okay, here you can ask me for requests of slashers, or Mr. BeetleBeverage (Beetlejuice) as well as Eddie Gluskin (The Groom, The Man Downstairs.) Requests: open Roleplay: open to anything slasher related. (mun is 20) 18+ to rp
Kinzo Shima: Say it ain’t true Juzo! You can’t marry a bony-ass snake chick! I always pictured you with some hot blonde with a HUGE RACK AND A SLAMMING BOOTY!!!
people hate on éclair too much. she thought she was helping tamaki by letting him see his mom again, and in the end she acknowledges that she was in the wrong and encourages him to go after haruhi. yeah she's mean, but no more than, say, kyoya. i think people forget that she's also just a teenager, and she was just doing what tamaki's grandmother—a very rich and powerful person in an authority position—wanted her to do. also she's funny for using those opera glasses everywhere idk how you can hate someone who uses opera glasses in the shower that's hilarious
Summary: You and Billy have two kids and ran away from Hawkins. Neil doesn’t know about them.
Warning: English is not my first language. Sorry if I misspelled something.
(Before someone says something, I don’t believe Billy is racist [since even Dacre himself doesn’t think his comment was made to sound racist] but I do not think that is actions in the show are in any way alright)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
A/N: Gif is not mine :)
Y/D/N - Your daughter’s name
Y/S/N - Your son’s name
You wake up and the sun light hits your the face right when you open your eyes. You turn around and hold back a groan. Once you open your eyes, you see Billy and almost ‘awn’ out loud at the sight.
The adorable sight being your boyfriend, Billy, sleeping peacefully on his back with your 2 year old daughter asleep on his chest, with her chubby cheeks pressed onto his skin and her slightly parted rosey lips making a way so a little drool falls onto Billy’s skin.
You brush her curly hair out of her chubby cute face and Y/D/N hums into your touch.
It’s pretty late, but since it’s Sunday, nobody cares enough to get up early in the morning.
Y/D/N falls back into a deep sleep as you pull away your hand and you look up at Billy. The peaceful sleeping look on his face was enough to make your smile reappear.
You two found out that you were pregnant when you were almost graduating. Billy didn’t tell anyone and worked two jobs for a few months so the both of you could have enough money to survive alone out of town.
Your family was supportive and didn’t tell anyone either.
You two ended up getting an apartment not too far from Hawkins, since you didn’t have enough money to move to California, as Billy wanted.
Billy’s family, on the other hand, think that you two only left Hawkins because you wanted to be/feel independent; so didn’t really care.
It’s been 2 years since your baby girl was born, and you two now have full-time jobs and a better apartment.
But also, another child (6 months old). His arrival went way smoother, since this time you two didn’t need to stress over not having enough money for food or a place to stay.
Feral predator x Afab reader NSFW - Warning for kidnapping
You’ve been warned! This one is nasty lmao also has 4k words so be prepared, and enjoy! As always this was seen over a month and something ago on my patre0n!
Hunting runs in the veins of his people. From the youngest child to the wisest elder, it was a rite. Tradition. Part of them.
Some warriors had their rites before a hunt. Some prayed, some others cleaned their weapons and sharpened their blades. He chooses to watch.
Hunting is about patience, he believes. So he watches them days before striking.
He sees her on his first day. A foggy morning in the dense forest they resided in now. A small village on the outskirts of a kingdom he flew over before landing; since then, he got bewitched.
The air smelled of leaves, the occasional local fauna scent hitting him as the thick smell of humans below made it almost too annoying to breathe without his mask. He wasn’t hunting- yet.
He stretched over the thick tree branch supporting his weight, looking intently at the artificial shelter he knew belonged to her. Man-made.
To say he was interested was an understatement. He was intrigued, rather obsessively, even. What he feels in his sheath isn’t the thrill of the hunt but the desire for a partner. A mate, It’s odd.
He feels his cock throb, pressing against his crotch armor, yearning to be free and inside of something right after, to be inside of her.
He had heard of it before from older, wiser warriors. “Your cock is stupid. Sometimes it will mistake prey for a mate, don’t listen to it.” He had scoffed, just a youngblood then, “So what to do if that happens?”
“Kill it.”
She seems to hear his thoughts, or feel the ghost of them, for she looks straight up at the tree he had been resting on, now watching her from another angle- Lower, closer. She seemed to be a servant of some sort, always carrying a basket of food, feeding the stock, or hauling buckets of clothes to the river like she was now, crouched on the side of it. She forgot the scrubbing as she looked around, looking for him.
She hadn’t seen him yet. None of them had. He hadn’t killed anything yet, nothing that didn’t deserve it, but he found that he liked watching her. All of her species was weak; her included; a frail little thing was washing her strange clothes on the riverbank, day after day, with no greater ambitions for the future than to get her daily chores done and maybe get some rest.
He slowly stalked across the grass, staring at her from the other side of the river. His camouflage made him feel beyond lucky in situations like these; most warriors used it for sneaking surprise attacks, others used it to flee- he used it to watch. He could taste her scent on his tongue, taken by the curving winds into his mouth beneath his mask. It was a hot day like yesterday was, but he’d still have to catch her swimming in the river as she did days ago. He had wondered if she could smell him like he did her. Maybe he just alarmed her prey instinct, watching her lifted head, eyes still scanning for the source of her uneasiness.
He felt his chest rumble, claws gripping the tree bark under his fingers; she might not smell him like the deer or the bears do, but she knew something was wrong. She knows she’s not alone, and he can’t help but feel his hunter’s instincts kicking in.
