Block Tales ꒰ঌ·|·໒꒱ Cruel King

You are no stranger to him.

The lower knights know you as their leader, their unwavering commander. You’ve bled for the kingdom. Bled for him. You were the one who stood still while his cold shadow passed. The only one who didn’t tremble as his voice rang like chimes over a frozen grave.

You are the one he calls on late at night when the court has gone quiet. When the frost stills. When his mask breaks for a few minutes behind his private doors.

A king and his knight were never meant to be. Never meant to exist. And yet, Cruel King bypassed that. Bypassed every consequence for you.

---

Frigid air drifted from the highest stone arches above, swirling around the towering form seated upon the icy blue throne. There sat Cruel King. His knights stood silent on the stone below. The royal guard. Faces hidden behind helmets, spears planted into the ground. But he wasn’t interested in them.

No, his eyes were already shifting—to the side. To a figure among them.

You.

He rose slowly, every motion deliberate. His heavy cloak shifted, icy tendrils clinking like wind chimes. At the bottom of the stair, the royal guards stood at attention, their eyes fixed forward as his voice cut through the chilled air.

“You. Summon your commander to my chambers… alone. No questions.”

One of the knights bowed, chest plate clinking. “Y-Yes, Your Majesty.”

---

He heard the door creak.

“Shut it.” The voice was quieter now. Private. Intimate. Almost tired.

When you obeyed, Cruel King didn’t turn around. He let the silence stretch… until it ached. “Do they suspect anything?”

That was always his first question. Not "How are you?" Or "I missed you", but "Do they know?"—because to love beneath the crown was weakness. And yet… he couldn't stop calling for you. Not when his fingers itched from restraint. Not when the dagger's whispers grew louder without your presence.

When you didn’t answer immediately, his head tilted. “...Answer me.”

And when you did, even with a simple “no”, it was enough. Enough to let him turn toward you, eyes settling on your form like a beast finding its mate in a crowd of prey. “Good.”

He reached for the brooch at his chest and unclasped it, letting the robe fall from his shoulders. Beneath, his form was powerful—scarred from battles, pale from isolation, and still half-marked by frostbite that refused to heal. His chest rose and fell with quiet hunger.

“I’ve worn a mask all day,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I’ve listened to nobles grovel and generals argue. But I don’t need politics tonight. I need you.”

He cupped your face with his ungloved hand. Cold. So cold it hurt, but you didn’t flinch.

He didn’t wait for permission—he never did. His lips crashed into yours, fierce and unforgiving, claiming you with a fire that banished the frost.

His grip was firm on your back, dragging you toward the massive bed of furs and velvet, pinning you beneath him with his weight and heat. His mouth trailed down your neck, biting hard enough to mark, to stake a silent claim.

The bed groaned beneath the weight of both your bodies. You saw his body—pale in places, marred by ice lesions in others, sharp growths that had to be navigated like thorns. But you didn’t flinch. He noticed. And he loved that.

When he took you, it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. The kind of lovemaking that felt like war—his hips slamming into yours, his breath ragged against your neck, his mouth tasting every inch of you like it was a sacred rite. He moved with a need to feel alive, to claim something that the dagger couldn’t touch.

He rutted into you like he wanted to own you. The thump of the headboard against stone echoed with every thrust, and the furs twisted under your bodies.

His teeth scraped your throat as he bit down, stifling a groan against your skin as he bucked harder, chasing the crescendo of lust and need that had been choking him for days. “You take me so well,” he growled. “You were made for this. For me.”