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muiitoloko · 29 days ago

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Through the Wall

Summary: A virgin’s accidental voyeurism exposes her to the raw passion of Sheriff George, who discovers her secret and becomes determined to claim her innocence and her heart.

Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Voyeurism, virginity and Smut

Author's Notes: It took me a while, but I finally finished writing this one 😅 You can find the request for this story here!

Also read on Ao3

The castle was a labyrinth of grandeur and mystery, every corridor a new story waiting to be uncovered. You wandered through it, awestruck by the towering stone walls, the intricate carvings, and the sheer scale of the place. You had never been to a castle before, your life confined mostly to the cozy but unremarkable home where you had spent countless hours buried in books. Those books had been your escape, your window to the world, but they couldn’t prepare you for the reality of such a place.

It was fortunate that your father had brought you here, though you had a nagging suspicion it wasn’t purely for your enjoyment. The party the Sheriff of Nottingham was throwing in two days was a grand affair, and your father had made it clear that this was an opportunity to meet potential suitors. At your age, marriage loomed over you like a storm cloud, and you knew your father saw this as a chance to secure your future.

Leaning against a stone-framed window, you inhaled the crisp evening air. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, the sun setting beyond the castle walls. Despite the unease in your heart about your father’s intentions, you couldn’t deny the beauty of the moment. But your legs, weary from hours of exploring, begged for rest, and you decided to return to your quarters.

The wooden door creaked softly as you pushed it open, the cozy chamber within welcoming you with its warmth. But as you stepped inside, a strange sound caught your attention. It was faint at first—muffled noises, rhythmic and low. Your brow furrowed as you listened more closely, your curiosity piqued. Moving toward the wall, you pressed your ear against the cool stone, realizing the sounds were coming from the adjoining room.

The Sheriff’s room.

Your pulse quickened as the noises grew clearer—slapping, gasps, and moans. Heat rose to your cheeks as the realization of what you were hearing sank in. You hesitated, caught between curiosity and propriety, before noticing a small hole in the wall, likely a flaw in the old stonework. Your heart pounded as you leaned closer, peeking through the tiny opening.

The scene beyond made your breath catch in your throat. You couldn’t see much, just fragmented glimpses of the Sheriff’s long black hair and the curve of a woman’s bare back. But what you could see—and hear—was enough to make your face flush deeply. The Sheriff, George, stood tall and commanding, his hands gripping the woman’s hips as he drove into her with unrestrained fervor. His hazel eyes glinted with intensity, his black beard brushing against the curve of her neck as he growled low words you couldn’t quite make out.

The woman’s moans were unabashed, echoing through the chamber with every rhythmic slap of their bodies. Her hands clung to his shoulders, her head thrown back in pleasure. It was raw and primal, nothing like the sanitized descriptions in your books. The sheer passion of it, the way the Sheriff moved with such dominance and control, made your stomach twist with feelings you couldn’t quite name.

“Take it,” George growled, his baritone voice rough and commanding, the words sending a jolt through you. “Every inch, my little minx. You’ll remember who owns you tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and you stumbled back from the wall, your cheeks burning with shame and something else—something darker, deeper. You had never witnessed such intimacy, such naked desire. It was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the quiet, proper life you had always known. Virgin as you were, this was a glimpse into a world you had only read about in stolen moments with forbidden books. But this wasn’t fiction. This was real, raw, and undeniably human.

You pressed a hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but the sounds continued to seep through the wall, the woman’s cries of pleasure mingling with George’s guttural moans. It was too much. You fled to the far side of the room, sinking onto the edge of the bed and burying your face in your hands.

This wasn’t what you had expected when you’d imagined exploring a castle. And yet, as you sat there, your heart racing and your body betraying you with a lingering heat, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had seen something you weren’t meant to see—or if some part of you had wanted to see it all along.

The noises began again, pulling you from the sanctuary of your book. You had been lost in the story for what felt like hours, curled up in a chair by the window in your chamber, the faint sound of the bustling castle barely reaching you. The Sheriff, George, had been surprisingly gracious that morning during breakfast, offering you free reign of his extensive library when you had asked your father for something new to read. You had accepted eagerly, thrilled at the chance to escape into stories far grander than your own.

But now, the words on the page blurred as your attention wavered. That sound—that unmistakable rhythm of pleasure—had returned, louder and more insistent than the night before. Your cheeks warmed at the memory of what you had witnessed through the tiny hole in the wall. You tried to focus on your book, telling yourself it was none of your concern. Yet your curiosity tugged at you, persistent and unyielding.

You placed the book on the side table, your pulse quickening as you moved toward the wall. Was George so enthralled with her that he sought her out every day? The thought intrigued you, the idea of a man so consumed by passion for his mistress. But when you pressed your eye to the tiny hole, your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t the same woman.

This one was younger, with auburn hair cascading down her back, her lithe body wrapped around George as he lifted her onto a table. His long black hair fell across his face as he growled into her ear, his hands gripping her thighs with an intensity that made your stomach twist. His hazel eyes burned with desire as he murmured words too low for you to hear.

The woman’s moans filled the chamber, her head falling back as George moved inside her with an unrestrained fervor. The slapping of their bodies echoed, and your cheeks burned with embarrassment—and something darker, deeper.

You had assumed he had a mistress, someone he adored and cherished in secret. But this? This was different. Was George the kind of man who did this with any woman who caught his eye? The thought unsettled you and yet intrigued you all the same. If he could do this with any woman… would he do it with you?

The question sent a jolt through you, your imagination betraying you as you pictured yourself in her place. George’s strong hands gripping your thighs, his hazel eyes darkened with desire as he whispered sinful promises in your ear. You shook your head, trying to banish the thought, but the image lingered, making your heart race.

You peeked again, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the scene before you. The woman clung to George, her cries of pleasure echoing through the chamber as he thrust harder, his baritone growls filling the air.

“Take it,” George growled, his hooked nose brushing against her neck as he kissed her hungrily. “You’re mine now. Do you understand that?”

The woman whimpered in response, her nails digging into his shoulders as he held her against the table. The intensity of his movements left no doubt that he was in complete control, his dominance both commanding and intoxicating.

A soft, involuntary cry escaped your lips, and you slapped a hand over your mouth, your eyes widening in horror. George froze, his hazel eyes snapping toward the wall as if he had heard you. Your heart pounded wildly as you scrambled away from the hole, pressing yourself against the far side of the room. Had he heard you? Would he come to investigate?

You held your breath, straining to listen, but the noises from the adjoining room had stopped entirely. The silence was deafening, and your mind raced with possibilities. What would George do if he discovered you had been watching? Would he be furious? Amused? Intrigued?

The thought of facing him made your stomach twist with both fear and a strange, unbidden excitement. But for now, you stayed frozen, your hand still pressed to your mouth, waiting to see if the Sheriff would come to your door—and what might happen if he did.

The Sheriff of Nottingham, George, paused mid-thrust, his hazel eyes narrowing as a sound interrupted his focus. A cry, soft yet distinct, had pierced through the muffled air of his chamber. His long black hair fell into his face as he stilled, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he tried to discern the source. Beneath him, the auburn-haired woman whimpered in frustration, her hands clutching his shoulders in an attempt to draw him back to their moment.

But George’s mind was elsewhere, his thoughts racing. That sound—where had it come from? His gaze flickered toward the wall separating his chamber from yours. He had placed you there deliberately, ensuring your proximity under the pretense of convenience. But the truth was far more selfish. He wanted you close. Close enough to imagine, close enough to tempt, close enough to claim if the opportunity arose.

His jaw tightened, and he leaned back slightly, his hands still gripping the woman’s thighs. Could you have heard? The thought sent a thrill through him, his cock twitching inside the whore beneath him. But he quickly shoved the excitement aside, forcing himself to think logically. The cry hadn’t sounded like pain. No, it was softer, more startled—like the sound of someone caught off guard. Could it have been… arousal?

“Sheriff,” the woman beneath him cooed, her voice tinged with impatience. She shifted her hips, trying to recapture his attention.

