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muiitoloko · 2 months 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 · 13 days ago

Text

A Scoundrel’s Devotion

Summary: George has always taken what he wanted, but when his wife gives him her love freely, he finds himself at a loss—because for the first time, he wants to be worthy of it.

Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Dirty language.

Author's Notes: I think I made the sheriff very comical, and I don't know if that's good or bad.

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

You stepped through the door, closing it behind you with a soft click. The journey back from the market had been uneventful, save for the strange whispers that reached your ears the moment you passed through the castle gates. Servants murmured in hushed tones, their faces alight with barely concealed amusement and concern. The words "Sheriff... attacked Sir Guy... with a spoon?" floated through the corridors, leaving you to wonder just what kind of chaos your husband had caused in your absence.

And now, as you stood in your shared chambers, you found the source of the commotion sprawled across the bed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

George lay on his back, his long black hair spilling over the pillow, his tunic half undone as though he had barely made the effort to dress properly. His heavy black cloak lay discarded on the floor, a clear sign of his utter disregard for tidiness. One arm was thrown over his forehead in mock exhaustion, the other resting lazily on his stomach.

You exhaled sharply, bending down to retrieve the cloak, folding it with deliberate care. "So," you began, your voice laced with exasperation. "Care to explain why the entire castle is talking about you attempting to murder Sir Guy?"

George barely cracked an eye open, his lips twitching into a smug smirk. "Because he deserved it," he muttered, his voice thick with self-satisfaction. "Filthy bastard is lucky I didn’t gut him where he stood."

You placed the folded cloak on the chair by the hearth, your patience thinning. "George," you pressed, arms crossing over your chest, "what did he do this time?"

At that, George rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His hazel eyes darkened with fury, his black beard framing a scowl that promised impending doom. "He dared to insult you," he hissed, as though the very words burned his tongue. "He called you ugly. Ugly. As if I would allow such blasphemy to go unpunished."

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, but before you could respond, he sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His fists clenched against the mattress as he glared at the floor, nostrils flaring. "I will kill him," he growled. "I will make him bleed. He will beg for death before I’m through with him!"

You sighed, tilting your head in exhausted disbelief. "Oh, will you?"

George snapped his gaze up to meet yours, his anger momentarily pausing at the unimpressed expression on your face.

"George, are you planning to kill yourself, too?" you asked, voice deceptively light.

He blinked, thrown off. "What?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You heard me. If you’re going to kill Sir Guy for calling me ugly, will you also punish yourself for every cruel word you’ve ever thrown my way?" You took a step closer, eyes narrowing. "Shall I bring a blade, so you can start flaying yourself?"

George’s mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed. He genuinely seemed bewildered by your logic.

"But—that’s—" He shook his head, his long black hair falling into his face. "I thought you had forgiven me!"

"I have," you said simply, shrugging. "Just as I forgave Sir Guy."

George’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body vibrating with frustration. "It’s not the same!" he barked. "I— I am sorry! I have changed! I do everything for you now! You are the only woman I take to my bed, the only woman I desire!" He surged to his feet, closing the distance between you in three swift strides, his voice dropping into a deep, desperate growl.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the entire kingdom, my wife, my woman." His large hands gripped your waist, his touch burning through the layers of fabric. "I have given you freedoms that no other woman has, let you walk amongst the people like a queen—"

"But Sir Guy is not sorry," you countered, your hands pressing against his chest in defiance. "And that’s the real issue here, isn’t it? It’s not about my honor. It’s about yours."

George’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening.

"You can’t stand the fact that another man dared to insult what belongs to you," you whispered, challenging him.

His nostrils flared as his grip on you tightened possessively. "Damn right, I can’t." His voice dropped into that dangerous, wicked baritone, the one that always sent shivers racing down your spine. "I can’t stand the thought of anyone looking at you with anything less than worship."

"Then perhaps you should have started with yourself," you shot back, refusing to yield.

