Work Text:
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a beautiful girl-child on the cusp of womanhood. She was fair of skin, and fair of hair, with eyes the color of a crystal clear lake on a cold winter's day. She was a rambunctious thing that loved to race her pony, climb trees, and hide from her tutors when she should be inside learning the ways of womanhood. But she was kind to all she met, and everyone around her seemed to love her.
Now, one day in late spring, it so happened that a band of gypsies came to the castle she and her elderly father presided over and begged entrance. Being a good, kind child, she readily agreed and welcomed them with open arms, inviting them to sup with her. In the great hall, all save the king sat and ate together, even the girl-child, and partook of the same dishes. The gypsies found this curious, as they were sure the child was the king's offspring, but simply shrugged it off as they were guests of the courteous child.
The weeks that followed were simple and peaceful for the band of gypsies, who were not persecuted in this castle run by the aging king and kind girl-child. They observed the girl run hither and thither, escaping tutors with a grace that they had only ever seen in the best of acrobatic troupes, fighting the young boys with sticks only to get back up with grace when knocked down, and swim in the lake with no inhibitions just like every other child in the castle.
It came to pass that one day, the girl caught the eye of one of the gypsy children. He was an envious boy, who often wanted things he knew he could not have, and so the girl-child was exactly what he wanted. His mother, the only true witch of the clan, indulged his every whim and so set out to entrap the hapless girl.
“Would you like your fortune read?” the gypsy witch asked one day, and much to the delight of mother and son, the child readily nods her head and skips trustingly over. The witch goes on to explain that her son will be doing the reading as he is training in her craft, and again the trusting child nods quickly, not minding in the least.
In she goes to the wagon spelled to let nary a peep of sound escape its walls, trusting that the sweet-looking boy has only the kindest of intentions. Unfortunately for her, as soon as the boy has her inside the wagon, he throws her down and begins to walk menacingly towards her, only seeing the fright in her eyes. Unfortunately for the greedy boy, he does not pay attention to the girl-child slipping her fingers under her skirt for the stiletto hidden there. Nor does he notice how the fright is not directed at him but at the prospect of a first kill. He simply notices the tears that leak out from the corners of her eyes rather than realizing the true meaning of the tears. The boy only sees the bright, thin blade moments before it punctures his neck, rammed to the hilt. He tries to holler for help, but unfortunately for the boy, and thankfully for the girl, the wagon is spelled to keep the screams contained. And scream the nasty boy does, much to the delight of the girl who reveals in the sounds.
When the witch opens the doors to the wagon, expecting to find a cowering girl-child and a triumphant son, she finds a girl-child that is standing tall, drenched in the blood of her dead son, and so promises retribution. She curses the girl-child to be demure and womanly for the rest of her days, to only exist within whispers and screams, to never truly know peace. There were no ifs, ands, or buts; no ways to lift the curse with true love or a kiss. It was simple and clear-cut.
The girl-child does not understand the importance of the curse and so continues as she always has. She is rambunctious and loud, running with the boys and hiding from tutors, but as the days grow longer and warmer her discomfort mounts. She soon learns the meaning of the curse as more restrictions are placed upon her, restricting her time to more maidenly crafts such as embroidery and learning the harp. Thankfully her father, while of an older mindset on most things, believed that education should be extensive for his only child, and so she was taught mathematics, languages, literature, and all manner of other subjects. She was taught to speak in whispers, as anything above a murmur was unseemly in a female.
Gone were the days of galavanting around on her pony, fighting boys with sticks, and escaping tutors. Instead, she was forced to live the regimented life common for her sex, surrounded by ladies-in-waiting that watched and reported her every move. From them, she learned stealth and cunning, the ability to appear obedient while testing boundaries, the value of only needing to speak in a whisper, and the ability to appear meek while retaining a secret core of steel.
The girl quickly grew into womanhood, growing well past the normal age of marriage, slowly sliding into spinsterhood at the ripe age of one and twenty when her father began to truly take notice of her again. He began to speak of matrimony and female duties, of political alliances that would be too late soon enough, and the woman could not stand the thought. But still the curse held fast, and so she was forced to hold her tongue and agree as was expected in public. In the private recesses of her room, she screamed and screamed and screamed, not understanding how to avert her fate.
But one day, she espied a newcomer to court, a knight from far away lands. He brought tales of fancy and adventure, of whimsy and sadness. He became a quick favorite of the aging king, constantly at his side telling of quests and daring deeds. He was unlike anything the girl had ever seen. He was lithe but firm of form, with long legs and a firm backside, shown off to great effect by the short doublet and tight hose he seemed to prefer. He watched her as she watched him, lightly touching a hand or arm as she passed by, and so she laid her snare.