“Be quiet,” George snapped, his baritone voice sharp and commanding. His hazel eyes darkened as he pressed a hand firmly over her mouth, silencing her attempted protest. She whimpered beneath his palm, her eyes wide, but he didn’t remove his hand. He couldn’t risk another noise slipping through the walls to reach your innocent ears.

Your innocent ears. The thought was almost maddening. George knew your father had brought you here to parade you in front of potential suitors, but George had seen the way you looked at him—curious, nervous, intrigued. He had made it a point to be near you, to catch your glances, to stir something within you that no other man could. And now, the idea that you might have been listening, that you might have seen…

“Christ,” George muttered under his breath, his free hand gripping the woman’s thigh more tightly. She moaned against his palm, her muffled cries only fueling his conflicted arousal. A virgin, he thought, his teeth clenching. Untouched. Pure. Your father had mentioned it in passing, pride coloring his words as if your virtue were a prize to be flaunted. And it was—though not for the reasons your father imagined.

George leaned down, his beard brushing against the woman’s flushed skin as he growled lowly in her ear. “You’ll stay silent,” he ordered, his voice rough with barely restrained tension. “Or you’ll leave with nothing.”

The woman whimpered again, nodding obediently under his grip. Satisfied, George removed his hand, though his sharp hazel eyes stayed locked on her, daring her to disobey. He resumed his movements, slower this time, his mind still spinning with thoughts of you.

Had you been aroused by the sounds? Had you imagined yourself in the place of this whore? Would you blush and stammer if he confronted you, your wide, innocent eyes betraying the truth? George’s cock throbbed at the thought, and he thrust deeper, earning a muffled gasp from the woman beneath him. But it wasn’t her body he was truly thinking about.

“Take it,” George growled, his hooked nose brushing against the woman’s neck as he drove into her harder, faster. His words weren’t for her, not truly. “Take every inch. Remember who owns you.”

His mind conjured your image—your wide eyes, your parted lips, the way you had fidgeted nervously whenever he was near. Would you tremble beneath him like this? Would you cry out his name as he claimed you, your innocence surrendering to his dominance?

“Sheriff,” the woman beneath him gasped, breaking his reverie. He snarled softly, pulling out abruptly and stepping back, his chest heaving as he glared down at her.

“Leave,” he ordered, his baritone voice cold and final. The woman blinked up at him in confusion, her flushed body trembling as she tried to understand his sudden dismissal. “Now.”

“But—” she began, her voice tinged with desperation.

“Now,” George repeated, his hazel eyes flashing with irritation. “Before I change my mind about paying you.”

The woman scrambled to gather her clothes, her protests silenced by the sharp edge in his voice. As she slipped out of the room, George turned toward the wall, his expression dark and contemplative. He needed to know if you had heard—if you had seen. And if you had, he needed to know what you thought.

The Sheriff of Nottingham was not a patient man, and the thought of your wide-eyed innocence consumed him. If you had listened… if you had imagined… George smirked to himself as he considered his next move.

“Soon,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and dangerous. “Soon, my sweet little bird. You’ll know exactly what it means to belong to me.”

The great dining hall was alive with the hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware, but George was notably absent. You had noticed, of course. It was hard not to, given his commanding presence. The servants had assured you he was dining in his quarters, preoccupied with party preparations. Yet something about the explanation felt… off.

Meanwhile, George prowled through your chamber like a wolf on the hunt. He hadn’t bothered with subtlety; the door had been left unlocked, an oversight he took full advantage of. His long black hair brushed his shoulders as he moved, hazel eyes scanning the room with sharp curiosity. He didn’t know precisely what he was looking for—evidence of your curiosity, a token of your innocence, or perhaps just the satisfaction of invading your private space as you had his.

And then he found it.

The hole.

A low chuckle escaped his lips as he crouched to inspect the flaw in the wall. It was small, almost imperceptible, but perfectly positioned. The angle wasn’t ideal, but it offered just enough of a view into his quarters to see more than you should have. His hazel eyes glinted with amusement and something darker as he realized the truth.

“So, my little bird,” George murmured to himself, a sly grin curving his lips, “you’ve been watching.”

Unable to resist, he leaned closer, his hooked nose nearly brushing the stone as he peeked through the tiny opening. From this angle, the room appeared quiet, undisturbed, but the memories of what had taken place there earlier that day brought a smirk to his face. He couldn’t help but test the hole further, sticking his finger into it and wiggling it slightly.

“Not much,” he muttered with a low chuckle, “but enough to entice a curious little virgin.”

He was still grinning, finger stuck in the stone, when he heard the door creak open behind him.

“Sheriff?”

George froze. He turned his head sharply, but the motion only lodged his finger deeper into the wall. Standing in the doorway, you blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. Your hair was slightly disheveled from dinner, your gown modest but elegant, and your expression a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“W-what are you doing in my chambers?” you asked, your voice uncertain but steady.

George cleared his throat, tugging subtly at his trapped finger, but it refused to budge. “The castle is mine,” he replied smoothly, though his cheeks betrayed a faint flush of embarrassment. “I can go wherever I please. Including here.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “But why… why are you at the wall?”

George gritted his teeth, giving his finger one last sharp tug, but it remained stubbornly lodged. “Inspecting the masonry,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “Shoddy work, really. Dangerous, even. A flaw like this—” He gestured vaguely with his free hand, the other still stuck. “—could compromise the structural integrity of the castle.”

You tilted your head, clearly not convinced. “And… your finger?”

“I was testing the depth of the hole,” George snapped, his voice laced with irritation. “Which, as you can see, is deep enough to cause serious concern.”

Your cheeks flushed as you pieced together what he had found. “You—” Your voice faltered. “You found it…”

“Found what?” George challenged, his hazel eyes narrowing as he finally yanked his finger free. He stumbled slightly but straightened quickly, brushing off his black tunic and adjusting his belt as though nothing was amiss. “If you’re referring to this—” he pointed to the hole, his tone laden with faux authority—“it’s a disgrace. A security risk.”

Your gaze darted to the wall, then back to him, realization dawning on your face. “You… you know.”

George smirked, stepping closer, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. “Know what, my sweet?” he purred, his voice dropping to a dangerously low baritone. “That you’ve been spying on me? That you’ve been watching things you shouldn’t?”

Your cheeks burned, and you took a step back. “I-I wasn’t spying! I just… I didn’t know it was there until—”

“Until you saw something you liked?” George interrupted, his grin wicked as he leaned closer. His hooked nose nearly brushed your cheek, and his hazel eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and hunger. “Tell me, little bird, did it make you blush? Did it make you ache?”

“Sheriff!” you gasped, mortified, your hands flying up to cover your face.

George chuckled, his voice rich and teasing. “Oh, don’t be shy now. You’ve already seen more of me than most have the privilege to. Or was it curiosity, hmm? A virgin’s curiosity, yearning to know what it feels like to—”

“Stop it!” you cried, your voice muffled behind your hands.

George leaned closer, his long black hair falling across his sharp features, the hooked nose casting a faint shadow over his smirk. His hazel eyes glinted with wicked amusement as he prowled closer to where you stood, cornered against the chamber wall. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his towering frame casting an imposing shadow over your much smaller figure.

“You didn’t answer my question, my sweet little bird,” he murmured, his voice a low baritone that sent a shiver down your spine. “Did it make you blush? Did it make you ache, watching me? Tell me,” he whispered, his hooked nose brushing tantalizingly close to your cheek, “did you imagine yourself in her place?”

You flushed a deep crimson, the embarrassment burning hot in your cheeks. “N-no!” you stammered, your voice trembling. “I didn’t imagine anything of the sort! My… my virtue belongs to my husband!”

George paused, arching a dark eyebrow. “Husband?” he repeated with a mocking lilt, his grin widening. “And where is this mythical husband of yours, hmm? Because I certainly don’t see him here, protecting what he so nobly owns.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You felt utterly cornered, both by his words and by his physical presence. His hazel eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of disdain crossing his face.

“So what?” he sneered, stepping closer, his voice dripping with mockery. “You think your precious husband—who doesn’t even exist yet, mind you—would do what I can do for you? Would he make you blush like this?” He leaned closer, his voice a husky whisper. “Would he make you tremble?”