George’s breath hitched, his entire frame tensing. For the first time in a long time, you saw it—the flicker of guilt in his hazel eyes.

George stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his hazel eyes burning with a mixture of frustration, regret, and something deeper—something he couldn’t name. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just been in battle.

"I have changed for you," he said again, but his voice was weak this time, almost pleading. "But you… you don’t see it."

He turned on his heel, his long black hair whipping over his shoulder as he stormed toward the door.

"George," you called, a slight waver in your voice.

But he didn’t stop.

You took a step forward, as if to follow, but then hesitated. Perhaps it was the weight of the argument, the exhaustion of years of tension, or maybe you just knew that this time, he needed to be alone.

So you let him go.

George stormed down the twisting stone staircases of Nottingham Castle, his boots slamming against the cold floor with each step. His anger, his humiliation, his wretched love for you burned inside him like a fever. He kicked a passing rat, sending the creature squeaking down the hall. A particularly fat frog hopped across his path—he kicked that too, grumbling as it plopped into a puddle.

"Bloody rodents. Bloody frogs. Bloody wife."

At last, he reached the dungeon’s lower depths, where the air was thick with the stench of damp stone, rotting straw, and whatever hellish concoction Mortianna was brewing in her ever-bubbling cauldron.

The old witch stood over the cauldron, her long white hair hanging in tangled strands around her wrinkled face. One eye—milky and blind—stared into nothingness, while the other, sharp and brown, flicked toward George as he entered.

She did not greet him. She rarely did. Instead, she continued stirring whatever foul potion she was brewing, muttering in some forgotten tongue.

George sighed dramatically and threw himself into a dark corner of the room, his back against the damp stone wall. He pulled at the fabric of his tunic absentmindedly, a habit he had never quite outgrown, something he had done as a boy when sulking.

Mortianna, without turning around, finally spoke.

"Something troubles you, my lord?"

George scoffed, resting his head against the cold stone. "Only everything."

She nodded sagely, adding a pinch of something suspiciously wriggling into the bubbling cauldron. "A woman, then."

George groaned. "How do you always know?"

Mortianna let out a raspy chuckle, tapping the side of her nose knowingly. "Because, dear boy, lately you only come here when it’s about her."

George growled under his breath. "I love her, Mortianna. I love her like a madman. And yet… she sees me as the villain! As if I have not changed!"

Mortianna finally turned to face him fully, the dim candlelight casting grotesque shadows across her wrinkled features. She studied him for a moment before clicking her tongue.

"You are too soft," she muttered, shaking her head. "You let a woman—a woman with a scar, no less—hold such power over you? Ridiculous. Get rid of her. Take another wife. A younger one. A prettier one."

George shot to his feet, his fury immediate. "No!"

Mortianna barely flinched, only raising one thin eyebrow.

"I don’t want another," George snapped, pacing in a circle, his hands gesturing wildly. "I want her! It is her I love!"

Mortianna let out a long, heavy sigh, as if dealing with a particularly dense child.

George stopped pacing, raking his fingers through his long black hair. His chest ached. His hands trembled. And then—humiliatingly—his eyes burned.

"Oh, for the love of—"

He barely had time to compose himself before tears began rolling down his face.

Mortianna took a step back, crossing her arms. "Oh, not this again."

But George was already full of self-pity, collapsing onto the floor in a graceless heap, dragging the fabric of his tunic over his face.

"I’ve tried everything," he wailed, his voice muffled. "I changed for her. I stopped sleeping with prostitutes. I eat meals with utensils now. I even bathe regularly, Mortianna! BATHE! Do you know how much work that is?!"

Mortianna, completely unimpressed, rolled her one working eye.

"And yet," George continued, sniffing loudly, "nothing is ever enough!"

He let out a shuddering breath, pulling his knees up to his chest like a great sulking beast. "She loathes me," he muttered. "She says she forgives me, but she still looks at me as if I am the man I was before. She still thinks I—Oh Gods, Mortianna, what do I do?"