She whispered to him of her desire to stay and how it was not so very hard to rule a kingdom. If an aging, feeble-minded king could do it, why could not a healthy man in his prime? If he took the crown, she could stay by his side, and it would be a mercy killing, after all. She whispered of other wants and desires in his ears during stolen moments behind curtains and in alcoves and was unsurprised when he brought her a plan. She refined his plot, whispering how he could make it better and more devious, and shivered at the sly smile that overcame his face at her mentions of destruction.
The day of execution dawned bright and cold, and her doddering father fell with little more than a whisper. She cried as her new king placed her upon his knee, tears of joy at a plot well-executed, though she let others believe that it was terror at a fate unknown. Her new king wanted her taught in the art of war, and so she practiced at night when her ladies had gone to bed. She fell and got back up again, enjoying her secret lessons, hiding bruises and cuts beneath heavy gowns. She became like a wraith, moving so fast one would think she was a true ghost until one day she was able to sneak up on the most seasoned of spies. She learned the ways of spycraft that were unknown to her ladies-in-waiting and how best to wield secrets found in the dead of night. She became her king’s spymaster of sorts, enjoying the tidbits she gathered and the slight freedom it afforded her. The girl finally understood that there was no need to speak above a whisper, for the more the unsuspecting bent in to hear her, the easier it was to slide the blade in quietly and efficiently.
When boys tried to come to claim her, to win her hand and defeat the evil “dragon” that held her “captive,” she would gladly dispatch of them when they got close enough, relishing in the bit of blood and destruction she could cause. All the more so when she saw true fear in their eyes moments before their death. When they realized that the one to fear in the castle was her. Because it was not maidenly, she was forced to allow her king and “captor” to make a production of the men’s deaths, to seem like he was the creature to be feared within the castle.
Her chosen king never feared her, even as she leaned in to whisper her pilfered information, or her thoughts and desires, close enough to end his life quickly enough. The few times she thought of it within his presence, he seemed amused at the very prospect, as if he could feel her thoughts as they wound through her head. As if he relished the idea of her coming for his head. A slow smile would spread across the former knight and jester’s face, a crooked thing that promised its own brand of pain and pleasure if she so dared to try.
After a time, she found herself struggling against her curse, wanting more than whispers and an outwardly demure existence. She wanted to stand proudly with her king as he threw the heads of his potential usurpers over the battlements and to sit by his side as he heard petitions from all who needed aid. She wished for more than just shadows and solitude and so found herself sneaking into his bed-chamber, hoping for more. She whispered as he slept, and somehow he seemed comforted with her nearness. She wanted to touch and explore but was unsure of what he might want, even after all this time, and was unsure how her curse would react. To want him inside her was not maidenly or demure, was it? But had the curse demanded she be maidenly or simply womanly? Wasn’t that final act of breaking the thin layer of virginity the ultimate step in becoming a woman?
Finally convincing herself that to be a woman was to remove all traces of her maidenhead, she slips into bed beside her true king, hoping against hope that he will not throw her out as she whispers in his ear to wake, to take what he truly wants. As he takes control, she can feel the curse slipping, words coming easier as she begs him for more, for harder, for faster, and he obliges. Her body sings beneath him, and she gives him everything she is, feeling her curse’s strangling bubble widen to include him, to allow her something more when with him.
She had not let her guard down since the curse was laid upon her; she had not truly submitted. As she gives him complete control, knowing that she can trust him, she can finally breathe. As she comes undone beneath him that first time, it’s like the sun finally shines on her face, bright and warm, and she screams out in pleasure, completely unmoored by the experience. Night after night, she sneaks into his bed-chamber, and night after night, she is given a reprieve from her curse as she tells him her wants and desperations.
She is startled back into the present when she hears his boots clomp down the hallway past her hiding spot in the alcove. She pauses before she grabs him when she hears another set of boots attempting to catch up, clearly aggrieved at having to run. She smiles and slinks further into the shadows to listen when the old advisor begins to speak, ready to add to her collection of interesting information.
"You must marry and produce heirs, your Majesty. You can not run from this obligation much longer and hope to keep the kingdom. The people want a stable dynasty. We humbly beg you to choose one of the princesses that have sent ambassadors. There are many fine girls to choose from! There is but little time to wait."
The girl shudders at the knowledge that he will soon be taken away by husbandly duties and so stays quiet as the two men move on, arguing the matter of matrimony. The peace she thought she had begun to build within her soul is shattered, and the girl is unsure how to move forward. She avoids her king for a time, only entering into his presence when required and keeping her ladies around her at all times, going so far as to have several sleep in the room with her. She becomes the demure creature the curse wishes of her, and it seems as if none notice, not even her king. Long are the days and longer are the nights.