You swallowed hard, pressing your back against the cold stone wall as you tried to gather your composure. “He… he would,” you said defiantly, though your voice wavered.

George snorted, the sound laced with derision. “Ah, of course, the perfect, chivalrous husband,” he said with a dramatic wave of his hand, his black hair catching the candlelight. “But tell me this, little bird—has this imaginary husband of yours ever touched you? Has he ever kissed you? Has he ever made you feel the way I know I could?”

Your mouth went dry, and you shook your head quickly. “No! And he won’t… not until we’re married!”

The Sheriff laughed, a deep, rich sound that sent a jolt through you. “How quaint,” he said, shaking his head. “A virgin bride, saving herself for a man who will likely be as dull as a plowshare.” He leaned in closer, his hooked nose almost brushing against your neck as he whispered, “And yet, here you are, sneaking peeks at me through a hole in the wall. Tell me, my sweet, what were you hoping to see?”

You clenched your fists, mortified beyond words, but his taunting didn’t stop.

“Don’t deny it,” George continued, his voice dipping lower. “You wanted to see. You wanted to know. And now, here I am, offering you a taste of what you’re missing.”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. “You’re not my husband,” you said weakly, your voice barely audible.

“Not yet,” George replied smoothly, his grin devilish. “But who knows? If your father offers a good enough dowry, I might be persuaded.” He paused, tilting his head as his hazel eyes bore into yours. “Now, answer me truthfully. Do you want to be in her place?”

The question hung in the air like a heavy weight, and you looked away, your cheeks burning. The silence stretched, thick with tension, until you finally whispered, “Yes.”

George’s smirk widened, his eyes darkening with triumph. “I thought as much,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your flushed skin. “And tell me, little bird,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, “what would you do if I made you mine right here and now?”

Before you could respond, George leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against your cheek as he tilted your face toward his. The kiss was sudden, a claiming as much as it was a caress. His lips were firm, his beard rough against your skin, a stark contrast to the softness of his mouth. The taste of him—rich, heady, and intoxicating—invaded your senses, leaving you breathless.

You gasped against his lips, but George took the sound as an invitation, his hand slipping behind your neck to deepen the kiss. His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the strength of his body, the undeniable heat of him pressing into you.

“You taste sweeter than I imagined,” George whispered against your lips, his voice thick with desire. His teeth grazed your lower lip, drawing a soft whimper from you. "Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment? How many nights I’ve wondered what those shy little lips of yours would feel like beneath mine?"

"George—" you began, your voice trembling as you tried to summon your resolve, but he silenced you with another kiss, this one fiercer, hungrier. His tongue teased your lips, demanding entry, and when you hesitated, his grip on your waist tightened possessively.

“Don’t fight it,” he growled, his hazel eyes blazing as he broke the kiss, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. "You’ve been curious, haven’t you? Wondering what it would feel like to be touched, to be kissed like this." His hand slipped lower, brushing over the curve of your hip, and you shivered at the sensation.

“I-I don’t…” Your protest faltered as his fingers traced the line of your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes were smoldering, filled with a dangerous mix of hunger and triumph.

“You do,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You crave this, even if you’re too innocent to admit it. I see it in your eyes, feel it in the way you tremble beneath my touch.” He leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Tell me, little bird—are you trembling because you’re afraid, or because you want me?”

Your knees weakened at his words, your breath hitching as his lips trailed down the side of your neck, leaving a burning trail in their wake. "George, this is… improper," you managed, though your voice lacked conviction.

"Improper?" George echoed with a wicked laugh, his teeth grazing your collarbone. "Is that what they’ve taught you in those musty books you cling to? That desire is improper? That surrendering to what you want makes you weak?" He pressed his body against yours, his arousal evident, and you felt your own resolve slipping.

“You’ll find I’m anything but proper,” he continued, his baritone voice dripping with seduction. His hand slid up your back, tangling in your hair as he claimed your lips once more, this time with an unrestrained fervor that left no doubt of his intent. "And by the time I’m done with you, little bird, neither will you be."

You whimpered against him, caught between the intoxicating pull of his dominance and the faint voice of reason urging you to stop. But when his hand slipped to your waist, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above your gown’s neckline, that voice was drowned out by the pounding of your heart.

“Say the word,” George murmured, his lips hovering above yours, his hazel eyes burning into yours with an intensity that left you breathless. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t…” His hand slid lower, his touch igniting a fire in you that you hadn’t known existed. “Then you’re mine.”

Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his hand tightened on your waist, anchoring you to him. The weight of his words, the promise in his gaze, left you teetering on the edge of a decision that could change everything.

And yet, when your voice finally emerged, it wasn’t a command to stop.

It was his name—a whisper, a surrender, a plea.

“George.”

The sheriff's grin widened as your whispered plea left your lips, his hazel eyes darkening with intent. His hands, strong and deliberate, slid down your sides, tracing the curves of your body as if committing them to memory. You trembled under his touch, unsure of what he intended, your innocence leaving you vulnerable to the overwhelming sensations he stirred within you.

"Relax, little bird," George murmured, his baritone voice low and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. "Let me show you what it means to be truly desired."

Before you could respond, he sank to his knees before you, his hooked nose brushing against the fabric of your gown as he pressed a kiss to your hip. Your breath hitched, your cheeks burning as you looked down at him in confusion and growing anticipation. His long black hair fell over his face as he began to raise the skirts of your dress, exposing the bare skin of your thighs to the cool air.

"George," you stammered, your voice trembling. "What… what are you doing?"

He didn’t answer immediately, his fingers deftly sliding under your skirts, pulling them higher and higher until the cool air kissed the bare skin of your legs. His touch was firm yet gentle, commanding yet reverent, and the contrast made your heart race. When his hands reached your underwear, he paused, his hazel eyes glinting with a wicked gleam as he looked up at you.

“Trust me,” he said, his voice dripping with sinful promise. Then, without waiting for your permission, he hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric and pulled it down. You gasped, your cheeks flaming as the intimate garment slipped down your legs, pooling around your ankles.

"George!" you exclaimed, mortified yet unable to look away.

"Shh," he soothed, his smirk never faltering. "I’ll take care of you, little bird. You’ve spent so long imagining what it would feel like. Let me show you."

Before you could protest further, he gently lifted one of your legs, guiding it over his broad shoulder. His grip was steady, his movements confident, as if he had done this a thousand times before. Your hands flew to his shoulders for balance, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps as you felt the heat of his breath against your most intimate places.

“George, please,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were pleading for him to stop or to continue.

“You’ll thank me soon enough,” he growled, his voice muffled as he pressed his mouth to your center.

The sensation was unlike anything you had ever imagined. His tongue moved with practiced precision, teasing and tasting as he explored every inch of you. Your head fell back, a soft moan escaping your lips as your body reacted to the unfamiliar yet intoxicating pleasure. You tried to look at him, to see the man who was unraveling you so completely, but he was hidden beneath the skirts of your dress. All you could see was the faint movement of fabric, the telltale shifts and ripples as he worked his magic.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place as his tongue delved deeper, circling and flicking with a skill that left you trembling. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds of your pleasure, but it was no use. The moans spilled from you uncontrollably, each one louder than the last, until you could no longer hold back.

"George!" you cried out, your voice a mix of shock and ecstasy.

He growled against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through your body. His grip tightened, his pace quickening as he drank in every sound, every tremble, every gasp that escaped you. It was as if he was devouring you, his hunger insatiable, his determination relentless.

“You taste sweeter than I ever imagined,” he muttered, his voice husky and low. "I could stay here forever, little bird, savoring every moment of you."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the raw, primal edge to his tone both thrilling and terrifying. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your body arching against him as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak.

"George, I—" you began, but your words were lost in a cry of pure bliss as he pushed you over the edge.

Your body trembled, your legs threatening to give out, but George held you steady, his mouth never leaving you as he prolonged your pleasure.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, you leaned heavily against the wall, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. George, still kneeling before you, shifted beneath your skirts, his hands brushing your thighs as he attempted to extricate himself from the voluminous fabric. His muffled grumble reached your ears, laced with frustration and amusement.

