have a quick glance around the hall: there is no one to see or hear you. Still, the few steps to your room feel like leagues of swamp, weighing down every footfall.

The very minute you close your door, you throw yourself onto your bed and sob into your feather pillow. Your whole body cramps with the heave of it.

Could you have been so foolish as to think that you could keep him? The White Wolf, the King in the North? That your sword, your maidenhead, your willing ears and loving arms could somehow be enough to overcome your inferior name? The accusations ring in your head: all Mormont women are skin changers and she-bears, populating an island with their bastards.

If Jon’s seed planted a son in you, you think, he’d be a prince on Bear Island. He would be adored. He could have a good maester, and a horseman, and half a dozen masters-at-arms. He could be just the warrior his father was, if not more...

But there’d be no question he was a Stark. Not if you whelped a boy after a stay at Winterfell. Not if he had Jon’s dark eyes. Or his raven curls, or his solemn mouth. And if Jon had boys of his own... Too many had died in the Blackfyre rebellions to allow it. And you don’t think you could bear the look in Jon’s eyes, if he found out he’d left a son unloved.

No. You couldn’t.

You sob harder. You do so over and over until, finally, there is nothing left. Defeated and drained, you curl in on yourself, falling asleep on your bear pelt blanket.

You doubted either would be compelling in the long run, but it was enough to keep them off your trail until you established a solid foothold at the wall.

You were nervous that they'd see right through you, laughing and forcing you home, forcing you to leave Jon again. This plan was madness, and yet, you'd agreed.

You reached the wall in a few days time, and were shown your chambers, rather dismal compared to what you were used to, but enough to survive. That was all you needed. Enough to survive.

The matter of fighting was something else entirely. You could shoot decently, even handle yourself in a scrap, but against the trained swordsmen of the bitter North? You got your ass kicked.

Time and time again, you struggled with the weight of a sword, struggled to wield it properly, getting a blow to the ribs and getting knocked to the ground, obtaining brutal bruises in the process.

Jon couldn't lift a finger to help you, and he winced noticeably each time the blows struck you, watching your sword skitter out of your grasp.

It was miserable.

You learned to be quicker through pain, dexterous through adversity, and remarked more than once that you were better with a bow. Eventually, they let you be, and you were spared the beatings of daily sparring.

Worse still, the militaristic lifestyle of the Night's Watch meant your time for romance was... lessened. You'd both sworn an oath of chastity, and your lack of privacy kept you from engaging in some of your more sensual hobbies. Days stretched to weeks without a touch, and your own rituals of binding your breasts and acting as a man grew tiresome.

Deceit took its toll in full.

Together, you were sent on missions beyond the wall, saw the horrifying reality of the wildlings who lived there, and had encountered far too many threats to your life. It wasn’t until Jon spared the life of Ygritte that you saw a third option. 

Desert. Stay outside the wall and risk your lives, but remain together and free. 

You’d been debating all this in your head as Jon struggled to start a fire in the heavy wind. 

The red-haired wildling seemed far more interested in your brother, but made advances on you as well, leaning into your shoulder as the two of you waited for the sparks to fan into a flame. You’d managed to ignore and deflect her attention thus far, but it had only become a game of pushing her further into Jon’s arms. They were well suited, and in your times of separation, you wondered just how long he could endure her pure want. 

“Will you grace us with your words tonight, dark and stormy?” She teased, her eyes on Jon’s back. 

Your hand moved to touch the hilt of your dagger, still wary of the silver-tongued woman and her fast hands. You’d rather be embarrassed than dead, and you didn’t put it past her to slit your throat in your sleep if she got the chance. 

“I see.” Her weight remained as she pressed further. “So, Jon Snow’s got the sword in your duo.” 

You tensed, eyes darting over to see if she’d so easily discovered what you’d been hiding for months from your brothers in arms and commanders. The slightly smug smile made your heart stop.

Her arm wound around your waist and a gloved hand trailed up towards the edge of your binding, tugging on the fabric with decision. “Do you love him?”