She doesn’t have a mate, not that he can tell- but then again, humans here were strange. Some tribes were more advanced than others; some had shelters made of hide and fabric while others had them made of stone and wood. He found them all to have some hidden savagery in them —especially the wood and stone humans.
She was a wood and stone human, but another thing he noticed about them was the way they looked at one another. Humans and yautja held their differences regarding facial expressions, but every sentient species he knew had a universal “I don’t trust you,” look. She didn’t trust any of them. Especially the males.
He thought about his options as a hunter, and then he thought of his options as a male whose -possible- mate felt distressed around their people.
What to do?
He checks back to reality when another scent hits his nose, muskier, filthy—a male. Feral watches him make his way to her, smaller than him by two of their human heads. He doesn’t like it, so he slowly stalks forward, crouched and cloaked to see their interaction.
Human words are odd, he can’t make out many of them, and his translator was always shit, but he wasn’t an idiot- he could read tones. Every species sounded about the same when pissed the fuck off.
“I’ve told you time and time again, Gale, I’m not interested.” She snaps, scrubbing her clothes harder onto the rocks.
“What in God’s name is wrong with you? Do you have any idea how lucky you are that I even want to marry you? You should be licking my boots for this.” The male hisses. She shakes her head.
He grabs her. She screams.
So he grabs him.
It takes less effort to kill an adult man than it does to skin a snake. His blades slice through him, and his screaming stops– hers do not.
So he grabs her.
He slings the woman over his shoulder as he hears barking in the distance and the faded shouting of other males making their way to the river. He scoffs and runs off.
You keep screaming when the demon carrying you jumps up a tree to another, then another, and another; endlessly, far away from your village. Where to? You had no idea. Your futile attempts at punching its stiff back turned into desperate clinging when he landed straight into the river again, splashing water everywhere and soaking your dress as it scents the air before running up the river with you over his shoulder.
You commend your brain for whatever half-thoughts it could muster while the beast ran away with you. What was it? A demon? An animal never seen before? A creature? It had to be a demon, didn’t it? Animals didn’t run standing, and they definitely didn’t throw people over their shoulders while running.
Its hide was thick and textured. You felt its ridges and needle-like protrusions under your fingers, not enough to cut skin but enough to tickle your palms, its tips pressing against the skin bluntly.
“Please- please put me down!” You pleaded, trying to look back at the thing’s head; did it have no ears?
It growled and snarled, shaking you some before speeding up again- as if telling you to keep quiet, so you did.
After an hour, the demon diverges from the river, turning and entering the dense forest. You dozed in and out as it carried you around, getting shaken awake when it stopped by nightfall, dropping you on the patchy floor. Your body screams as you sit up, looking around in the dark, looking for it.
You whip your head around, squinting your eyes and trying to calm your breath; the moonlight is scarce through the trees. You sniffle and wipe your face as you try to listen for any sounds- the ringing in your ears makes it hard to discern any noises.
A twig snaps, and you jump. Your dress drags, wet and heavy, against the grassy patch you’re sitting on, “Please- please don’t hurt me-,” you choked on your words when a twig snapping made you jump a second time. You look back as heavy steps begin walking towards you before the big hands from before are on you again. The clawed fingers close around your arms and move you around as you thrash and squirm in their grasp to no effect.
“Unhand me-! Stop-,” you hiss as it drags you onto another grassier spot and sits you down like a toddler, pushing you down two times as if to say stay.
It growls and walks about. You can hear it now; twigs were snapping, huffing, and snarling. You listen to things get thrown around. The sound is like-
“Wood? What are you trying to-,”
A weird sound reaches your ears, like metal scraping against metal; shrill, thin, and prickly like a new needle. You shake your head at it, only opening your eyes when something bright- when immediate warmth reaches your cold, wet frame.
Fire.
“Oh my God!” You gasp in surprise, seeing the structured twigs as you scoot closer to the fire, bringing your stiff fingers closer to the flames, shaking as you did your best to chase the shivers away from your bones. Still- you weren’t alone.
You look around, fire briefly forgotten as you struggle to locate the creature that kidnapped you from the river. It saved you, yes- but what for?
“If you plan to cook me, that fire won’t do!” You blurt out. The panic forces nonsensical words out of your mouth. You shake your head, feeling more tears welling up in your eyes. You cry out loud when the creature comes forth again, only that the fire made him very visible now.
You crawl backward as your lungs burn with every desperate attempt at sucking air. Its skin was not like anything you’d seen before. It wore no clothing other than some kind of leathery loincloth that hung around its hips. Your eyes ran up its form, taking in its muscles- no man you had ever known had muscles like that. No man you knew could kill another like it did, too.
Rapid breathing makes your chest hurt. Your heart is speeding when you meet its face.
Bone.
Its face was of pure bone.
It snarled and snapped, making you cry louder and recoil, pulling your knees to your chest and hiding your face so you wouldn’t face imminent death. You cry harder, feeling your shoulders wack with every desperate sob that leaves you when you hear more cracking in front of you.
You feel its breathing on your skin. The clicking and raspy sounds make you shiver but still, no contact. Why wasn’t it doing anything? You wanted to look, to face your fears. But it was easier said than done.
Feral snorts on the thick fear stench that rolled off you in waves. He shook his head as his open palm hovers over your head, claws spread and ready to close around your form again. He felt annoyed. He didn’t know your language but being so different from you, it was apparent you thought he was some sort of monster. Not far from the truth, but still not it.
He huffs and snarls, trying to catch your scent under all the panic and fear you presented so strongly now. That one trail that made him feel the way he did at the river. The way you’ve been making him feel since he laid eyes on you.