“Damn women and their cursed skirts,” he muttered, his voice partially muffled. “How is a man meant to breathe under here?”

You let out a breathless laugh, your cheeks flushing as you reached down to help him. Your hands shook slightly as you gathered the layers of your dress, pulling them up and over his head. When his face finally emerged, his long black hair was mussed, his hazel eyes gleaming with mischief, and his beard—his beard was glistening with evidence of what he had done to you.

“Better,” George said, his lips curling into a smirk. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch lingering. “Now, where were we?”

Your cheeks burned as he leaned in, his gaze fixed on you with a predatory hunger. “I could give you more, little bird,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “If you want it. If you’re brave enough to ask.”

Your heart raced, and for a moment, you were tempted. But then reality crashed down on you, and you shook your head, your voice trembling as you whispered, “I… I can’t. This… this is still my husband’s.”

George froze, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly before he let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Your husband?” he repeated, standing to his full height. His imposing frame towered over you, and his expression was a mix of amusement and annoyance. “You mean the husband you don’t have yet?”

He gestured to his face, his beard glistening with your essence, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. “Because, from where I’m standing, little bird, you’ve already given something of yourself to me. Or are you planning to tell your future husband about how the Sheriff of Nottingham made you cry out his name?”

Your breath caught, your cheeks flaming with humiliation and lingering desire. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” George replied smoothly, his tone softening as he cupped your face in his hands. His thumbs brushed your flushed cheeks, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. “I’m not a patient man, but for you, I’ll make an exception.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

George leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against yours as his lips hovered just a breath away. “I’ll speak to your father,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I’ll negotiate the dowry myself. If taking you to my bed means putting a ring on your finger, so be it.”

Your eyes widened, your heart skipping a beat. “You’d… you’d marry me? Just for—”

“Just for your virginity?” George interrupted with a sly smirk. “No, little bird. For you. All of you. Your body, your mind, your fire. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you. And now that I’ve had a taste…” His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “I won’t settle for anything less.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” George replied, his voice firm. “I don’t make a habit of sharing what’s mine. And you, my sweet little bird, will be mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone sent a shiver down your spine, but you couldn’t deny the thrill it sparked within you. “And what if my father refuses?” you asked, your voice trembling.

George chuckled darkly, his hazel eyes gleaming with confidence. “He won’t. Not when I offer him more gold than he’s ever dreamed of.” He paused, his grin softening into something almost tender. “You’re worth every coin, and more.”

Your heart raced as his words sank in, the weight of his declaration leaving you breathless. Could he truly mean it? Could the Sheriff of Nottingham—a man known for his ruthlessness and cunning—be willing to marry you just to claim you as his own?

Before you could respond, George leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Prepare yourself, little bird. Once I have you, I won’t let you go. Ever.”

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #sheriff of nottingham x reader #sheriff of nottingham

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muiitoloko · 9 months ago

Note

hi, i love your work, you're one of my favourite writers and you're seriously amazing<33

could i please request a sheriff of nottingham x reader?? maybe with some angst thrown into the mix<3

it's okay if you don't do requests, i understand

i still adore your fics, they always make my day better<333

Title: Beneath the Veil

Summary: Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still a chance for redemption amidst the darkness of Nottingham Castle.

Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Violence, insult, infidelity, angst and Smut.

Author's Notes: Thank you so much for your kind words! It means a lot to hear that you enjoy my stories. I'm thrilled to accommodate your request for a Sheriff of Nottingham x reader fic. Your support truly brightens my day! 💖📝

As you listened to the maids gossiping about the Sheriff's indiscretions, your heart sank deeper into despair. The pain of knowing that your husband had never respected your marriage pierced your soul like a dagger, and the cruel words of the maids only added salt to the wound.

"I heard the Sheriff brought another woman to his chambers last night," one maid whispered, her voice tinged with pity.

"Of course he did," another scoffed, "have you seen Lady [Your Name]? It's no wonder the Sheriff prefers the company of other women."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you pressed yourself against the wall, hidden from view but unable to escape the cruel words echoing in your mind. The memory of the scar on your face, a permanent reminder of a childhood accident, burned with shame and self-loathing.

Your mind drifted back to that fateful day when your brother's playful antics had left you disfigured and marked for life. You had been just a child, innocent and carefree, until fate had intervened with a cruel twist of destiny.

"I'll pretend you're the dragon!" your brother had exclaimed, swinging your father's sword with reckless abandon. But his aim had been off, and the blade had sliced across your face, leaving behind a jagged scar that marred your once-beautiful features.

From that day forward, you had hidden behind veils and masks, shielding yourself from the cruel gaze of the world. Your father, desperate to salvage your future, had offered a generous dowry to any man willing to take you as his wife. And the Sheriff, seduced by the promise of wealth, had accepted, never caring for the woman beneath the veil.

As the maids continued their gossip, your heart ached with the weight of loneliness and despair. You longed for a love that would see past your scars, a love that would cherish you for who you truly were. But in the cold, unforgiving halls of Nottingham Castle, such dreams were but fleeting illusions.

With a heavy heart, you retreated to the solitude of your chambers, the echoes of the maids' laughter ringing in your ears. In the darkness, you wept for the love you had never known, for the husband who had never seen you as anything more than a pawn in his game of power and greed. And as the tears flowed freely down your cheeks, you vowed to never let the world see the pain that lay hidden behind your veil.

Later that night, as you sat alone in your chamber, the comforting click of knitting needles filling the air, you found solace in the rhythmic motion of your hands. Knitting had become a sanctuary for you, a way to escape the harsh realities of your existence within the castle walls.

Lost in thought, you focused on the delicate stitches forming beneath your fingers, each loop a small refuge from the pain that haunted you. The doll you were crafting slowly took shape, its form a testament to the love and care you poured into every stitch.

You had befriended the daughter of one of the maids, a sweet child with a smile that could light up the darkest of days. It was for her that you knitted the doll, hoping to bring a glimmer of joy to her young heart amidst the shadows of the castle.

As you continued to knit, your mind drifted back to the day you had first met her. She had been playing in the courtyard, her laughter echoing through the air like a song of innocence. And when she had approached you, unafraid of the veil that concealed your scar, something within you had stirred.

But before you could dwell too long on the memories, the side door connecting your chambers to your husband's suddenly swung open, and the Sheriff himself stumbled in, his movements unsteady and his eyes glazed with drink.

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him, unsure of what to expect. The Sheriff rarely ventured into your chambers, preferring to keep his distance from a wife he saw as little more than a bargaining chip.

But tonight was different, his presence filling the room with a tension you could almost taste. You could smell the sharp tang of ale on his breath as he approached you, his gaze lingering on your face with a mixture of disdain and something else you couldn't quite place.

"What are you doing here, woman?" he slurred, his words slurred and his voice thick with intoxication. "Shouldn't you be off hiding in the shadows like the coward you are?"

You lowered your gaze, your fingers stilling on the needles as you braced yourself for his cruelty. But to your surprise, the Sheriff's tone softened, his eyes narrowing as he took in the doll you held in your hands.

"What's this?" he demanded, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Some pathetic attempt at charity? Who is it for, hmm? Another one of your pitiful schemes to garner favor?"

You quickly looked away, keeping your scar hidden as best as you could, not wanting him to see the source of his disdain. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his presence suffocating you.

The Sheriff's brow furrowed in annoyance at your lack of response. "You know what I want," he replied sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You tensed, your heart sinking even further as you realized what he was implying. Perhaps tonight, you had hoped, he would spare you this indignity, this painful reminder of your worthlessness in his eyes. But your hopes were quickly dashed as reality crashed down upon you like a wave of despair.

With a heavy sigh, you obeyed his command, slowly removing your clothes and climbing onto the bed, hiding your face in the pillows as you waited for him to take what he wanted.

The Sheriff watched you with a mixture of disgust and indifference, not bothering to hide his contempt as he undressed and climbed into bed behind you. It was always the same, the same position, the same routine, devoid of any pleasure or intimacy.