What she does not see or hear or feel is her king trying to grab her attention, and the light touches as he attempts to determine what is wrong with his wraith. Nor does she notice the way the mask of boredom that settles across his face hides his worry and exhaustion after days away from her. She chooses only to see her ladies dancing with their king when he calls for music, rather than the surreptitious looks both parties give her as she sits demurely to the side. She only hears the assignations made between her ladies and her king but does not seem to notice that they all coincide on a specific night more than a week hence.
The woman’s ladies disappear one by one, and she hardly notices, staring listlessly at the fire and ignoring all. As a male hand lightly touches her shoulder, her body moves without thinking. She grabs the hand, twisting it out as she turns her body, her stiletto going for his throat, but the man dodges the blow as if he expected it of her. She growls, seeing red at the thought of anyone touching her without permission, and continues with the attack, practically climbing over her chair to get to the male that would dare. Both wrists are grabbed, and the male’s hands tighten in an attempt to force her to let go of the stiletto in her right hand.
“Truly, Wraithling?” she hears murmured, and the fight drains instantly out of the woman at the sound of her king. They both stare at her hand as she opens it, letting the blade drop to the ground.
He pulls her harshly forward before slamming his mouth against hers in a brutal kiss. As he slips his tongue forcefully between her lips, he backs her towards the bed, and she relishes the feel of the hard wood of the posts pressing against her back. Her king’s hands tighten around her wrists, gripping so tightly she can feel bone rub against bone. She is distracted enough by the sensation of a pain that promises pleasure that she does not notice it as he places her hands behind her back, only coming back to her senses as she feels the cloth slip around her wrists to bind her.
She struggles against the bindings, unsure of his next move until he roughly pulls her bodice and chemise down, exposing her heaving chest to the frigid night air. She can feel her nipples tightening, desperate for attention after so long apart. Yet, she refuses to meet her king’s eyes, continuing to struggle against her bindings, desperate to get away.
As he runs his fingertips from her chin to those pebbled nipples, he demands to know why she’s avoided him, why she hides. When she shakes her head, refusing to make a sound, he lightly pinches one nipple before roughly twisting. Her back arches involuntarily at the sensations coursing through her, settling between her legs, and he uses the motion to push the skirts of her dress up behind her. She can feel him wrapping the delicate fabric around the post behind her, using it to pull her flush against the wood so that she feels the hardness against the sensitive flesh of her backside.
The woman can feel the traitor that is her body flush at her near nakedness, her juices sliding down her inner thigh, giving away her desperation. She lets the unbound curtain that is her hair hide her face, using it as a cover for her shame and her body’s wantonness. But her king pushes the curtain aside, hooking it over one shoulder to keep it out of the way. As if sensing her need to hide, to backtrack to a time when she was less sure of herself.
Again he asks why she hides, and when again she shakes her head, he slips two fingers between her folds to spear into her. As he slides those fingers in and out of her, her chest heaves, but still she makes no sound, desperate to give nothing of herself away. When she can feel her body tightening around those fingers that play her like a fiddle, a small sound finally escapes her lips as she nears a precipice. His fingers stop their ministrations instantly, drawing away from her, and she whimpers at the loss.
Again and again they play this game. He brings her to the edge of something glorious, asks her why she hides, and when she refuses him, he prevents her from falling into pleasure. She screams in her head at the injustice of it all, at his cruelty. How dare he hunt for another bedmate yet come to her as if nothing has changed? As if all is as it was?
When next he brings her so close she can taste her pleasure on the air, he licks a stripe up her neck and whispers against the sensitive flesh of her ear, demanding she tell him why she has hidden away, why she has refused his company unless necessary and she is not strong enough to deny him. She sobs out her answer: that she knows he wife hunts, that she’s jealous, that she hungers for more of him, all of him. As if this unburdening is exactly what he wanted, he claims her mouth with his, pushing his tongue against hers in the same rhythm he uses with his fingers, and she finally screams her release against his questing mouth. Her body bows with the strength of her orgasm as she continues to cry out against his mouth until she is so wrung dry that she slumps against the pillar of her bed.
Her king uses his clothed body to press her up against the hard post, untying her hands as she slumps against him, wrung dry of everything she is. He gently sits her on the bed and unhooks her bodice, sliding her dress and chemise down her exhausted body, taking all at once.
Once he has the fabric pooled around her waist, he tenderly helps her stand so that he may shove everything down to her ankles. As she steps from the pool of material at her feet, he turns her around and suddenly pushes her shoulder blades with both hands, causing her to sprawl across the bed. She can feel her body flush hot with anger, but before she can do more than get her hands under her shoulders, he roughly pulls her waist so that only the top half of her is on the bed, her ass dangling in the air as she tries to get her toes to touch the ground. With no warning, he smacks her ass with such force that her body involuntarily moves forward, causing her to growl.