Stupid, he was stupid.
Of course, you would fear him. Of course, you would want to be as far away from him as you could. But there was no way to explain. No way to communicate. Would you even listen to him if he could? Maybe he could try.
Yanking you off the floor like a twig by your arms, Feral steps closer to the fire again, sitting by it as he slowly lowers your struggling form to the floor again. You act like a restless toddler to him, trying to get away from his grasp and run off into the forest.
Luckily for him, he has many young siblings.
Every time you get up, he pulls you back down, forcing you to sit multiple times until you tire out. He can’t hold back his laughter when you land yet again on your ass in front of him.
“What do you want?!” You hiss at him, face hot from the strain, feeling anger boiling over the fear.
It’s easy enough to guess what you’re asking him. So he lifts his finger, points at you, and tensely points it to the floor, growling to make a point.
“What is the point of dying sitting? I’m not making your job easier!” You frown and tense your legs to get up. The speed with which he draws a blade from his thigh and sinks it into the ground next to your leg has you melting back onto the floor.
‘Good.’ He thinks. ‘We’re leaning.’
“O-Okay- I’m sitting now.” You say. His jaw twitches slightly. “Si-tting! I’m sitting! See? Sitting! Sit!” You point at yourself and then at the floor, just like he wanted. “What now?”
Feral snorts again. The stench is still strong. He sheathes his knife again, turning back to look at you. You make him feel things, and he wants to make you feel things in return, but not while you’re so afraid and angry at him.
He places his palms on the floor and leans forward toward you. You try to shy away, and he growls again, lowering to a low hiss when you stop moving.
It was like the hounds back at the village. You spoke to the kennel master a couple of times while helping him deliver puppies into this world. “You have to respect animals.” He said, “They have their own language, learning it means survival to both of you. That usually means find out whatever makes it stop growling and keep doing it until it trusts you.”
So you keep still, chest heaving as the demon gets closer and closer to your face. It didn’t seem to have eyes, but it knew of your every move. How could it be? How could it see anything?
Its bone cheek grazes against yours, its thick neck hovers over your own body. It felt hot, so very hot. Almost as hot as the fire to your side. You could feel its growling in your core, intense, rattling.
You don’t see it move its hand from the ground until it almost touches your other cheek. You close your eyes, gasping a bit. Nothing comes. You feel your tightly shut eyes sting with tears again, and your chest tightens with upcoming sobs before another strange noise reaches your ear.
It’s a sound you know well. A sound that made you happy when you were a child, whenever it was your turn to feed the cats milk, a reward for their hard work keeping the mice away from the grains and seeds the village had harvested.
Purring.
Heavy, deep purring.
Your eyes snap open, and your hand shoots up on reflex against its chest, trying to push it back. But it doesn’t move. Nor its body or its hand, still lingering close to your face. Your hand trembles with the vibrations coming from its chest. It goes up your arm and makes your heart skip more beats. You blink, confused. Your cats never purred to people they didn’t like. Was this a trick?
“What-?” You croak, voice raw and raspy from crying and screaming. The tears dry on your eyes, not yet shed as its hand finally comes in contact with your dirty face. You jump a bit when its purring slows down, dragging out more as its clawed thumb slowly strokes your face.
You feel petrified as your fingers curl a bit on its chest, feeling the texturized hide under your palm. Your other arm hurts from supporting your weight when you tried leaning away from it. The strain burns your muscles as you wince a bit, still afraid to move. But not as much as before, scarily enough.
Feral breathes in your scent, letting his other hand snake behind your back, slowly wrapping around your waist to relieve your arm. An excuse to bring you closer to him. You notice the change and shift against him. Not away, but against him. A win, in his book.
He keeps stroking your face, feeling the plush cheek under the pad of his thumb as he slowly drags you closer to him. Feral can feel that scent again, only ever starting to break through the foggy fearful one from before. He rubs his mask against your face as your chest meets his collarbone. So small, yet yielder of such a strange power over him.
“Oh…”
The smallest of noises leaves your mouth. The first one not touched by dread ever since you’ve met. It sends a shiver down his belly, straight to his sheath. Feral lets the hand on your back slide up and into your hair as he buries his face in it, reveling in the way your chests touched, reveling in how relaxed you were in his hands now.
You couldn’t say what made you let out that breathy sigh for the life of you. Everything felt too real and not real at all. No man had ever touched you like this. No man had ever treated you so…gently. Gentleness this coming from the beast who mauled a man to shreds not hours ago.
Still, it did not matter. Nothing mattered. You let your free arm come up, and touch its shoulder, resting your palm on another patch of prickly skin as he kept sniffing into your hair. It was still sitting as your knees stood just before the ground as it held you in its arms, reminding you again of just how big and dangerous it was.
You sigh and close your eyes for a second, feeling its hot breath against your hair as its hand moves from your cheek to caress your ear, making your hairs stand on end once more. For a different reason this time. Your hand grips its shoulder tighter as its face comes closer to your neck. Maybe this was the end. Maybe it finally tired from toying with you. You can’t bring yourself to be afraid again.
Feral lets his tusks touch your throat before he lowers his jaw and lets his tongue drag against your skin, making you arch your back, pushing your chest against his again. “A-Ahhh…” He chuckles at the noise, his huffing cutting through his purring before it evens out again, deep and constant as before. If not heavier with lust.