Mortianna sighed again, rubbing her temples. "First, you stop this pathetic display."

But George didn’t hear her. His sobs only grew louder. His nose was running now, his breathing uneven and sniffly.

Mortianna watched him for a long moment, clearly disgusted. Finally, she shuffled forward, reaching out to awkwardly pat his shoulder, as one might do when attempting to console a particularly oversized toddler.

"There, there," she said dryly. "Become a man."

George ignored her, still sniffling. Then, in a motion so quick she barely had time to react—he reached for the edge of her tattered dress.

Mortianna’s milky eye twitched.

"George," she warned.

But it was too late.

George, the terrifying, ruthless Sheriff of Nottingham, the scourge of England, the man who once threatened to carve out a man’s heart with a spoon, promptly buried his face in her skirts and blew his nose.

"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—!"

Mortianna yanked her dress away from him with a look of sheer horror, staring down at the wet and now slightly green patch of fabric.

George, meanwhile, sat back on his heels, looking considerably less miserable as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

"There we go," he muttered, sniffling. "That’s a bit better."

Mortianna gaped at him. "You… you absolute filthy—!"

George ignored her, already standing up, stretching his arms above his head. "I suppose I should go," he mused, sighing dramatically. "I have an apology to make. Again."

Mortianna, still seething, glared at him. "You are a grown man."

George grinned, grabbing a rag from the table and wiping his nose one last time before tossing it directly into the cauldron.

The liquid inside immediately turned an alarming shade of green.

Mortianna let out an inhuman shriek.

George, cackling like a devil, sprinted for the door, dodging a wooden spoon Mortianna hurled at his head.

"GEORGE, YOU FOUL, DISGUSTING, UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BASTARD—!"

He was already halfway up the stairs, laughing breathlessly.

Yes, he had an apology to make.

But first—he had to find a clean tunic.

He had snot on this one.

Dinner was always a private affair now.

You sat at the grand dining table, waiting patiently as the castle’s many torches flickered, casting shadows against the towering stone walls. The air smelled of roasted lamb, freshly baked bread, and the faintest trace of something spicy—cloves, perhaps. The table was set meticulously, goblets of deep red wine reflecting the candlelight, platters brimming with decadent foods.

And yet, your appetite was tempered by anticipation.

Because George was late.

Not that this was unusual. Your husband, for all his newfound devotion, had a flair for the dramatic, a need to make an entrance even in his own home.

And when he finally appeared, you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

George strode in like a monarch surveying his court, his long black hair still damp from his bath, curling slightly at the ends. He had donned yet another of his absurdly extravagant robes—this one an even deeper shade of black, lined with velvet and adorned with golden embroidery so intricate it looked as though it had been stolen from the king’s own wardrobe. The attached cape, more theatrical than ever, billowed behind him as he walked, catching the air like a storm rolling through the hall.

You sighed.

“Another robe, George?”

He smirked, flourishing the cape dramatically as he approached. “You wound me, my love. A man of my stature cannot simply wear the same thing twice. What would the people think?”

“They’d think their taxes could be better spent,” you muttered dryly, motioning for the servants to bring dinner as soon as George sat down.

He did so with a flourish, settling into his seat with all the grace of a lounging predator. The moment the food was laid before you, George dismissed the servants with a flick of his wrist, as he always did now. Private dinners had become your routine—a tradition he had instilled with unwavering insistence.

The moment the last servant disappeared, you reached up, removing your veil and setting it aside. The cool air brushed against your skin, but before you could begin eating, George reached out, catching your hand.

His fingers, rough yet warm, curled around yours.

You paused, looking up at him. His hazel eyes—so often filled with mischief, cruelty, or amusement—were now softer.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. “For today. For yesterday. For… before.” He swallowed. “I know I can’t undo the past, but I need you to know—I’m trying to be better.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “You’ve changed with me, George. But you’re still mean to others.”