Her king smooths a calloused hand against the spot, kneading her ass as he whispers into the nape of her neck to tell him where she heard he was wife-shopping. Now knowing his punishment for her reticence, she murmurs how she overheard him being advised to pick someone, that it would be too late soon. Again he smacks her ass as he reminds her that it is not polite to eavesdrop on her king, and she cries out at the sting of his rings making contact with the sensitive flesh.
The pain is replaced only moments later by pleasure as she feels the thick head of him being placed against her dripping center. But still, he tortures her, refusing to push fully in, only rubbing the head of his erection against her desperate opening. She leans up on her forearms, trying to push back, to bring him fully within her tight center, but she feels the fingers of one hand grip her hips in an iron hold as he tells her to stay, slapping her ass again to emphasize his point.
“You know snippets of information are useless, Wraith,” he growls against her skin. “There is the whole of it or none of it,” he tells her as he slowly slides his way into her wet recesses. She fists the bedspread, moaning as he pauses his movements, leaning over her to kiss the column of her neck, her back, her spine. She can feel the texture of his doublet scraping her bare back as his hips thrust into her, the buckle of his belt digging in with each movement.
Her body shivers at the sounds of their wet slapping, at the growls rising from her king’s chest with each deep thrust. Her neck bends backward as he takes a fist full of her hair and pulls, little noises escaping her throat with each of his movements, relishing the pain and pleasure only her king knows how to elicit.
With each thrust of his hips, he growls into her ear, “You need to...listen...more...closely...then,” finishing on a particularly violent thrust. “I argued...for one woman...only...and refused...to...yield.”
The woman shakes her head, fighting against the hand fisting in her hair as she tries to get up and push him off, to crawl up the bed away from him. She could not do this any longer, this game with him. She pleads with him to stop, to let her go, but he refuses to separate himself from her. He pauses the movements of his hips but pulls her flush against him, hands on her hip and sternum as he breathes heavily against the side of her head.
She pleads again to be let go, trying to remove his hands from her body, but he murmurs against the shell of her ear, “Do you truly want me to stop what I’m doing, demon, or do you simply wish me to stop speaking?”
She shakes her head, her body shuddering, not knowing what it is she might want. As he slowly rolls his hips, pushing himself deeper into her womb, her head falls back against his shoulder, her hand reaching around to his neck to pull him closer.
“Be mine,” he whispers, licking the delicate flesh behind her ear as he thrusts his hips up. “You’re wasted as a spy,” he tells her as he rubs a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching enough that it brings pain.
Again she shakes her head while gripping his neck tighter, not able to tell him of the curse that will never let her have peace, terrified that it will be his death on her soul should she say yes.
“Yes,” he tells her, thrusting his hips violently up as his hand travels from her hip to the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. She cries out as he pinches her clit, rolling it in time with her nipple, causing pain as his thrusting cock causes pleasure, intermingling the two so deliciously she does not know where one begins and the other ends.
“You exist in whispers and screams because you’ve become used to it, not because of a curse. The crone is dead, her line is dead, her entire clan is dead,” he tells her as he fucks her, and she has to grab hold of the bedpost to keep herself upright.
Again she shakes her head, and he whispers, “I brought her head as a trophy,” as he rubs at her clit with skilled fingers. Her body trembles at the words, at the promise they represent. She can feel the texture of the post embedding itself into her palms as she attempts to stay upright against this onslaught from her daring king. Kissing the long column of her neck, he begs her to be his before lightly biting her earlobe, using his tongue to soothe away any hurt caused.
She can feel something coiling tighter and tighter in her abdomen before she huffs at the onslaught of sensations, screaming out “yes” as she finally shatters around him, her body bowing as she forgets how to breathe. She can see stars screaming across her vision with her orgasm as she cries out “yes” again and again with each slam of his hips. He tells her of how he needs her by his side, how nothing less will do, that everyone that is not her is lesser. That he will bring her the head of a thousand gypsy queens if she but asks.
He continues strumming her now oversensitive body, drawing her pleasure out until his pace begins to falter. Finally, with the next thrust, he is growling out his own release behind her, whispering words of freedom into her ear. She can feel his liquid dribble down her inner thigh as she leans her forehead against the post, his head against her back.
Standing there, connected as they are, he again whispers his need for her to be with him, and again she acquiesces to that desperate need she feels in them both. As he slips from her inner depths, she shivers at the loss, at the separation.
He turns her gently and captures her lips tenderly with his, picking her up and placing her lovingly onto the bed before climbing in after her. He smooths her hair back as she stares up at him, her hand lazily tracing the sharp edges of his jaw and cheekbones.
“The Harlequin to your Joker,” she tells him sleepily and smiles as she feels him grow thick next to her thigh, ready for another round. As she lifts her hips and he slides into her yet again, she cries out at the sensation of something breaking within her. As if a lead weight has been smashed away from her body by this man, this demon, this saint above her, and she relishes the thought of this being her eternity, of this being her peace, of this being the end of forced whispers and screams.