Gilded Chains — Alain & Ysabella (Mature) (Patreon)

His fingers sprawl on your lower back, lazily guiding you to move just as he wants to. You mindlessly follow, long having absconded thought or will, chasing the bliss that he's offering you both, drowning in a heat that sears through your very bones.

"Alain," you moan, your hands gripping his brown locks as your lips fervently kiss the lanes of his forehead and temples. They're damp with sweat, but you savor the tang of saltiness when it hits your tongue.

Alain's only answer is a rumbled grunt against the skin of your throat. He's pressed his face into the crook of your neck, his tongue lapping and sucking at the thin bone of your collarbone.

His thrusts were steady and slow, almost maddeningly controlled, but now you feel your noble slightly crack. Another noise is ripped from his throat, but it sounds less like a grunt and more like a growl. His hands shift suddenly, grabbing your waist instead as his hips start a new, faster rhythm.

Oh, you could die here. You could happily die.

Instead, the way he's rubbing inside, has you howling his name. "Alain!"

*if Romanus is female

You're bouncing on top of him, your thighs splayed over his lap, your hands gripping his nape and now Alain has you flying. His grip tightens, bruising almost, and as your breasts move up and down, Alain lowers his head to catch a nipple into his mouth.

One hand lets go of your hip to crawl towards your center. His knuckles brush your pearl of nerves, and the electric shock has your toes curling somewhere behind him. When he flattens his thumb against it, you forget your own name.

*if Romanus is male

You're bouncing on top of him, your thighs splayed over his lap, your hands closing into fists in his nape and now Alain has you flying. His grip tightens, bruising, and he inclines his neck to leave fervent kisses along your throat.

One hand lets go of your hip to crawl towards your member. His fingertips are teasing, lightly brushing just where you need him. But then, Alain grabs you firmly, and electricity burns every nerve of your body. When he pumps you, you forget your own name.

-

His clothes chafe against your naked skin. His pants rub the back of your knees, and his shirt is a frustrating barrier to the skin on his chest, but Alain likes to have you whole while he's dressed. It's more decadent this way — you'll never admit out loud how much you like it.

You're vaguely aware that he's pulling sounds out of you. You just can't seem to shut up. Your throat is raw, and your lips swollen, but Alain lets go of your nipple/leans away from your neck to say, "Keep singing, pet," and you do.

You're close now. You can feel the ground crumbling beneath you.

Alain drags his hands up your spine, fingers making indentations on your flesh before he grabs your shoulders and pulls you down.

His hips rise at the same time, hitting deeper than before, and you're convulsing, so tight, so coiled with tension that it's painful. You sob, your eyes watering, clinging to him desperately. Your nails scratch his shoulder blades, and you beg him to keep going.

One more thrust. One more, and you'll finally release. Oh, Alain, please. "Please, don't stop. Alain, don't stop."

You hear his rumbling chuckle. "When you beg like that, sparrow, I—"

"Master Alain."

He stops.

You bite your lip to keep from screaming.

You're lifted, and then you land on the green and gold divan placed against the wall of Alain's large bedchamber. You blink away the tears, throat still raw with frustration, to see the man standing at the door.

He's a servant, middle-aged, and dignified-looking. His immaculate uniform isn't an inch out of place, and his hair is flawlessly combed back. He waits with an inscrutable expression.

Alain hasn't half the same grace. Your noble is clearly caught off-guard. He scrambles to his feet, tripping on your leg before he stands up straight. He tucks himself back into his pants and steps in front of you, partly hiding you from the view.

Not that he needed to bother. The servant's eyes never once strain from Alain. He doesn't look the slightest bit surprised or even flustered. You realize this has probably happened before. More than once, more than a handful.

And why is there a sudden pang in your chest?

"Wilfred." Alain's voice is strained. He clears his throat as he surreptitiously leans down to grab your cape. Alain hands it to you without looking, his face spreading into a pleasant smile. "What do I owe the pleasure?"

He sounds fine, now. You watch him with furrowed brows. If it wasn't for his tossed hair, Alain would seem perfectly composed. That pang in your chest morphs into a hole.

Wilfred doesn't even acknowledge you. "Your lord uncle wants to see you."

It's so imperceptible, that you almost miss it, but Alain's jaw tenses. He nods, and now his voice comes out colder. "Very well. I'll be right there."

"Do not keep him waiting," Wilfred says and then closes the door.

There's a moment of silence. You can see Alain's shoulders coiling with tension. Your heart has calmed in your chest, but you don't know what to do besides cling to your cape.

What are you supposed to do? Should you just... should you go?

But then Alain turns to you, and he's wearing a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "Sorry, sparrow, I need to get to this," he says, his voice is strained too. You think he sounds ashamed — of you, no doubt.

You look down, feeling something, but you can't name it. Used? Disposable? Unimportant.

Blast it all, you hate this. "I understand," you say, even though you don't. He has never made any promises, has he? He's done nothing wrong, but then why can't you look at him?

You search for your shirt, head down, and find it at the foot of the duvet. "I'll see you later."