You pant, opening your eyes again as you feel the hot tongue swiping against your throat over and over again. Your body felt hot, not from the fire or Its body heat, but from your own desire. Desire. For a demon. Your heart beats faster as you realize what you’re truly feeling in his arms. And just how tight you had been pressing your legs together. You breathe in deeper, heavier, as his tongue moves down to your collarbone.
He supported your body by letting his hand close around your neck, holding you up against him as he licked the skin between your breasts over the fabric of your bodice. You moan, feeling your face burn in embarrassment from everything. But it was not like you. Maybe it had no idea you were embarrassed.
The moan sends another shiver down Feral’s spine and another spike down his sheath. He wanted to breed. Badly. But most importantly, he wanted to breed you.
Feral pulls back long enough to let his claws hook around the bodice’s fabric, slowly pulling it down, baring you to him. You panted and closed your eyes. The hand on his shoulder tightened even more, but he couldn’t smell fear. Shyness wasn’t a thing among his people; there was no use for it. But he couldn’t say he didn’t find it oddly endearing.
The fabric catches under your breasts as the sleeves strain against your shoulders, leaving your chest exposed to the night air. To his tongue. He breathes heavily as he looks them over. Most of the females he knew were flat-chested. Their breasts only swelled when they were with child. But you had no child now. Was this normal of your kind? What would you look like when…?
Another shiver. His cock strains against his sheath, ready to breach it.
He growls and lowers his face to your chest again, feeling the softness with his tusks, letting his tongue drag over the nipple he chose to lick. Your gasps and foreign words urge him on, bringing his other hand to feel the other breast as he purrs louder than ever. You smelled good, tasted good, and felt good. How could he deny this? He brought your hips closer to his torso as he switched breasts with his tongue, making you arch against him again. Only some more layers of fabric separated him from you. He shivers again. His sheath opens.
Feral groans as he lowers you to the ground, positioning himself between your legs. Between the rumple of the fabric of your dress’s skirt. You pant as he plans his next move, lifting your skirts over to your belly, and exposing your legs along with your chest.
You clutch the fabric nervously as you try to regain your breath. You knew how things worked between a man and a woman. But this was no man, and you surely never heard of one so big as this for comparison. It fumbles with its crotch cloth before turning back to you.
His cock stood fully hard before you, slick and as big as you thought it’d be, if not more. Your eyes widen, and your cunt tightens around nothing. You let out a breathless sigh as he moves closer to you, hooking his hands under your legs and pulling you to him. His cock was reddish like the center of his chest, ridged and bumpy like his skin. It’s your turn to shiver, and he purrs for you.
The head of his cock slides against your slit, and you gasp, choking on a moan as he nudges your clit before coming back down and repeating the motion. Your slick mingles with his as he presses his head against your hole. It’s tight, unforgivingly tight. It’s going to hurt.
Your entrance is breached, and you’re frowning hard already, feeling the thick, swollen head of his cock pulsating inside your cunt. The corners of your vision go white as you pant in strain, lust, and anxiety at what’s to come.
He pauses and reaches for his back, his free hand stroking your thigh as he produces one of his weapons from his back. Some kind of spear.
Feral’s hand leaves your thigh to aid him in pulling it apart, making it a two-piece. He lays the blade part on the ground and keeps the end part to himself. He purrs heavily again as he lowers the pommel to your cunt, resting it over the small nub that made you react so hard before. He reaches for his wrist gauntlet and presses two buttons, causing it to vibrate.
You yell out in surprise and pleasure as he presses the vibrating pommel to your clit, leaning over you as you moan and squirm under the best sensation you’ve ever felt in your life. A sudden rush flows through your body as your pussy spasms around his cock. You groan as he presses more of his cock into your cunt, slacking on the floor as he lifts the pommel from you again, stopping his movements halfway through once more. He strokes your thigh, and you crane your neck to look up at him, “Please- please do that again. Please.” You beg, pointing at his spear’s end.
He understands. And lowers the pommel onto you once more. “Please-” you pant, moaning as he shifts closer to you, pressing the same spots on his strange wrist armor. You rest your hand over his on the spear, panting harder before that sensation kicked in again full force. It shook you to your core, rattling you from the inside out in the best way possible. “In me-, in me-” you beg in between moans, grabbing his thigh under yours with your other hand, trying to pull it closer to you. Feral snarls and closes his free hand around your hip, thrusting his cock the rest of the way in. You shouted again as that same rush crashed over you again, making you tighten around the massive cock deep into you.
Feral roars and bucks his hips, small spurts of precome getting squeezed out of him by your pussy. “Please- please- please fuck me, please-” He recognized the word as he pulled his cock back and thrusted back in fully, tossing the spear end to the side as he focuses on you again. Your eyes roll back into your skull as he sets a bruising pace, hands tightly gripping your hips as he roars and snarls.
You panted and gasped as your dress dragged roughly against the forest floor as he fucked you hard, the loud noises of your mating enough to make you close your eyes in embarrassment once more. No one could hear you here, only him. All of your moans and screams were for him and only him, as his growling and purring were yours, and yours only.
“I’m going to- I-” You shudder as you feel that rush coming through you again, in a slightly different way this time, but no less pleasurable than before as you grab his arms, coming onto his cock for the third time. Feral roars and slams his cock as deep as he could, filling you up to the brim with thick come. It drips from your cunt and onto your skirt’s fabric, torn and dirty after everything you went through this day alone.
Feral doubles over and rests his head on the ground next to yours supporting himself with one of his hands. He purrs and nuzzles into your hair again as you struggle to regain your breath once more. He licks your cheek, and you smile, wincing briefly when he pulls away from you, laying down on the grassy patch before pulling you close to him. You cover your chest again and lower your skirts before snuggling up to him.