As he entered you roughly, you bit back a cry of pain, your body tensing against the intrusion. You couldn't understand how some women could enjoy such acts, could find pleasure in the harshness of it all. For you, it was simply a nightmare, a cruel punishment inflicted upon you by a husband who cared nothing for your well-being.

The Sheriff showed no mercy, his movements rough and hurried as he sought only his own release. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to endure until it was over, until you were once again alone in the darkness of your chamber.

And finally, mercifully, it was over. The Sheriff grunted in satisfaction, pulling away from you without a word, his disdain palpable in the air. You heard the rustle of fabric as he dressed himself, the click of the door as he left without a backward glance.

Alone once more, you curled into yourself, tears streaming down your face as you clung to the only comfort you had left—the comforting click of knitting needles, weaving a fragile thread of hope amidst the darkness of your despair.

As the days passed, the oppressive atmosphere of Nottingham Castle remained unchanged. The Sheriff's indiscretions continued unabated, his cruel words and actions a constant reminder of your marginalized existence within the walls of the castle.

That night, as the grand banquet commenced, you found yourself once again relegated to the sidelines, your veil shrouding your face as you observed the festivities from afar. Your husband, reveling in the company of his guests, showed no regard for your presence, his attention focused solely on his own pleasure.

As he drank, laughed, and indulged in the company of other women, you sat silently at the table, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The sound of his boisterous laughter grated on your nerves, a stark contrast to the heavy weight of loneliness that settled in your chest.

A young lord, curious about your veiled visage, dared to question why you weren't partaking in the feast. But before you could respond, the Sheriff intercepted with a mocking jest, his words dripping with contempt as he belittled your appearance.

"No, no," he chortled, a cruel smirk twisting his lips, "I assure you, my dear lord, no one would wish to gaze upon such a sight. Trust me, it's a horror beyond imagination."

The woman perched on your husband's lap laughed lightly at his jest, her hands caressing his chest as she showered him with affection. You forced a smile, burying your pain deep within as you remained silent, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing your tears.

As the festivities continued, your attention was drawn to Emily, the sweet child you had befriended. You watched with concern as she struggled to serve the lords, the weight of the wine jug proving too much for her fragile frame.

When one of the lords raised his hand to strike her for a minor spill, you could no longer stand idly by. Rising from your seat with determination, you intervened, placing yourself between Emily and her assailant.

"No!" you exclaimed, your voice firm and commanding as you shielded Emily from harm, "You will not lay a hand on her."

The furious lord stood up and shouted at you, his face contorted with rage. The sheriff's brow furrowed in annoyance at the commotion. Ignoring the woman on his lap who was still showering him with kisses, he focused his attention on the unfolding scene before him.

"Enough!" he barked, his voice cutting through the air like a whip as he rose from his seat, his dark mood surfacing with palpable intensity. "What is the meaning of this disturbance?"

The lord turned to the Sheriff, his anger unabated as he pointed an accusing finger in your direction. "Sheriff, this woman dares to defy me, to interfere with my rightful authority over the servants. She must be punished!"

The Sheriff's eyes narrowed, his gaze flickering briefly to you before returning to the lord. "Is that so?" he replied, his tone laced with cold authority, "And what offense has my wife committed to warrant your ire?"

The lord sputtered in outrage, struggling to find words as he floundered under the Sheriff's piercing stare. But before he could respond, the Sheriff intervened once more, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Leave her be," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument as he fixed the lord with a steely gaze, "I will not tolerate such petty displays of power in my presence. Return to your seat, and let this matter be forgotten."

The lord hesitated for a moment, his pride wounded by the Sheriff's rebuke, but ultimately, he relented, shooting you a venomous glare before retreating to his place at the table.

As the room fell silent once more, the Sheriff turned his attention to you, his expression unreadable as he regarded you with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. And in that moment, you saw something in his eyes that gave you pause, a glimmer of something unexpected beneath the veneer of his usual indifference.

Feeling a sense of gratitude wash over you at your husband's intervention, you seized the opportunity to act. Without another word, you quickly made your way to Emily's side, offering her a reassuring smile as you guided her out of the room, grateful for the chance to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the banquet hall.

Later, as you reflected on the events of the evening in the quiet solitude of your chambers, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude towards the Sheriff for coming to your aid. Despite the complexities of your relationship, his actions had shown a rare glimpse of compassion, one that you couldn't ignore.

Perhaps, you thought to yourself, there was more to your husband than met the eye. And as you contemplated the possibility of thanking him later, you couldn't help but wonder if there was still hope for understanding and connection amidst the shadows of Nottingham Castle.

A soft creak echoed from his bedroom, followed by the gentle click of the door closing. Hope flickered within you, prompting you to hasten to the side door that led to her husband's bedroom, eager to convey your appreciation.

But before you could reach for the handle, the muffled laughter of women emanating from inside halted you in your tracks. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of your stomach as the reality of your husband's actions washed over you once again.

Your footsteps faltered, and you withdrew from the door, the weight of disappointment pressing down on you like a heavy burden. With a heavy heart, you turned away, retreating to the solitude of your bed as you sought to drown out the sounds of your husband's revelry with other women.

As the laughter grew louder, echoing through the walls of the castle, you buried your face in your hands, tears stinging your eyes as you grappled with the pain of betrayal. Once again, the cruel reminder of your husband's infidelity shattered whatever fragile hope had begun to take root in your heart.

Feeling a wave of sadness wash over you, you closed your eyes and tried to shut out the world, seeking solace in the darkness of your own thoughts. But no matter how hard you tried to block out the sounds, they persisted, a constant reminder of the loneliness and despair that plagued your existence within the castle walls.

With a heavy sigh, you resigned yourself to another night of solitude, the echoes of your husband's laughter mingling with the distant sound of your own muffled sobs. In the silence of your chambers, you clung to the fleeting hope that someday, somehow, you might find a way to break free from the chains that bound you to this life of misery and betrayal.

And then, unexpectedly as the days passed, the atmosphere within Nottingham Castle grew increasingly tense. The Sheriff’s mysterious illness had left him bedridden and delirious with fever. His aggressive outbursts terrified the maids who attempted to tend to him.

You remained isolated in your chambers, indifferent to the Sheriff's plight, convincing yourself that he didn't deserve your care or concern. But deep down, a part of you still couldn't shake the lingering sense of worry and compassion for the man who was your husband, despite everything.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the castle grounds, a frantic knocking at your door shattered the silence of your solitude. Startled, you rose from your seat by the fire, your heart pounding in your chest as you made your way to answer the summons.

Opening the door, you were greeted by the sight of one of the maids, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear. "Lady [Your Name]," she gasped, her voice trembling with urgency, "the Sheriff... he's taken a turn for the worse. We can't... we don't know what to do..."

Without waiting for her to finish, you pushed past her, a sense of dread settling in the pit of your stomach as you hurried towards the Sheriff's chambers. As you entered the dimly lit room, the sight that greeted you made your blood run cold.

The Sheriff lay sprawled across the bed, his long black hair matted with sweat and his brow furrowed in pain. His eyes, normally sharp and piercing, were clouded with fever-induced delirium, and his once-strong frame seemed frail and vulnerable beneath the layers of blankets.

"Get away from me, you wretched wench!" he snarled, his voice hoarse and guttural as he thrashed about in a fever-induced frenzy, "I'll have your head for this!"

The maids cowered in fear at his aggressive outburst, shrinking back against the walls as they attempted to evade his flailing limbs. But you remained undeterred, steeling yourself against the Sheriff's aggression as you approached the bed with determined resolve.

"Enough," you commanded, your voice firm and unwavering as you reached out to restrain him, "You will not harm these women. They are here to help you, whether you like it or not."

The Sheriff's eyes widened in momentary surprise at your defiance, his struggles faltering as he regarded you with a mix of confusion and disbelief. But before he could respond, a violent fit of coughing wracked his body, leaving him gasping for breath and weak with exhaustion.

As the maids rushed to his side with water and herbs, you took charge of the situation, issuing orders and directing their efforts with calm authority. Despite your reservations and the lingering resentment you harbored towards the Sheriff, you couldn't stand by and watch him suffer without trying to help.