His lips twitched, as if resisting the urge to smirk. “It’s in my nature, love.”

“Then change.”

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “And how would you like me to do that, exactly?”

You considered your words carefully, then took a breath. “I saw a starving mother today. She held a baby in her arms, wrapped in rags. They had nothing, George. No food. No shelter.”

His jaw tightened. He released your hand with a sigh, reclining further into his chair as if bracing for an argument.

You ignored the gesture, pushing forward. “We need to build a shelter for these people. A place where they can have a roof over their heads, warm food in their stomachs—”

George abruptly reached for his knife, cutting into the roasted lamb before him.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t ignore me.”

“I’m not ignoring you, sweetheart,” he said, voice infuriatingly smooth as he took a bite. “I’m simply feeding myself before I’m forced into another one of your little projects.”

You folded your arms. “What would you do if you were in her place?”

He chewed slowly, his eyes flicking to yours. “If I were a starving mother?”

“If you had no home. No food. No help.”

George snorted, setting his knife down. “That’s a ridiculous question.”

“Is it?” You leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “You claim to have changed, George. But if it were me—if I were that woman—what would you do?”

He scoffed, but there was an edge to it. “First of all, none of my children would ever be on the streets.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because they would have me,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “No child of mine would ever go hungry. No wife of mine would ever live in rags.”

You raised a brow. “But not everyone has a Sheriff of Nottingham to protect them, George.”

He exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, tilting your head. “You know I’m right.”

George groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “What exactly do you want from me, woman?”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “I want you to prove you’ve changed. Build the shelter. Feed the hungry. Show your people that you can do more than steal from them.”

George looked at you, his hazel eyes searching yours for a long moment. And then—

He smirked.

A slow, wicked thing.

“You just love making me suffer, don’t you?” His voice dropped into that familiar, velvety growl. “Tell me, my sweet wife—does it arouse you? The thought of bending me to your will?”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of blushing. “Does it matter?”

His grin widened. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

George sighed, shaking his head dramatically. “I suppose I must. You leave me with no choice.”

You smirked. “You could resist me, you know.”

He laughed darkly, eyes gleaming. “Darling, resisting you is a battle I never wish to win.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, pulling you forward just enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“But you will owe me for this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “And I intend to collect.”

You swallowed. “Is that so?”

His teeth grazed your earlobe. “Oh, yes.”

You exhaled sharply, your body betraying you, pressing closer. But before you could say anything, George leaned back, resuming his meal with an infuriating smirk.

You glared at him. “You’re impossible.”

He winked. “And yet, you adore me.”

You huffed, shaking your head. But you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that played at your lips.

Because you had won.

And George, for all his theatrics, for all his cruelty and dramatics, couldn’t resist you.

Two months had passed since that dinner, and George had followed through on his word—grudgingly, dramatically, and with frequent complaints about how much he was suffering for your sake.

The shelter was well underway.

True to his promise, he had bought a plot of land on the outskirts of Nottinghamshire, one that had once been an abandoned, rat-infested ruin, now slowly transforming into something worthy of its purpose. He had hired the best architect in the region—who had promptly quit after George threw a spoon at him for "suggesting that a window should be slightly to the left"—and replaced him with another who had been sufficiently terrified into compliance.

George, of course, had taken full credit for the progress, puffing out his chest whenever the townspeople murmured in admiration.

"And who, might I ask," he had declared just the other week, standing atop a wooden platform in the middle of the construction site, "is the man responsible for this act of sheer generosity?"

The townspeople, who had learned by now that answering incorrectly led to immediate taxation, had chorused: "YOU, SHERIFF!"

He had smirked, preening like a cat in the sun. "That's right."

You, standing off to the side with your arms crossed, had merely raised an eyebrow. "Really, George?"

He had turned to you, grinning. "Oh, my love, I adore how suspicious you are of my virtue. It's almost endearing."