You hug his middle as he wraps his arms around your form, feeling his chest pick up its purring as your eyes grow heavier by the second. Feral watches you slack against him, out like a light. He strokes your hair and rests his jaw on top of your head. He scoffs as he drifts off to sleep himself.
He is the best Dracula(ever). I was captivated when I saw him. Not only by his beauty, but also by how desperate he was for the woman he loved 😭
His waiting for her for centuries, his devotion to her, his ability to tell everything with his eyes, the way he spoke to her, his always being behind her..😩
I liked his appearance in the movie so much that I was surprised to see that he was blonde and blue-eyed in real life.(He's beautiful either way💆)
I haven't thought about this idea until now: Turpin who is looking for a wife and arrives at Reader's family home and is curious to why Reader isn't being presented as an option for a wife but when he sees her he's immediately caught by her unique beauty (she's albino) and does everything to get her to fall for him (we know Turpin can be impatient sometimes but is patient with the Reader) perhaps she kisses him when visiting him at his office, their first ever kiss together?
(Sorry, I had to send it before it slipped my mind forever)
Title: I See You
Summary: Forgotten by society and dismissed by her own blood, she had long accepted invisibility—until Richard Turpin arrived, and chose her above all.
Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I want to thank @smilingformoney for helping me with the title of this story, and I hope you all enjoy it! Sorry for not adding the kiss; maybe I'll do it in part two.
Also read on Ao3
As Richard Turpin stepped down from his carriage, the crisp London air wrapped around him, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and coal smoke. He straightened his coat, his sharp hazel eyes flicking up at the grand façade of the mansion before him. The house was newly acquired, though it bore the timeless elegance of old money, its columns proud, its windows glowing softly in the evening light.
Before he could rap the knocker, the great oak doors swung open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with a welcoming smile.
"Richard!" The voice was warm, familiar.
Charles Langford, a recently relocated Londoner and old acquaintance from law school, had hardly changed over the years. His hair had silvered slightly at the temples, but his jovial energy was undimmed. Without hesitation, he reached forward, grasping Turpin’s hand in a firm shake before pulling him into an embrace, laughing as he clapped his friend on the back.
"You've hardly changed, Richard," Charles said, stepping back and beckoning him inside.
Turpin allowed himself to be led through the grand foyer, his gaze moving across the fine furnishings, the gilded mirrors reflecting the light of an ornate chandelier. It was clear that Charles had done well for himself.
"I must say, London suits you," Turpin remarked, his voice a smooth baritone, edged with its usual severity.
"As does it you," Charles replied, leading him toward the drawing room. "Come, I insist you meet my wife."
He turned and called toward the staircase, summoning his wife with the ease of a man accustomed to obedience. A moment later, a stately woman appeared, dressed in the refined fashion of the day, her manner poised yet warm as she greeted Turpin.
"It is an honor to finally meet you," she said with a pleasant curtsy. "My husband has spoken highly of you."
Turpin inclined his head, offering a stiff smile. "The honor is mine, madam."
They moved into the drawing room, where a servant had already begun preparing tea. The fire crackled in the hearth, lending the room a comfortable glow as they settled into conversation.
"You must tell me, Richard," Charles said after a time, his expression keen with interest. "Do you have a family of your own now?"
Turpin’s lips curled into a thin smirk. "Not as yet," he admitted. "But I am seeking a suitable wife."
Charles's face lit up at the words. "Splendid! That is wonderful news, indeed," he said, setting down his tea. "I find myself in the opposite predicament—I have five daughters, all in need of suitable husbands."
Turpin’s brow lifted slightly. Five daughters? It was a most fortunate coincidence.
Charles turned to his wife. "Darling, would you be so kind as to call the girls down?"
The woman nodded at once, rising gracefully from her seat. "Of course," she said before sweeping from the room.
Turpin took a slow sip of his tea, his mind already turning. He had not come here intending to secure a match, but perhaps fate had its own designs. Charles had always been a man of good standing, respectable lineage, and considerable wealth. If his daughters were of sound character and beauty, then this could be an opportunity worth seizing.
Minutes later, footsteps descended the grand staircase, followed by the soft murmur of female voices. The drawing room door opened, and in stepped four young women, their figures draped in the elegant silks and muslins befitting ladies of their status.
The eldest, a poised young woman with light brown hair pinned into an intricate style, held herself with quiet grace. Her features were delicate, her gaze intelligent, yet there was a reserve about her—a carefulness that Turpin recognized as the mark of one who observed more than she spoke.
Beside her stood a striking dark-haired girl, her posture impeccable, her lips slightly pursed as though she had already formed an opinion on the guest before her. Her eyes met Turpin’s unflinchingly—a sign of spirit, though whether that was a flaw or a merit, he would have to decide.
The third daughter, golden-haired and fair, smiled politely but kept her hands clasped together, her demure manner making her the most traditionally ladylike of the group.
The youngest present, a girl who could be no more than sixteen, lingered slightly behind her sisters, her curiosity evident but tempered by youthful shyness.
Charles gestured proudly toward them. "Turpin, may I introduce my daughters: Beatrice, Eleanor, Margaret, and Louisa." The girls curtsied in unison, their movements graceful, well-practiced.
Turpin inclined his head, his gaze assessing. They were well-bred, certainly. Each carried themselves with the refinement expected of women raised in a proper household.
"It is a pleasure," he murmured, his deep voice carrying the weight of measured approval.
The eldest, Beatrice, returned a polite smile, though her expression was cautious. "Likewise, sir."