Day by day, you faithfully stood by the Sheriff's side, attending to his needs and diligently observing his condition. Despite his initial resistance and aggression, he gradually grew more accepting of your presence, his fever-induced delirium giving way to moments of clarity and lucidity.

As you sat next to the Sheriff's bed, your fingers moved deftly over the knitting needles, the soft click-click of the yarn providing a comforting rhythm in the dimly lit chamber. The Sheriff lay still, his brow furrowed in discomfort despite the damp cloth you had placed on his forehead to soothe his fever.

"What are you doing?" His voice, rough and hoarse, cut through the silence, breaking your concentration.

You glanced up from your knitting, meeting the Sheriff's brown eyes with a mixture of concern and determination. "I'm knitting," you replied simply, your tone absentminded as you focused on your task, "a blanket, for you."

The Sheriff's gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable as he processed your words. "A blanket?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper as he struggled to find his voice amidst the fog of illness.

You nodded, your fingers never pausing in their work as you explained, "Yes, you said you felt very cold. I thought... I thought a warmer blanket might help."

For a moment, there was silence between you, the only sound the steady rhythm of your knitting needles. Then, the Sheriff spoke again, his voice low and hesitant, "Why... why are you still wearing that veil?"

Before you could respond, the Sheriff continued, his tone softer this time, almost gentle in its insistence. "We're alone, [Your Name]," he murmured, his brown eyes meeting yours with a mixture of sympathy and understanding, "You don't need to wear the veil while it's just the two of us."

His words struck a chord within you, stirring a sense of vulnerability that you had long buried beneath layers of self-preservation. With trembling fingers, you reached up to loosen the veil that concealed your scar, setting it aside with a mixture of reluctance and resignation.

As you hesitantly met the Sheriff's gaze, you saw something flicker behind his eyes, a fleeting moment of vulnerability that mirrored your own. But before you could dwell too long on the significance of the moment, he looked away, his attention drifting to the flickering flames of the hearth.

You felt your heart sink at his dismissal, the weight of disappointment settling heavily in your chest. But you refused to cry, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing your pain. Instead, you turned away, retreating into the familiar comfort of your knitting, the rhythmic click-click of the needles a soothing balm for your wounded soul.

In the silence that followed, you couldn't help but wonder what lay beneath the Sheriff's stoic facade. You knew that he carried his own burdens, his own secrets and regrets hidden behind the mask of authority and power. And as you sat with your back to him, lost in your thoughts, you couldn't help but wonder if there was more to him than met the eye.

Meanwhile, the Sheriff's mind drifted back to memories of his mother, a distant figure from his childhood who had been both loving and strict in equal measure. He remembered the way she used to knit by the fire, her hands moving deftly over the needles as she crafted blankets and scarves with care and precision.

The memory of her gentle touch and comforting presence brought a pang of longing to his heart, a reminder of the love he had lost long ago. And as he watched you sitting by the fire, lost in your own world of needles and yarn, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of something unfamiliar stirring within him.

For the first time in years, the Sheriff found himself questioning the walls he had built around his heart, wondering if perhaps there was still room for warmth and compassion amidst the cold, unforgiving halls of Nottingham Castle. And as he watched you knit, a sense of hope blossomed within him, a flickering flame of possibility amidst the shadows of his past.

Later that night, as the flickering flames of the hearth cast dancing shadows across the chamber, the Sheriff's fevered dreams transported him back to his childhood home. In his delirium, he called out for his mother, his voice raw with desperation as he reached out into the darkness, seeking the comforting embrace of her presence.

You stirred from your sleep at the sound of his anguished cries, your heart twisting with sympathy as you watched him twitch and thrash in his fevered state. With gentle hands, you reached out to shake him awake, whispering soothing words of reassurance as you tried to calm his restless slumber.

"Shh, it's alright," you murmured, your voice soft and gentle as you brushed a lock of his unruly black hair away from his fever-flushed face, "You're safe here, Sheriff. It's just a dream."

But the Sheriff's delirium persisted, his cries growing louder as he begged for his mother's presence, his brown eyes wide with fear and confusion. In his fevered state, he mistook you for her, reaching out to grasp your hand with a desperate urgency that tore at your heartstrings.

"Mother, don't leave me," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion as he clung to you with a desperation that spoke of long-buried pain and longing, "Please, I need you."

Your heart ached at his distress, the weight of his suffering pressing down on you like a heavy burden. But you refused to let him succumb to his nightmares, determined to bring him back to reality with whatever means necessary.

With a sense of resolve, you assumed the role of his mother, your voice taking on a gentle lilt as you spoke to him with soothing words of comfort and reassurance. "There, there, Sheriff," you murmured, your tone soft and maternal as you stroked his fevered brow, "Everything will be alright. Mother's here, just like always."

But the Sheriff's fevered mind refused to accept your presence, his delusions clouding his perception as he continued to beg for his mother's return. "Mother, please," he pleaded, his voice breaking with despair as he clung to you with trembling hands, "Don't leave me alone. Not again."

You felt a pang of sadness at his words, a glimpse into the depths of his pain and loneliness that he had kept hidden from the world. But you refused to let him drown in despair, refusing to let him suffer alone in the darkness of his past.

"Shh, George," you whispered, your voice gentle but firm as you looked into his eyes with unwavering determination, "It's alright. I'm here with you, just like I promised. You're not alone, Sheriff. You never will be."

For a moment, there was silence between you, the only sound the soft rustle of blankets as the Sheriff's breathing gradually steadied. And as he looked up at you with tear-filled eyes, a flicker of recognition sparked behind the haze of his delirium.

"Mother?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out to touch your face with trembling fingers, "Is it... is it really you?"

You nodded, your own eyes brimming with tears as you gazed into his, "Yes, George," you replied, your voice tender and full of compassion, "It's me. I'm here for you, just like always."

But the Sheriff shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. "No," he protested, his voice growing more insistent with each passing moment, "You're not... you can't be... my mother. My mother is..."

His voice trailed off, his gaze distant as memories from his past flooded his mind with overwhelming intensity. And as he looked at you with a mixture of longing and despair, you realized the depth of his pain, the wounds of his childhood still raw and unhealed after all these years.

With a heavy heart, you reached out to him, your hand trembling slightly as you brushed his fevered brow with gentle fingers. "You're right, George," you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur, "I'm not your mother. But I am your wife, and I'll take care of you."

The Sheriff's brown eyes flickered with recognition as he gazed up at you, his expression softening with a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. And in that moment, you saw something shift within him, a glimmer of understanding and acceptance that transcended the barriers of his fevered delusions.

But as you leaned in closer, your heart pounding in your chest, the Sheriff's gaze suddenly shifted to your face, his eyes lingering on the scar that marred your features. And before you could brace yourself for his reaction, he spoke, his voice hoarse and raw with emotion.

"You're ugly," he whispered, his words like a dagger to your heart as you recoiled from his cruel assessment. The pain of his rejection cut deep, reopening old wounds that had never fully healed, and you felt the sting of tears welling up in your eyes.

Without a word, you turned away, your shoulders trembling with the weight of his harsh words. The veil of self-preservation that you had carefully constructed around your heart threatened to crumble, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in the wake of his callous dismissal.

But before you could retreat further into the shadows of your despair, the Sheriff reached out, his hand wrapping around your wrist with unexpected tenderness. "Wait," he implored, his voice soft but determined as he pulled you back towards him, "Don't go. I... I don't want to be alone."

You hesitated, torn between the instinct to protect yourself and the overwhelming urge to comfort him in his time of need. And as you looked into his brown eyes, searching for a glimmer of sincerity amidst the darkness of his words, you saw something shift within him, a flicker of remorse and regret that mirrored your own.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire, "I didn't mean... I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, stay. I need you."

His words touched something deep within you, stirring a sense of compassion and empathy that you hadn't felt in a long time. And as you gazed into his eyes, seeing the pain and vulnerability hidden beneath the mask of authority and power, you knew that you couldn't turn your back on him, not now, not when he needed you the most.