You had rolled your eyes but said nothing. Because, despite the dramatics, despite the insufferable preening and self-congratulatory nonsense—George had done this. He had spent hours overseeing every detail, ensuring that no corrupt official could siphon funds, that the workers were fed and paid fairly, that the stone used was sturdy enough to last for generations.

And now, as you sat beside him in the carriage on your way to inspect the site again, you found yourself watching him with something dangerously close to admiration.

He was leaning back lazily, his long black hair unbound and wild from the wind, his cloak draped over his broad shoulders. His black beard was neatly trimmed, though his hooked nose and sharp cheekbones still gave him the air of a villain, the kind of man who would sell someone’s soul for a particularly well-aged bottle of wine.

He caught you staring.

"What?" he smirked, his hazel eyes glinting with amusement. "Falling for me all over again, sweetheart?"

You scoffed. "Hardly."

"Liar," he purred, shifting closer, his knee pressing against yours. "You've been watching me like a lovesick maid since we left the castle."

You huffed, turning your gaze out the window. "You're delusional."

George chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. "And yet," he murmured, reaching over to trace a slow, teasing finger along the bare skin of your wrist, "you're trembling, my love."

You stiffened.

He smirked, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration, skimming along the inside of your palm, down to the delicate pulse at the base of your wrist. "Shall I remind you, wife, of just how thoroughly you belong to me?"

Your breath hitched.

George leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Say the word, and I'll have this carriage turned around. We won't leave that bed until you're screaming my name."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

Damn him.

With great effort, you composed yourself, pulling your hand away as you fixed him with a withering glare. "I think the people of Nottingham would be very disappointed if their oh-so-generous Sheriff abandoned his precious project for such… selfish desires."

George exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he studied you. Then, slowly—deliberately—he dragged his gaze down your body, taking in the way your breathing had quickened, the way your fingers trembled slightly where they rested in your lap.

"You can lie to yourself, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dark with promise. "But you can't lie to me."

You swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The people of Nottinghamshire greeted you both with warmth as your carriage rolled through the bustling streets. You waved at the crowd with a soft smile, your veil fluttering gently in the breeze. George watched you out of the corner of his eye, admiring the way you carried yourself—graceful, composed, regal in your own quiet way.

He thought you looked particularly beautiful today.

A part of him wished you would drop the veil, let him see you fully, without that cursed fabric acting as a barrier. But he said nothing. He had learned by now that some wounds took longer to heal, that patience was a virtue he was still mastering.

So instead, he simply enjoyed the comfortable silence between you, watching as your gaze remained fixed on the people outside, oblivious to his staring.

Then, you turned to him with a sudden thought. “After we inspect the site, can we stop by the market? I’d like to buy Emily a toy.”

George blinked, briefly thrown off by the shift in topic. Then, his lips twitched into a smirk. “Already spoiling the child, are we?”

You rolled your eyes, though there was a small smile playing at your lips. “She reminds me of… well, me. When I was little.”

George tilted his head, studying you. He knew how much you doted on the maid’s daughter, how you slipped her sweets when no one was looking, how you always remembered to bring her something whenever you went to the market.

He also knew—deep down—that you longed for a child of your own.

The thought lingered in his mind, a realization settling within him like a slow-burning fire. Before, the idea of children had always been tied to duty. That was why, in the beginning—when he despised you, when he saw you as nothing more than a political pawn—he had still taken you to bed. It had been about securing an heir, about ensuring his legacy.

But now?

Now, the thought of having a child was no longer about duty.

Now, when he imagined it, he saw you—sitting by the fire, knitting tiny garments with that same focused determination you had when crafting Emily’s doll. He imagined a little girl with your eyes, or a boy with your quiet strength, sitting on his knee as he read them stories (dramatically, of course). He imagined you—soft and glowing, a child resting against you, loved and wanted.

The idea no longer felt like an obligation.

It felt like something he wanted.

George cleared his throat, forcing the thought aside before it could unsettle him further. “Fine,” he relented, feigning exasperation. “We’ll buy the brat a toy.”