Charles, beaming with satisfaction, gestured for his daughters to sit. "Come, my dears. Mr. Turpin is an old friend, and I hope you shall treat him as such."
The young women took their places, though there was an air of guarded curiosity between them.
Turpin observed them closely as conversation resumed. He was a man who prided himself on careful selection, and while he had not yet decided which—if any—of these young women would become his, the prospect had certainly become intriguing.
He set his teacup down, his sharp hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “You said five daughters, Charles.” His voice was smooth, measured, carrying the weight of unspoken curiosity. “And yet, I see only four before me.”
A shadow flickered across Charles’s face, his jovial expression faltering for the first time that evening. He hesitated, his gaze shifting toward his wife before clearing his throat and forcing a light chuckle. “Ah, well. Yes, that is true, my friend. But I doubt you would wish to make the acquaintance of my eldest. She… she is quite frail, you see. Past the age of marriage, besides.”
Turpin arched a brow, his expression unreadable. “Frail?”
Charles sighed, looking almost apologetic. “She was born with a rare condition. It—ah—it affects her appearance, among other things.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It is something we have long since accepted. I have made peace with the fact that she will remain with us. It is best for all involved.”
Turpin leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied Charles with quiet amusement. “And yet, you did not think to introduce me. Do you believe me so easily deterred?”
“Richard,” Charles began, his voice dropping, “it is not a matter of offense. It is simply—”
“I should like to meet her.” Turpin’s words were deliberate, cutting through whatever polite excuse Charles had been about to offer. His gaze was unwavering, the smirk on his lips as cool as the firelight playing against the fine mahogany walls.
Charles hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, before exhaling a defeated breath. With a reluctant nod, he gestured for a servant. “Send for Miss—” He paused, as if uncertain, then muttered, “Tell her she is wanted in the drawing room.”
As the servant disappeared, Charles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Richard, I must warn you—”
But Turpin barely heard him. His ears picked up only fragments—“unusual”—“a fragile constitution”—“best if she stays out of the public eye”—before all sound faded into a low hum.
Because he had seen you.
Descending the grand staircase, your posture was measured, composed—almost as though you were bracing yourself for the weight of expectation. Your skin, pale as the moon’s glow, was almost luminous in the candlelight. Hair like spun silk, an unnatural shade of white, cascaded in soft waves over your shoulders, unadorned, unstyled, as though no one had taken much care to present you.
You were unlike your sisters, your presence something ethereal, haunting, as though you belonged to a world untouched by the trivialities of men.
Turpin stood without realizing it, his breath slow, deliberate, as his gaze roved over you with dark fascination. Albino.
He had seen few in his life, and none like you. You were an apparition, a ghostly vision made flesh, and yet—undeniably, strikingly—alive.
Charles shifted uneasily beside him. “She is—”
“Exquisite,” Turpin murmured, almost to himself.
You reached the foot of the staircase, lifting your gaze to him. Your eyes, pale as ice and framed by near-invisible lashes, met his without hesitation. There was no fear there, only a quiet, solemn understanding.
You were used to being looked at, scrutinized, judged. But Turpin was not a man so easily unsettled. If anything, his intrigue deepened.
“Miss Langford,” he said at last, his baritone voice low, rich. He stepped forward, offering his hand. “It is a pleasure.”
For a moment, you hesitated. Then, with the practiced grace of someone who had been taught to obey, you extended your fingers to him.
Turpin took your hand, and the moment his skin met yours, a dark thrill curled through him, cold and fragile. And yet, there was something else—a quiet, enduring strength beneath the delicacy; a mystery worth unraveling. Turpin smiled, slowly and knowingly.
Yes, you would do perfectly.
Charles clapped his hands together, breaking the strange, charged silence that had settled over the room. “Well, then! Now that introductions have been made, let us move to the dining room. A meal will do us all good.”
Turpin inclined his head, his sharp hazel eyes still lingering on you as Charles gestured for everyone to rise. The sisters, ever obedient, stood gracefully, following their father’s lead. You, however, moved with deliberate slowness, as though you had long learned that haste served no purpose when one was always overlooked.
The dining room was grand, its long mahogany table gleaming under the light of the chandelier. Silverware glinted, and the delicate porcelain dishes bore intricate floral patterns, a mark of wealth and refinement. Servants moved silently, ensuring that every place was set with precision.
Turpin took his seat at Charles’s right, the honored guest, while the daughters arranged themselves opposite and beside him. You sat at the far end, next to your mother, your posture impeccable but distant, as though you had already resigned yourself to fading into the background.
As the meal began, the sisters wasted no time in attempting to engage Turpin in conversation. Eleanor, ever curious, tilted her head slightly, her dark gaze fixed on him. “Sir, my father mentioned that you and he were acquainted in college. Is it true you studied together?”
Turpin, who had been idly swirling the deep red wine in his glass, lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Indeed, Miss Langford. Your father and I spent many years as classmates.” His baritone voice was smooth, deliberate, every word measured.
Margaret, the golden-haired sister, leaned forward slightly. “What was he like?” she asked with a small, mischievous smile. “I can hardly imagine my father as a young man.”
Charles let out a hearty chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, I am sure Richard has more important matters to discuss than my youthful indiscretions.”
Turpin, however, set his glass down and studied Charles with the faintest smirk. “On the contrary,” he said. “I remember your father well. Always diligent, always proper… but not without his moments of mischief.” He took a slow sip of his wine, letting the words settle before adding, “He had a fondness for music, as I recall.”