With a heavy sigh, you relented, nodding your head in silent agreement as you wiped away the tears that stained your cheeks. "I'll stay," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper, "I'll take care of you, George. You're not alone."

And as you reached for your veil, the familiar weight of its fabric settling against your skin, you felt a sense of resignation wash over you. You would hide your scar, bury them beneath layers of silk and lace, to spare him from the ugliness of your past.

But as you adjusted the veil over your face, obscuring your scar from his view, you couldn't help but wonder if there was still hope for understanding and acceptance amidst the shadows of Nottingham Castle. And as you settled back into your seat by the fire, knitting needles in hand, you knew that whatever the future held, you would face it together, scar and all.

Days later, as the sun cast its golden rays across the stone walls of Nottingham Castle, the Sheriff finally showed signs of recovery from his illness. Though his body remained weak, the fever that had plagued him for days had finally broken, leaving him with a newfound sense of clarity and strength.

You stood by his bedside, helping him dress and offering words of encouragement as he struggled to regain his strength. Despite the lingering traces of exhaustion that still clung to him, there was a glimmer of determination in his eyes, a silent resolve to overcome the ordeal that had nearly claimed his life.

As you adjusted his garments, there came a sharp rap at the bedroom door, the sound echoing through the chamber like a gunshot. The Sheriff's brow furrowed in annoyance at the interruption, but he waved you aside with a dismissive gesture, granting permission for the visitor to enter.

The door swung open, revealing the imposing figure of Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his tall frame silhouetted against the light streaming in from the corridor. His sharp features were set in a mask of concern, his piercing gaze fixed on the Sheriff as he stepped into the room with purposeful strides.

"Sheriff," Sir Guy began, his voice a deep rumble that filled the chamber with authority, "I've come to check on your condition. I trust that you're feeling better?"

The Sheriff nodded curtly, his gaze steady as he regarded his loyal lieutenant with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. "Yes, Sir Guy," he replied, his voice raspy but resolute, "I'm on the mend, thanks to Lady [Your Name]'s care."

At the mention of your name, Sir Guy's eyes flickered briefly in your direction, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of you assisting the Sheriff. And then, as if noticing something for the first time, his gaze lingered on your face, his brow furrowing in confusion.

You felt a surge of apprehension as Sir Guy's eyes roved over your features, the scar on your face laid bare for all to see. The silence stretched between you, thick with tension and unspoken judgment, until finally, Sir Guy broke the uneasy stillness with a low chuckle.

"Well, well," he remarked, his tone laced with amusement, "So this is why you wear that veil. I must say, Sheriff, I've never seen anything quite so... striking."

Sheriff narrowed his eyes at Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his brow furrowing in confusion and irritation at the man's cryptic remark. "What do you mean?" he demanded, his voice low and tense with suspicion.

Sir Guy of Gisbourne smiled, a cold smirk twisting his lips as he met the Sheriff's gaze with icy indifference. "I mean exactly what I said, cousin," he replied, his tone dripping with disdain, "I've never seen anything quite so ugly in all my life."

The Sheriff's eyes widened in shock at Sir Guy's brutal assessment, his stomach churning with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "What are you talking about?" he growled, his voice rough with suppressed rage.

Sir Guy's smile widened, a cruel glint in his eyes as he stepped closer to the Sheriff, his voice laced with mockery. "Oh, come now, George," he taunted, "Surely even you can't deny the truth. I've heard the rumors, seen the way you've kept her hidden away like a shameful secret. And now that I've seen her face for myself, I understand why."

The Sheriff saw red, his vision clouded with a haze of rage as he took a step towards Sir Guy, his fists clenched in readiness for a fight. He didn't know where he found the strength, the courage to defy his loyal lieutenant, but in that moment, all he could see was red, all he could feel was the burning need to defend his honor, his wife's honor, against Sir Guy's cruel words.

With a primal roar of rage, the Sheriff launched himself at Sir Guy, his fists flying in a flurry of punches aimed at the other man's face. He saw the shock in Sir Guy's eyes, the moment of realization that he had pushed the Sheriff too far, but it was too late for apologies, too late for remorse.

As the Sheriff rained blow after blow upon Sir Guy's face, his mind filled with a white-hot fury that consumed him from within. He didn't care about the consequences, didn't care about the pain he inflicted, all he cared about was the burning need to defend his wife's honor, to silence the mockery and scorn that had plagued her for far too long.

But as he struck Sir Guy again and again, his rage slowly gave way to exhaustion, his strength waning with each passing moment. And it was only when he heard your voice, your shocked and horrified cries echoing through the chamber, that he finally came to his senses, the haze of anger dissipating like fog in the morning sun.

And as Sir Guy of Gisbourne fled the room, nursing his bruised face, you turned your attention to the Sheriff, who stood before you with a mixture of anger and confusion etched across his features. His brown eyes blazed with intensity, his long unruly black hair framing his face as he glared at you with barely restrained fury.

"Why did you stop me?" he demanded, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that filled the chamber with authority. "I was defending your honor, [Your Name]."

You recoiled at his words, disbelief washing over you like a tidal wave. "Defending my honor?" you repeated incredulously, your voice tinged with anger. "You were defending my honor?"

You took a step closer to him, your gaze locked with his as you struggled to contain the torrent of emotions raging within you. "You're the first to make fun of me, to call me ugly, to mock my scar," you spat, the bitterness of years of hurt and resentment boiling to the surface. "Did you really think I didn't know why you only fuck me from behind? You're disgusted to look at my face, so what does it matter if more people call me ugly?"

The Sheriff's expression faltered, his anger giving way to a stunned silence as he grappled with your accusations. He opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, unable to find the right words to defend himself against your searing indictment.

Finally, he shook his head, his gaze falling to the floor as shame washed over him like a tidal wave. "I... I don't know what to say," he murmured, his voice barely audible above a whisper. "I didn't realize... I didn't mean to..."

But you cut him off with a sharp gesture, your patience wearing thin in the face of his hypocrisy. "Save it," you snapped, your voice dripping with contempt. "I don't want to hear your excuses."

It was too late for apologies, too late for redemption.

"Leave," he ordered, his voice raw with emotion as he struggled to hold back the flood of regret threatening to consume him. "Just... leave."

And with one final glance over your shoulder, you obeyed, disappearing through the side door that led to your bedroom, leaving the Sheriff alone with his thoughts and the weight of his mistakes. As you slammed the door behind you, the sound reverberated through the chamber like a final, damning verdict, sealing the fate of your fractured relationship with the Sheriff of Nottingham.

As the days passed, you and the Sheriff remained distant, avoiding each other's presence whenever possible. Meals were taken separately, with you retreating to the privacy of your bedroom to eat alone, concealing your face from prying eyes. Meanwhile, the Sheriff sat alone at the table, his appetite waning as he watched the servants tend to his needs, a pang of loneliness gnawing at his heart.

For the first time since your marriage, the Sheriff realized the emptiness of his solitary meals. He had never shared a meal with you, never sat across from you and shared in the simple pleasures of conversation and companionship. But he had never cared before, content to keep you at arm's length, to avoid the sight of your scarred face.

As he chewed his food in silence, the Sheriff made a decision. It was time to bridge the gap between you, to make amends for his past mistakes and reach out to you in a way he had never dared before.

That night, he came to your bedroom, his footsteps hesitant as he approached the door. You didn't look at him as he entered, your gaze fixed on the wall as you questioned his presence.

"It's time," he said simply, his voice tinged with a mixture of determination and uncertainty. "Time to try again."

You sighed, a mix of resignation and annoyance coloring your response. But you nodded, understanding his meaning as you began to undress and prepare for what you knew would come next.

To your surprise, the Sheriff stopped you, his hand gentle as he reached out to touch your face. "No," he said softly, his brown eyes meeting yours with a newfound sense of vulnerability, "I want to see your face this time."

Anger flared within you at his request, the injustice of it burning hot in your chest. Did he think that seeing your face would somehow absolve him of his past cruelty, that he could use you to prove something to himself?