You reach for it—

Alain grabs your wrist. "What are you doing?"

You look up, frowning in confusion, to see him frowning down at you too. "I'm going," you say, and tug your hand away, but Alain doesn't let go. "What do you think I'm doing?"

His frown deepens. "Why?" Alain asks.

You actually laugh. It sounds so bitter. "We're done here, aren't we?"

To your astonishment, Alain's frown vanishes and is replaced with a new grin. But this one isn't some front; this one makes a shudder climb down your spine. "Oh no, pet, we're not done here," Alain murmurs, voice a low drawl and leans down to capture your chin with his hand. His voice bathes your lips, and despite yourself, you lean closer. "I'm nowhere near done with you."

You wait for his kiss, but it never comes. Alain grins wide and pulls you to your feet, fingers firmly wrapped around your wrist. He takes you to his bed and pushes you down on the mattress. "You'll stay here," Alain says as he looms over you. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to fasten your wrist to the headboard.

It's a frail little thing that you could easily dismantle.

You don't know what's more humiliating. That you won't or that Alain knows that you won't. "I'll go see what my dear uncle wants, but then I'll come back." Alain finishes the knot, and rests his palm against your breastbone, pushing you into the mattress. "And we'll finish what we started. Until then, sparrow, I want you to wait here for me. Exactly as you are."

Sprawled on his bed, naked.

You should tell him to go to hell. Instead: "Lock that damned door when you leave," you say.

Alain smirks. You smile back.

"As my lady/lord commands," he whispers, coming closer. He kisses you, and it's different. There's a softness here, an unspoken apology.

You kiss him back. I forgive you.

- - -

Her hands are like velvet.

Ysabella is soft all around. Her hips are supple, her chest generous, her skin soothing, her curls like holding clouds in the palm of your hands. Her mewls are soft too, as are the little breaths she takes and the way her legs quiver as you work against her.

She is all the softness of silk and the inviting warmth of a long-lost home. You sink into her embrace, letting her envelop all that you are. Your body. Your soul, if you have one. Your mind, if she wants it. You'll even give her your surname if only she asks you. Let her have it. Let her take all the pain.

As long as she keeps holding you, taking you, drinking you, you'll give her all she desires and then some until you're nothing but a husk, an absence, a...

"Oh, dearest." Heart-shaped lips sigh near your ear. Ysabella calls your name then, and it sends a jolt down your spine. You open your mouth and bite the skin just below her earlobe. Her moan of pleasure has you moving faster.

Her nails wrack down your back, but even so, they are so... soft. It's almost a caress, disguised as scratching. The red lines in the morrow will look like strikes of devotion and not marks of wild abandon.

You bite her a little bit harder, your teeth sinking into her skin. Something to counter her softness, some roughness to keep you sane. But all Ysabella does is arch into you, her breasts pushing against your chest, the sound of your name spilling from her lips needier than ever.

God may have forsaken you, but she refuses to.

*if Romanus is male

You roll your hips, plunging into her warmth, and turn your head so you can swallow her gasps. You kiss her as you make love to her, your tongue rolling in tandem with your thrusts. Ysabella hooks a knee around your hip, granting you a new angle that has stars exploding behind your eyelids.

"Fuck," you groan, and that's what you do. You're holding her waist now, bruising fingers leaving purple marks, as you pound into her. You don't want more softness. You don't need more tenderness.

You want—

"Y— yes," your noble lady whispers, voice breaking when you thrust again. "You are perfect. My mercenary. My dear. You're perfect for me."

You press your face into her neck, gulping down air, breathing into her sweat, her musk, and the scent of flowers from her hair. Ysabella is writhing beneath you, her legs tightening around you like a wall of stone, her arms like chains, her voice like the singing of an angel. "There! There. My love, there."

You grit your teeth, pressure breaking your lower spine, and chase the end with all the strength you have left. Absentmindedly, you lower a hand to her clit and rub, wanting her to come at the same time as you. You like to feel her walls convulsing around you, trying to hold you in when you break away.

*if Romanus is female

You roll your hips, her thighs straddling one of yours, pressing your cores into each other. Ysabella mewls, and you kiss her as you make love to her, tongue rolling in tandem with the fingers curled inside her. Ysabella hooks a knee around your waist and twists her hips just so and oh. Stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Bella," you moan, your chests squeezed against each other as you hold her impossibly closer. Your hands leave bruising marks on her stomach, her breasts, and her thighs. You don't want more softness. You don't need more tenderness.

You want—

"Y— yes," your noble lady whispers, voice breaking when roll your hips again, pressing your thigh right against her. "You are perfect. My mercenary. My dear. You're perfect for me."

You press your face into her neck, gulping down air, breathing into her sweat, her musk, and the scent of flowers from her hair. Ysabella's long, slender fingers writhe within you, matching the brutal pace you've set. Her legs tighten around you like a wall of stone, her arms like chains, her voice like the singing of an angel. "There! There. My love, there."