At this, Charles’s face lit up with nostalgia. “Ah, yes! I remember you enjoyed music as well, Turpin. You were always quite particular about it.”
Eleanor, intrigued, glanced between the two men. “Did you play, sir?” she asked.
Turpin shook his head. “No, but I did appreciate a fine performance.”
Charles beamed at this. “Well, you are in luck, my friend! Beatrice plays beautifully.” He turned to his eldest daughter. “Perhaps, after dinner, you might indulge us with a piece?”
Beatrice, ever the dutiful daughter, gave a poised nod. “If it pleases our guest, I shall.”
Turpin offered a polite smile, but his gaze, once again, drifted toward you. You had not spoken. You had not even looked at him. Instead, you focused on your meal, your fingers delicate as they handled your silverware, your every movement precise and controlled.
His eyes gleamed with intrigue, and so, he asked, “And what of you, Miss Langford?”
You did not raise your head. Instead, you took a small sip of your soup before replying in an even, unhurried tone, “I am not as interesting as my sisters, sir.” A brief silence followed.
Charles forced a laugh, though it was a touch strained. “Come now, my dear, you are far too modest. Richard, she plays the piano as well, though—” he chuckled, shaking his head “—of course, not as well as Beatrice.”
Turpin said nothing. He merely watched you. A flicker of something crossed your face, though it was gone before anyone but he could catch it. A quiet, resigned acceptance. You did not contest your father’s words, nor did you seek to prove yourself otherwise. You had long since learned your place.
He lifted his wineglass once more, swirling the liquid as he considered you. This was becoming more interesting by the moment.
As the last note of Beatrice’s performance faded into the air, polite applause filled the drawing-room. The sisters exchanged murmurs of approval; their mother beamed at her second-eldest daughter’s talent, while Charles nodded with pride.. Turpin, however, merely inclined his head, his expression unreadable. His sharp hazel eyes flicked once—just once—to where you sat at the far end of the room, your hands folded neatly in your lap, untouched by the evening’s pleasantries. You had neither clapped nor smiled, your presence as muted as the candlelight flickering against the walls.
You were accustomed to being overlooked, but Turpin? He noticed.
When Charles suggested retiring to his office for a drink, Turpin agreed without hesitation. The two men rose from their seats, leaving the women to their quiet conversations, their skirts rustling softly as they bid them good evening. As Turpin followed Charles down the dimly lit corridor, his polished boots tapping against the wooden floor, he let the sound settle into his mind, a measured rhythm to accompany his thoughts.
Charles’s office was a stately room—high shelves of thick leather-bound books lined the walls, and an ornate mahogany desk sat before a great window overlooking the gas-lit street below. A decanter of whiskey and two glasses awaited them, as though Charles had anticipated this discussion well before it had begun.
Charles poured them both a generous measure, his face already set in the expression of a man who relished a good conversation. “London has been kind to you, I see,” he remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a thoughtful sip. “Though I must confess, I never expected to find you still a bachelor.”
Turpin did not respond at once. He took his seat opposite Charles, his fingers closing around the cool glass, but he did not drink yet. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, settled on Charles with calculated ease. “I had little interest in such matters,” he said finally, his baritone voice smooth, measured. “Until now.”
Charles brightened, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair. “Ah, yes. Beatrice is a fine girl. Graceful, accomplished. She would make an excellent wife.” He lifted his glass in silent toast, clearly pleased with himself. “You have good taste, my friend.”
Turpin did not immediately correct him. Instead, he brought his whiskey to his lips, took a slow sip, and allowed the warmth to settle in his chest. Then, setting the glass down with deliberate precision, he said, “It is not Beatrice I desire.”
Charles blinked. His jovial expression faltered, confusion knitting his brows. “Not Beatrice?” He sat forward slightly, his glass lowering as he studied Turpin with renewed curiosity. “Then—”
“Your eldest,” Turpin interrupted, his voice unwavering. “She is the one I intend to take as my wife.”
Silence stretched between them. Charles did not immediately speak, nor did he move. For the first time that evening, his confident, affable demeanor wavered, giving way to something more guarded. He exhaled slowly, setting his whiskey down with a muted clink.
“My friend,” he began, his voice quieter now, less assured, “you cannot be serious.”
Turpin tilted his head, his hooked nose casting a shadow under the flickering lamplight. “Do I appear to jest?” His tone was cool, edged with the sharpness of a man who was not accustomed to being questioned.
Charles exhaled, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I… do not misunderstand me, Turpin. It is not that I am ungrateful for your interest. But…” He hesitated, as though searching for the right words. “She is—she is different.”
“I am aware.”
“She will not make the wife that Beatrice would,” Charles pressed, his voice lowering, as though reluctant to even discuss the matter. “She is quiet. Withdrawn. You are a man of reputation, Richard. You require a wife who can stand beside you with confidence, who can hold her place in society.”
Turpin smirked. “And you believe she cannot?”
Charles hesitated, glancing toward the window as though searching for answers in the gas-lit streets below. “She is… unlike her sisters,” he admitted finally. “You saw as much tonight.”
Turpin merely leaned back in his chair, studying Charles with mild amusement. “That is precisely why she interests me.”
Charles let out a quiet breath, clearly at war with himself. He lifted his glass once more, took a slow sip, and then set it down with finality. “How long do you intend to court her?”
Turpin’s smirk widened, his sharp hazel eyes glinting with satisfaction. “That depends,” he murmured. “How long would you deem appropriate before I take her as my wife?”
Charles considered this for a long moment. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. “Three months,” he said at last. “No less.”
Turpin inclined his head in agreement. “Very well.”