But as you met his gaze, you saw something in his eyes that gave you pause, a glimmer of genuine remorse and longing that tugged at your heartstrings. Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to make amends in his own flawed way.

With a heavy sigh, you relented, allowing him to see you as you truly were, scar and all. And as the Sheriff climbed between your legs, you couldn't help but feel a surge of discomfort mixed with resentment. You lay on your back, staring up at the ceiling, your mind swirling with conflicting emotions. His touch felt foreign and unwelcome, a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between you in the wake of his hurtful words.

You winced as he slowly penetrated you, the dryness causing a sharp pang of pain to shoot through your body. Unlike the prostitutes he was accustomed to, you were not prepared, not eager to please him in this moment. But he pressed on, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort as he sought his own pleasure.

As he moved within you, you gritted your teeth against the pain, the grimace on your face not lost on the Sheriff. He watched you intently, his brow furrowing with concern as he realized the extent of your discomfort.

Deciding to try and please you in some way, he tentatively pressed his thumb against your clit, eliciting a surprised gasp from your lips. You looked at him with a mix of embarrassment and confusion, questioning his unexpected action.

He met your gaze with a slight tilt of his head, a hint of amusement dancing in his brown eyes. "Have you never touched yourself?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, the baritone rumble sending shivers down your spine.

Blushing furiously, you shook your head, denying his assumption. "No," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the sound of your own heartbeat. "I was taught... my body belongs to my husband. I was never... encouraged to... explore such things."

The Sheriff's expression softened, a pang of guilt tugging at his heart as he realized the extent of your innocence and naivety. He had never considered the possibility that you had never experienced pleasure in such a basic way, that you had been denied the simple joys of self-discovery and exploration.

He decided to change that today. The Sheriff's touch grew more confident and purposeful as he explored your body, his fingers dancing over your sensitive skin with practiced ease. With each caress, you felt a wave of pleasure wash over you, your body responding eagerly to his ministrations.

As he teased your clit, you couldn't help but squirm beneath him, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. Your eyes remained closed, lost in the sensation of his touch, soft moans escaping your lips as you gave in to the pleasure that coursed through your veins.

For the first time, the Sheriff found himself captivated by your beauty, the scar on your face fading into insignificance as he watched your expression contort with pleasure. In that moment, he realized that your scar didn't define you; they only added to your allure, making you all the more irresistible in his eyes.

With a newfound sense of reverence, the Sheriff leaned in to worship you, his lips trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You cried out in pleasure as he took one of your breasts into his mouth, the sensation sending sparks of electricity coursing through your body.

As he played with you, his fingers exploring every inch of your skin, he could feel how wet you were, your arousal evident in the way you clenched around him. With a sense of satisfaction, he realized that he was the one bringing you this pleasure, the one who could make you scream his name in ecstasy.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice low and husky as he gazed into your eyes, searching for a sign of approval. And when you complied, meeting his gaze with a mixture of desire and uncertainty, he smiled, a sense of triumph coursing through him.

"It's good, isn't it?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty as he awaited your response.

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the overwhelming pleasure that consumed you. But your actions spoke volumes as you arched against him, your body craving more of his touch, more of his love.

Encouraged by your response, the Sheriff leaned in to capture your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue darting out to explore the depths of your mouth with a hunger that took your breath away. It was unlike any kiss you had ever experienced, wild and uninhibited, as if he wanted to consume you whole.

You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled by the intensity of his kiss, your hands reaching up to tangle in his long, unruly hair. And as you kissed him back with equal fervor, you felt a sense of connection, a bond forged in the heat of passion and desire.

As the Sheriff's lips met yours in a fervent kiss, something shifted within him, a realization dawning with startling clarity. In that moment, amidst the heat of passion and the tangled embrace of your bodies, he understood.

He wanted you.

Not just in a physical sense, though the desire burned within him with an intensity he had never known. No, it was more than that. He wanted all of you – your strength, your resilience, your unwavering compassion in the face of his own shortcomings.

He loved you.

The realization hit him like a thunderbolt, fierce and indomitable, shaking him to his core. He loved you, scars and all, with a love that was raw and unrefined, untamed like the wild forests that surrounded Nottingham Castle.

He remembered the days when you had tended to him with unwavering dedication, the gentleness of your touch a balm for his fevered soul. He remembered the moments of vulnerability you had shared, the way you had looked at him with eyes full of compassion, as if seeing beyond the mask of authority to the wounded heart beneath.

And he remembered the night when he had lashed out at you with cruel words, the pain and betrayal etched in your tear-stained face. He had seen the hurt he had caused reflected in your eyes, a stark reminder of the damage he had wrought with his thoughtless actions.

But despite it all, you had stayed by his side, offering forgiveness where others would have turned away in disgust. You had shown him a kindness he didn't deserve, a love he hadn't known he craved until now.

As he kissed you with a hunger born of newfound understanding, the Sheriff vowed to make amends, to prove himself worthy of the love you had so freely given. He would show you that his love was not a fleeting fancy, but a force to be reckoned with, a flame that burned bright amidst the darkness of their fractured relationship.

And as he held you close, his heart racing with the intensity of his emotions, he knew that he would do whatever it took to win back your trust, to earn the right to call you his own.

For in that moment, amidst the tangled sheets and the tangled mess of their past, the Sheriff of Nottingham realized that he was in love with you, scars and all. And he would stop at nothing to prove it to you, to show you that his love was as fierce and untamed as the forests that surrounded their home.

As the passion between you and the Sheriff intensified, the air in the room crackled with electricity, charged with the raw desire that pulsed between you. His hands roamed over your body with a newfound confidence, his touch igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you whole.

With each kiss, each caress, the Sheriff explored you as if he were uncovering a hidden treasure, his fingers tracing the contours of your body with reverence and hunger. And as he pressed his lips against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, you gasped in pleasure, your body arching against him in silent invitation.

"Gods, you're beautiful," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "I've been blind to your beauty for far too long."

His words washed over you like a soothing balm, banishing the lingering doubts and insecurities that had plagued you for years. In that moment, all that mattered was the intense connection between you, the overwhelming desire that threatened to consume you both.

With a sense of urgency, the Sheriff lowered himself between your legs, his mouth trailing hot kisses along your thighs as he teased you with his tongue. You gasped as he delved deeper, his skilled ministrations sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

"Please," you begged, your voice a breathless whisper as you pleaded for more, "Don't stop."

But the Sheriff had no intention of stopping, not when he was so close to unlocking the secrets of your pleasure. With a wicked grin, he intensified his efforts, his tongue flicking against your clit with increasing fervor as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

You cried out his name as the first waves of pleasure crashed over you, your body convulsing in ecstasy as he continued to pleasure you with single-minded determination. And as you reached your peak, the Sheriff's name fell from your lips like a prayer, a testament to the depth of your desire for him.

But he wasn't satisfied yet, not when there was still so much more pleasure to be had. With a growl of hunger, he rose above you, his eyes dark with desire as he claimed your lips in a searing kiss.

"I need you," he whispered against your lips, his voice husky with desire as he positioned himself at your entrance. "I need to be inside you, to feel you around me."

You nodded eagerly, your own need driving you to desperation as you wrapped your legs around him, urging him to take you. And as he entered you with a single, powerful thrust, you cried out in ecstasy, the sensation of him filling you completely overwhelming your senses.

The Sheriff's movements were slow and deliberate at first, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. But as the intensity of your passion grew, so too did the pace of his movements, his hips driving against yours with increasing urgency as he sought his own release.

You matched him thrust for thrust, meeting his every movement with equal fervor as you lost yourselves in the heat of passion. And as the tension between you reached its breaking point, you cried out in unison, your bodies shuddering with the force of your shared release.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with the echoes of your pleasure, the world around you fading into insignificance as you lay entwined in each other's arms.

And as you basked in the afterglow of your lovemaking, you knew that things would never be the same between you and the Sheriff of Nottingham. But somehow, that thought didn't scare you. In fact, it filled you with a sense of hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for redemption amidst the darkness of Nottingham Castle.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #sheriff of nottingham x reader #sheriff of nottingham #robin hood

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