You beamed at him, and God help him, he felt something in his chest tighten.

Before he could dwell on it, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the construction site.

George stepped out first, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder as he extended a hand to help you down. You took it without hesitation, your fingers curling around his. He smirked slightly at the sight—he liked the way your smaller hand fit into his, liked that you reached for him without hesitation now.

The architect was already waiting for you both, an older man with thinning hair and a permanently nervous disposition (likely due to the incident with the first architect and the spoon).

“My lord, my lady,” the architect greeted with a low bow. “We’ve made considerable progress since your last visit.”

George nodded, clasping his hands behind his back in an appropriately sheriff-like manner. “Well, I should hope so. If I’m going to be a saint of the people, I expect results.”

You shot him a look.

The architect coughed nervously before gesturing toward the half-constructed building. “As you can see, the foundation is complete. This will be the main hall where meals will be served. We have planned separate quarters for families on this side, and individual rooms for those in need of temporary shelter over here.”

George watched as you inspected the design, nodding thoughtfully as you took everything in. He could see the way you envisioned it already—how your mind was putting everything together, piece by piece.

“I’d like to have a small garden here,” you said after a moment, pointing to an open patch of land beside the structure. “Somewhere people can grow herbs, vegetables. A way for them to sustain themselves, even in small ways.”

George arched a brow, glancing at the architect. “Make it happen.”

The man nodded quickly, scribbling notes on his parchment.

As the architect continued his explanation, George found himself less interested in the details of where the chimney should go and more fascinated by you—by the way you bit your lip in thought, the way you gestured as you spoke, the way you had so seamlessly stepped into this role of leadership.

He still remembered the first time he saw you—veiled, silent, hesitant. The woman before him now? She was someone entirely different.

And he liked it.

“Once the shelter is completed,” George mused aloud, breaking the conversation, “I’ll need you to start drawing up new plans.”

The architect blinked in confusion. “For what, my lord?”

George waved a hand toward the future shelter. “This is just the beginning. We’ll need a school next.”

Silence fell over the group.

You turned to him sharply, eyes widening. “A school?”

George smirked, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell.

“Think about it, love,” he said, tilting his head. “What good is a full stomach if one’s mind remains empty? We can’t have a bunch of uneducated brats running about Nottinghamshire. Might as well give them some schooling so they don’t all grow up to be idiots.”

The architect looked utterly gobsmacked.

You, however, were watching him with something else entirely in your gaze.

“George,” you said, your voice softer this time. “You would really do that?”

George shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Well, if I’m going to be a reformed man—” he interrupted himself.

The moment your veil fell away, caught in the breeze as it drifted to the ground, George's world seemed to slow.

You had never done this before. Never removed it so openly, so deliberately, in front of others. It had always been a shield, a fortress between you and the world. Between you and him.

And now, you had cast it aside.

Before he could fully process the significance of it, you grabbed him by the collar of his absurdly expensive, dramatically embroidered robe and pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. It wasn’t soft or demure.

It was searing.

The kind of kiss that made him feel as if the entire world had been swept out from under his feet.

George, despite his usual flair for theatrics, was caught completely off guard.

There was no hiding behind fabric, no carefully orchestrated distance. There was only you, your lips pressing against his, your hands clutching at the front of his tunic as if he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

And then—finally—his instincts caught up.

He kissed you back, with every ounce of passion he had been bottling up for months. His hands grasped at your waist, fingers tightening as he pulled you flush against him, deepening the kiss with a desperation he hadn’t even realized he possessed.

The architect, caught in the unfortunate position of being a witness to this spectacle, quickly turned away, rubbing at his temples as if contemplating the meaning of his existence.

George couldn’t care less.

You were kissing him, here, in front of everyone, without shame, without hesitation. And then—just as he thought he had finally regained control of the situation—you pulled away, just enough to whisper something against his lips that shattered the very foundation of his world.