You grit your teeth, pressure breaking your lower spine, and chase the end with all the strength you have left. Sweeping the pad of your thumb over her clit, you make her near climax too. You want to come when she does, together.

-

She throws her head back, arching her neck with her eyes closed tight, and you know she's there. You're right there with her.

You move—

The soft click of an opening door.

Ysabella’s fingernails dig into you, but there's no softness now. They grab in panic. "Don't come in," she clearly wants to yell, but her voice comes out so raw that it's barely more than a whisper.

"Lady, it's time for your bath. The water is hot, just as you like it. I used lemon and lavender salts. I think you will —"

The voice cuts off abruptly. Your stomach drops to your feet.

Ysabella looks horrified over your shoulder, and you feel her tremble. She hides behind you, using your back as a shield. You stay immobile in place.

A beat.

Ysabella opens her mouth. "Esther."

"I apologize, my lady."

"Esther, no, wait." Ysabella scrambles to get from under you. You help her, rolling to your side, but it's still an awkward affair. Your legs are tangled in each other, and the sheets and Ysabella has to practically crawl on the mattress. "Esher, don't go."

You see Esher for the first time. A young, pretty maid, with her hair tucked beneath a white cap and a modest dress. Her cheeks are redder than the sunset, and her round, wide eyes look everywhere but at Ysabella’s bed. She has a hand on the handle of the door and even at this distance, you can see it’s a death grip.

You grimace at the poor woman. This clearly wasn't in her job description. Let her go, Bella, you almost say, but you think it better to stay quiet.

But, to your surprise, it's Ysabella who seems the most distressed. She's clutching the sheet to her chest, her hair falling in disarray around her face as she lifts a hand towards Esher. "Please, don't go. We must talk. I— I'll need a moment, but..."

Esher puts a foot out of the bedchamber. "I shall give you a moment, my lady!" she shrieks and closes the door with a bang.

"No, Esher!" Ysabella yells uselessly after. Her arm falls to her lap, and she stays looking at the door with despondent eyes, her mouth opening and closing.

You watch her from the head of the bed with hooded eyes. You understand if she's embarrassed, it's not exactly an ideal situation, but you don't think it warrants this level of distress.

So, what if she's sleeping with you? She's an adult, isn't she? So are you. And yet, as you see Ysabella's eyes start to water, something dark and hurtful settles in the bottom of your stomach.

"She's going to tell all the help," Ysabella croaks out, her voice so weak that you feel the pull to comfort her. But you don't. "It won't take more than a day before the gossip reaches my family's ears."

The hurt turns to a knife, twisting into your gut. She's not bothered by the act – she's bothered she was caught with you.

It hurts more than you'll ever admit. At least, it's out in the open now. So, fucking be it.

"Must be horrible," you say, your voice like the cracking of ice. Your face is cold too, when she finally looks back at you. You see the tears in her eyes. It cuts deep. "I'm sorry you'll have to suffer the humiliation."

You sit upright and reach for your pants. You don't know where your underwear is, so you start to put it on without it.

"Where – where are you going?" Ysabella has the gall to ask.

"Oh, my love," you say the word like a toxin. "I know when I'm not wanted. Far for me to keep imposing my company. Let's not do this dance, shall we?"

Where is your damned shirt? You start to walk around the bed, lifting covers and throwing pillows away.

Ysabella crawls on her knees to the edge of the bed. She reaches for you, but you step back. The hurt on her face is almost believable. "What dance? What are you talking about?"

You want to laugh, but what comes out is a bitter scoff. "Ysabella, if you're ashamed of me, I'm not going to sit here and be your thrilling little secret. I might be just a mercenary, a dirty commoner without a drop of noble blood, but I do have a drop of self-respect. I know. Shocking."

Shock is what comes over her face. And once again, it is so believable. "I am not ashamed of you," she lies.

"Right," you say dryly. That's it, you'll just leave without your shirt.

*if female

People have seen breasts before, haven't they? There's no novelty to them. Half the population has a pair.

But Ysabella grabs you. She clings to your arms and pulls you to her. The noblewoman isn't soft anymore. There's nothing tender in the fervor of her voice or the hardness of her words. "Listen to me, you hard-headed creature. I am not ashamed of you." Ysabella cups your face, then, and the tears that have been swelling in her eyes start to spill over.

"You are... you are the best thing I have. And I have you." Ysabella’s nails rack your skin. "But now, they will know and use that knowledge against me. Against us both. They'll try to twist and taint what we have, and for once, for just this once, I wanted something for myself. For me, and me only."

You don't know what to say. Here she stands before you, naked and vulnerable, spilling her heart to you.

Ysabella sniffles and then falls into your embrace. You can do nothing but accept her, your arms supporting her as she gently weeps into your chest. "Bella..." What can you say? "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "Don't be. Just be here. Please."

You gather her in your arms, lips resting on her temple. Your gloved hand closes around her hip, your black mark tingling as you sit back down on the mattress. You may be a wrecked thing, but even you don't have the black heart to say no.

"I'm here," you whisper. "I'll be here, Bella."