For a brief moment, it seemed the matter was settled. Charles sighed, lifting his glass once more, his friendly smile beginning to return. But then—just as Turpin reached for his whiskey—Charles’s expression darkened.
The warmth vanished from his eyes, the affability stripped away in an instant. He straightened, his broad shoulders stiffening as he leaned slightly forward.
“I must warn you, Turpin,” he said, his voice lower now, heavier, carrying a weight that had not been there before. “If you so much as cause her the slightest harm—if I hear of any cruelty, any neglect, anything less than the respect she deserves…” He paused, his gaze cold as steel. “I will kill you.”
The room fell deathly silent. Turpin, to his credit, did not flinch. His smirk barely wavered, his fingers still wrapped loosely around his glass. For a long moment, he simply regarded Charles with that same knowing amusement, his hazel eyes glinting under the dim light.
Then, at last, he arched a brow and murmured, “A lawyer, making threats? How very unseemly.”
Charles’s lips twitched, his smile returning just as quickly as it had vanished. He let out a hearty chuckle, shaking his head as he took another sip of his whiskey. “Ah, you know me, Turpin. Always protective of my own.”
Turpin chuckled softly, lifting his glass in silent toast before taking a slow, deliberate sip. But beneath his cool amusement, he knew well—Charles Langford was not a man who made idle threats.
And that, perhaps, made this arrangement all the more interesting.
In the days that followed, Turpin found himself engaged in the peculiar challenge of courting you. He had expected resistance, of course. A woman such as you—hidden away from society’s cruel gaze, long resigned to a life of quiet obscurity—would not yield so easily. But he had not expected this.
You were not defiant, nor were you openly disdainful of his presence. You were not like other women, fluttering their lashes or feigning modesty while hoping to secure his favor. No, your rejection was a quiet, measured thing, a simple insistence that you were not worth his trouble. You did not argue or refuse his gifts outright, but there was always that same, unwavering look in your pale eyes—a silent urging for him to give up.
And yet, how could he?
Turpin had never been the sort to let something slip through his fingers once he had set his sights on it, and you were no exception. If anything, his fascination only grew, deepening like ink spilled into water. You were an enigma, a delicate wraith confined to the dim glow of your father’s grand estate, emerging only under the strictest of circumstances, veiled and gloved as though even the sun itself had no right to touch you. He learned quickly that you hardly ever left the house, and when you did, you were so covered from head to toe that he often wondered if you even felt the warmth of the world beyond these walls.
And so, his courtship was relegated to the house. Always, there was someone present—your mother, a sister, a servant lingering in the background, their presence a barrier he could not yet breach. Not that it mattered, for you rarely granted him an opening, offering only polite acknowledgments and little else. When he spoke, you listened with quiet composure, your hands resting primly in your lap, your expression unreadable. Other times, you would sit at the piano, your fingers moving deftly over the keys, the music a more honest conversation than any words you ever deigned to offer him. And sometimes, you would simply read, your gaze cast downward, absorbed in some novel while he watched you in silence, studying you as one might study a portrait of great intrigue.
Turpin learned more of you through others than through you yourself. Your sisters, eager to fill the silences, provided glimpses into your world—small, seemingly inconsequential details that he tucked away with growing interest.
You liked to read. That much, he had observed.
You liked to bake pies, though you rarely did so now.
You liked tulips, though none adorned the house.
You could speak the language of the deaf.
That last revelation had caught him off guard. He had learned, through the idle chatter of your younger sisters, that years ago, your father had represented a deaf client, and you, acting as his secretary at the time, had taken it upon yourself to learn sign language in full so you could communicate with the man directly. It was, they had said, a testament to your patience, your intelligence. A skill you still possessed but rarely used.
Turpin did not know why the knowledge unsettled him, why it lingered in his mind long after the conversation had ended. He had no need for such a thing, no particular use for it. And yet, two days later, he sought out a tutor, meeting twice a week in secret. His progress was slow, and at times, his patience wore thin, but he persisted. He was not certain why.
Perhaps it was because no one else had bothered to do such a thing for you, perhaps it was because he wanted to see something other than resignation in your eyes, or perhaps it was simply because he enjoyed surprising you. Whatever the reason, the moment finally came.
Turpin had just stepped out of the house, the weight of another evening spent in your presence pressing against him as he approached his waiting carriage. But something stilled his steps. He felt it before he saw it—that peculiar sensation of being watched, the slow crawl of awareness along his spine.
He turned, and there you were.
Standing at the window, shrouded in candlelight, you were barely more than a ghostly silhouette against the glass. Your gaze met his, quiet, unreadable, as it always was.
And for once, Turpin did not smirk. He did not speak. Instead, he raised his hand, fingers shaping the words with the careful precision he had spent weeks learning.
I see you.
Your expression did not change at first. For a moment, you simply stared, as though uncertain whether you had truly witnessed what you had seen. Then, slowly, your pale lips parted, and though no sound emerged, he caught the faintest exhale, the ghost of a breath.
And then—at last—your eyes flickered with something new.
Surprise.
Not admiration. Not awe. Not any of the simpering nonsense he was accustomed to receiving from women. No, this was something deeper. You were not impressed; you were astonished. It was as if, for the first time, someone had acknowledged that you existed beyond what the world saw of you.
It wasn't enough, but it was a start; and Turpin, ever ruthless, ever determined, would take whatever ground he could gain.
I’m so fucking sick of these scam accounts posing as Palestinians begging for aid, but what’s even worse is the amount of people falling for it. did yall learn nothing from the Russian bots?!
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.”