“I love you.”

George froze.

His mind went utterly blank.

His hands, still gripping your waist, trembled.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you—really look at you. As if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.

You had never said those words before.

Not once.

Not in the entire miserable history of your marriage.

But you were saying them now, your eyes burning with something raw and genuine, your lips parted as if waiting for him to respond.

And George—who had always been a master of words, a man of dramatic declarations and cutting wit—found himself utterly, incomprehensibly speechless.

“I—” He choked on the word, swallowed, tried again. “You—”

For the first time in his life, George, Sheriff of Nottingham, feared that he might actually faint.

Because, surely, this was a hallucination. A fever dream brought on by too much wine and not enough sleep. You could not have just said that. You could not have just—

“George,” you whispered, smiling softly. “Did you hear me?”

His heart was pounding so violently he was half-convinced it might burst from his chest.

“I… I heard you,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse, breathless.

You arched an eyebrow, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his tunic. “And?”

George, completely beside himself, did the only thing he could think to do.

He grabbed your face—scar and all—and kissed you so fiercely that your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

The architect made a noise of protest, but George paid him no mind.

He kissed you until he was certain that you could taste every ounce of his devotion, his desperation, his absolute, undying love for you.

And then, pulling away just enough to press his forehead against yours, he exhaled shakily, his voice raw with emotion.

“You ridiculous, impossible woman,” he murmured, his hands tightening around you as if terrified you might disappear. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done to me?”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers over his jaw. “I imagine I’ve given you an aneurysm.”

“Correct,” he growled, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I have spent months—months—waiting for you to say something, anything about your feelings for me, and then you just throw it at me like—like—” He gestured wildly, voice rising in dramatic outrage. “Like a casual remark?!”

You smiled, amused by his theatrics. “Would you have preferred I declared it from the castle walls?”

“YES!” he barked, then paused, blinking. “Wait. No. Actually, yes. That would have been preferable.” He grinned suddenly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “In fact, I demand it. Right now. You will climb to the highest tower and—”

You rolled your eyes, cutting him off with another kiss.

It worked immediately.

George, ever the insufferable romantic, melted like butter, his earlier indignation vanishing as he deepened the kiss with renewed fervor.

The architect, long-suffering and utterly exasperated, cleared his throat loudly.

“Perhaps, my lord, you might save your affections for a more private setting?” he suggested, pinching the bridge of his nose.

George, looking thoroughly unrepentant, smirked. “Ah, but you see, my dear architect—” He pulled you against him once more, nipping teasingly at your lower lip before flashing a smug grin. “—this is what happens when you fall madly, hopelessly in love with your wife.”

You flushed at his words, but George only beamed, practically preening in satisfaction.

The architect sighed deeply, clearly questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.

“Shall we continue discussing the shelter, or would you prefer I leave you two to, ah, celebrate your newfound affections?”

George, ever the dramatic menace, actually seemed to consider it.

You, however, nudged him hard in the ribs. “Behave.”

He pouted but relented, turning back to the architect with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

And so the discussion resumed.

But George, for all his newfound philanthropy, was hopelessly distracted.

Because you had said it.

You had finally said it.

And now, there was absolutely nothing stopping him from making it his life’s mission to ensure that you never regretted it.

The scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and fragrant herbs mingled with the crisp autumn air as you and George strolled leisurely through Nottingham’s bustling market. The cobblestone streets were alive with activity—merchants haggled, children weaved between stalls, and the chatter of townsfolk filled the air.

For once, George was in an exceptional mood. Not only had he basked in your public declaration of love earlier, but he had also discovered something truly unexpected—being nice was astonishingly profitable.

"Another gift?" George smirked as the baker’s wife pressed a bundle of warm gingerbread into your hands. “Darling, at this rate, we won’t have to buy supplies for weeks.”

You cast him a knowing look. “You do realize this is because the people actually like us now?”

