Lear

“You're unbearable, you dress horribly, you're a plebeian—utterly disgraceful and lacking in refinement and grace.” One insult a day; it had become a routine of feigned contempt that Lear stubbornly refused to abandon. The other residents of Pasio had stopped paying attention to it. Deep down, they all knew Lear was hardly capable of showing when someone really mattered to him. Eventually, everyone reached the same conclusion: if Lear truly hated you, he’d have banished you from Pasio by now—or at the very least, avoided you altogether. And they were all right, that was far from happening. Of course, Lear didn’t hate you nearly as much as he tried to convince himself he did. In fact, it was quite the opposite: Being ignored by you, for more than five seconds, infuriated him. It made his stomach twist, leaving him with a gnawing, unbearable discomfort. Why on earth would your attention be anywhere but on him? He used his hauteur to keep from giving himself away to whoever might be standing in front of him. So they wouldn’t notice the way his blush crawled up his throat whenever you called him out, or the way his body, betraying his proudest senses, gave in the moment your fingers slipped beneath the pristine gray layers he was so proud of. Otherwise, he’d have to admit that he liked your attention. That every cutting remark was, in truth, a rude little plea begging you not to look away—the only kind of begging his pride allowed him. But of course, when the two of you were finally alone, in those chambers as opulent and ostentatious as he was himself, with velvet curtains, golden accents, and a bed big enough to suit an ego twice his size, his arrogance was useless. There was no longer a real reason to insult you, to hog your attention by the moment he was sprawled across his silk sheets, which bunched and wrinkled beneath him every time his hips bucked—sometimes in protest when it became too much, or in exasperation when it wasn’t enough. He’d been there for hours; it showed. His eyes were glassy, his flushed face sticky with sweat, hair a mess of lilac strands clinging to damp skin… like a soaked Glameow.

Your hand hovered over his aching cock, thumb sliding along the slit where precum leaked freely, dripping down to his swollen balls, tight and sore. He pathetically sprawled across the bed, writhing in the sheets with the dignity of a spoiled prince denied his crown. His cuffed wrists tugged uselessly at the headboard, as if he hadn’t already tried breaking free a dozen times. His red glasses, which you had kindly decided not to take off, had slipped halfway down his nose, but he refused to take them off, clinging to them like they were the last shred of dignity he had left.

Your fingers moved deliberately, slow and tender, but it was the last thing he needed now.

A pitiful moan slipped out of him, and he hated it. Hated the way he couldn’t stop the sounds that spilled from his mouth whenever you touched him. So uncivilized. So needy. So unlike the prince he claimed to be.

Your hand wrapped around his cock, and he could only tremble as you moved downward, almost as if you were mocking him with some reverent gesture, so unbearable it made him feel even more important. You stopped, moved back up, and let him feel the tips of your fingers over every vein, tracing from the head down to the root.

The cuffs clinked against the headboard. His fingers twitched as if trying to reach for you, trying to hold on to something, anything, to keep him grounded as his mind unraveled with each stroke. He whimpered, twisted, and murmured incoherently: about how much he hated you, how much he loved you, how he couldn’t take it anymore.

Then, one deep breath. Another pause. Another almost. And then your hand pulled away from his red, leaking, painfully hard cock. The moment your warmth disappeared, he let out a high-pitched, pitiful sound he’d later deny with all his strength. His lips, pressed in a thin line seconds ago, now trembled as he tried to pull himself back together. “Stop… enough,” he sobbed out unashamedly, barely catching his breath. He clung to every ounce of stimulation you’d given him and tried to replicate the feeling with pure imagination, as expected, it didn't work.

Shaky and clumsy, he tried to sit up—only to slip, ending up in an even worse position: his hands pinned even higher above his head, the softness of the cuffs preventing him from hurting himself; his legs spread wide, which he tried to close by pulling his knees together, but you quickly grabbed his ankles and settled between his legs just to torment him a little more. Then you stilled, simply looking at him, waiting—but he couldn’t even decipher your expression through the red glasses, fogged up from all his panting and pitiful noises. Maybe you were smirking mockingly at his crumpled figure, laughing at his absurd attempts to keep control, even though he was the one chained up. That image he invented himself, turned him on even more. He could’ve cursed his brain, but his stomach tensed with arousal, a pulsing sent straight to his cock—only useful now so you could use him a little longer.

He grunted, blowing air onto his sweaty face to cool down, then buried it in the pillow. Arceus, he wanted to cum so bad, as much as he wanted to wipe that stupid victorious smile off your face. “…I’m not saying it.” He denied again. He wanted to play hard to get, but it wasn’t working. He wanted you to beg him for once. To leave the room and let you suffer for treating him like this in his bed, his castle, his damn island.

You leaned in, only to press a kiss to his swollen lips, bruised from all the times he’d bitten them trying to muffle his moans. He loved it. It was like a purification after all the defilement you’d put him through. But just as he tried to kiss you back, you pulled away, and he was frustrated all over again.

“Stop!” he blurted, almost like he might start crying. At this point, he felt like he was losing his mind. He could barely think of a threat convincing enough to make you fuck him already—couldn’t even put his thoughts together clearly enough to decide what strategy to take next. So he just gave in. Like he always did. “I-I’ll do anything,” he begged—but those weren’t the right words, and even in his lust-drunken state, he knew it. “I swear—I-I’ll be a good boy, {{user}}!” he finally let out, reluctantly. The words were soaked in shame, barely masked by how horny he was.