You were frozen in shock.

“Does he know?” 

No response. 

Ygritte slowly drew away, but left you with a parting remark. “Out of the two of you, you’re the prettier one, and I’ve never seen you stop to piss. Beyond that, it was an easy guess.” Her heat was quickly drawn away by the howling winds, but the chill remained. 

You had nothing to fear from her telling Jon, or even your brothers in arms. You could always run. But now, you feared that when the time came to cut ties and run, Jon would hesitate. 

You suspected his attachment to the wild woman went beyond pure curiosity, perhaps even into the realm of attraction, though he’d never admit it. Your options were defined. Kill the woman, or convince her to come with you? Run, or stay? 

He treated each issue with the same amount of patience and dedication, but with your love, he was dumbfounded. Jon Snow had never lain with a woman and had barely kissed one (some merchant’s daughter when he was nearing ten, on a dare from Theon), and the thought of such ardent unacceptable affection made him uneasy. 

Initially, he resisted, pulling away from you and sparking your first row. You insisted that the love you carried was of the soulful kind, an embrace shared between two people old enough to understand what such decisions meant. When he expressed his further doubt, you spoke the phrase engraved on his mind ever since. 

“You are one half of my heart, I need you to make me whole.”

You shared your first kiss with tear-stained cheeks, and he held you so tightly you thought you might slip away. 

Time passed, and your arguments grew weaker, but his devotion only grew. His heart belonged to you, which made his decision to leave you all the more traitorous. 

He’d come to speak to you in the night, as he often did. His acceptance of your relationship didn’t dull his better senses. He knew how your father would react, how Catelyn would. Horror and surprise, and in the end, you’d be the one punished the most for it and he doubted he could stomach that. 

He took your hands in his and spoke truthfully. He was leaving for the wall in the morning. He was leaving you in the morning, possibly to never return. 

You could only stare back at him in awe. Then, your temper followed your shock. “How could you? Leave Winterfell? Leave me?”

Jon swallowed nervously. He’d prepared for a negative reaction, but the iron in your voice told him that this would be a fight from beginning to end. “This is the best chance I have to be more than a Stark bastard, to actually be something.” He kept his voice soft, but his tone firm, not allowing your watery expression sway him from his plans. 

You were silent to this, staring back at him as you collected your thoughts. “And what am I to do? Stay here and find another who’ll never be enough?” You snarled, feeling completely justified in the self-serving thought. Since birth, you two had seldom been apart, and now he meant to run off and chase dreams? The quieter part of you raised a similar question. “Aren’t I enough for you?”

This made Jon’s stomach turn. In truth, he hadn’t much thought about what would happen after he left. Perhaps it was selfish of him, cursing his own ill will when you’d been dealt such similar woes. 

Expression twisting, you shoved him away and turned your face to keep out of his view, your heart aching. “Fine then. Safe travels. I hope it’s everything you want.” You did a piss-poor job at concealing the pain in your voice, but you were intending to leave before the blows landed. 

Jon watched you leave, his chest tightening as he struggled to find anything to placate you. “Wait-” he stepped forward to grasp the door, keeping the two of you together for a few seconds longer. “Please. Try to understand. I love you.” Your stony demeanor gave him a little hope. At least you were still here. At least you hadn’t left him, yet. He said the only thing he thought would make you stay. “You’re half of my heart.” 

“I want you to stay.” You spoke, not turning to face him, not until he promised. 

“I can’t.” He was scrambling to find some solution, some holy grail that would keep the two of you together- “Come with me.”

This caused you to stiffen noticeably. “Jon-”

“Come with me, to the Wall. We can cut your hair, and get you breeches, and-”

“Jon.” You’d turned to face him now, cautiously. “That’s insane.”

He cupped your face in his hands. “Please. They’ll never know, and I won’t have to live without you.” He searched your eyes for any sign of acceptance, any part of you that could sign off on this impossible plan. 

Finally, you nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”