George scoffed. “No, they like you. I am simply basking in the benefits of your saintly presence.”

You shook your head in amusement, placing the bundle of gingerbread on top of the already considerable pile of gifts George had been forced to carry. Fresh apples, a fine wool scarf, a bundle of herbs—items freely given with kind smiles and murmurs of gratitude.

George, for all his complaints, wasn’t truly displeased. In fact, he was rather enjoying this new role of “beloved” Sheriff. The perks were undeniable—free food, admiration, and the absolute best part: you.

His attention briefly drifted as you continued browsing, oblivious to the young man making his way towards you, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his hands. George immediately narrowed his hazel eyes, his grip tightening on the gifts he held.

The man’s intent was obvious—to present you with the flowers. The nerve of him.

As the man drew closer, George bared his teeth in a slow, menacing snarl.

The poor fool hesitated.

George’s scowl deepened.

The man’s resolve wavered.

Then, wisely, the young man turned on his heel and fled, the bouquet still in his grip.

George smirked in satisfaction before turning back to you, still blissfully unaware as you examined the finely crafted dolls on display at a nearby stall.

A woman approached, handing you a small bundle of lavender. “For you, my lady,” she said with a smile.

George watched as you thanked her, slipping the lavender into the crook of your arm. His smirk widened. Yes, this was the life. If he had known that being benevolent would be so profitable, he might have started sooner.

Just as he was reveling in his newfound “philanthropy,” George felt an insistent tug at his cloak.

He glanced over his shoulder, then down.

A small girl, no older than six, stood at his feet, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his cloak as she gazed up at him with large, solemn eyes.

George blinked, his expression immediately turning into one of mild horror. What in the blazes did she want?

He tried to shake his cloak free, but the child remained steadfast, unperturbed by his obvious distaste.

“What,” he muttered, peering down at her as if she were an inconvenience. “Do you want?”

Without a word, the little girl lifted her small hand, revealing a single daisy.

George frowned.

A flower? For him?

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t poisoned, is it?”

The girl just blinked up at him, uncomprehending.

George sighed, rubbing his temple. “Listen, child, I don’t know what you expect me to—” Before he could finish, you turned and noticed the interaction.

Your lips curled into a warm smile as you knelt beside the little girl. “What a lovely flower,” you murmured, reaching out to accept it. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

The child shook her head and pointed at George.

George, utterly baffled, stared between the two of you. “What? Why me?”

You giggled, brushing your fingers over the petals before tucking the flower into George’s lapel. “Because she wanted to give it to you.”

George exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath. His fingers briefly touched the daisy, as if assessing its worth, before quickly withdrawing as though burned.

As he attempted to regain his composure, you took the gingerbread bundle from the pile of gifts he was carrying and handed it to the girl. “Here,” you said softly. “For you.”

The little girl’s eyes widened with delight as she took the gingerbread, clutching it to her chest before turning and dashing off.

George watched, his gaze lingering on the gingerbread as it disappeared into the crowd. He sighed dramatically. “I was going to eat that.”

You patted his arm sympathetically. “Yes, but she needed it more.”

George grumbled under his breath, adjusting his now slightly lighter load of gifts. “If people keep giving you things and you keep giving them away, we’ll be right back where we started.”

You only laughed, slipping your arm through his. “Then you’ll just have to carry more.” George sighed heavily but made no move to untangle himself from you.

As the two of you resumed your stroll through the market, George caught sight of the flower still tucked into his lapel. He huffed, plucking it free.

Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, he tucked it behind your ear.

Your eyes widened slightly, but before you could say anything, George smirked and pressed a swift kiss to your cheek. “Let’s go, love,” he murmured. “Before more peasants decide they adore us.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, but as you walked on, you reached up to gently touch the flower, a small smile lingering on your lips.

And George—grumpy, dramatic, ruthless George—allowed himself to be led, carrying your gifts, basking in your warmth, and wondering, perhaps being a better man wasn’t so terrible after all.

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

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