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Across the room, Valarr barely looked up from his phone.

You turned your head slowly. “Valarr.”

He straightened immediately, though his thumb lingered suspiciously close to the screen. “Yes?”

“Last I checked it was you who had upcoming exams, not me,” you said.

“I know.”

“And yet you are not studying.”

“I was just...”

“Kiera will survive without you for an hour,” you cut in, not unkindly, but firmly enough that he sighed and finally set the phone down.

You liked Kiera. She was bright and entirely capable of managing your son. But that did not exempt him from his responsibilities.

Matarys pushed his plate an inch away.

You didn’t even look at him this time. “Eat.”

“I’ll be sick.”

“You will not.”

“I will.”

You finally turned your gaze on him, steady and unimpressed. “Then you will be sick after you finish.”

There was a long pause.

Matarys huffed, picked up his fork, and took a reluctant bite.

Peace, such as it was, lasted approximately four minutes.

Your phone rang.

“Maekar,” you answered, already rising from your seat and stepping into the hallway.

On the other end, Maekar sounded…strained. Not his usual clipped irritation, but something fraying at the edges.

“I need you.”

You closed your eyes briefly. “What happened?”

“Aerion got into a fight,” he said flatly. “I had to go down to the station. He’s...” A pause, controlled, but tight. “He’s being dealt with. But Egg is refusing to settle, and Daeron...” another exhale, sharper this time, “...is telling the staff they’re going to die and he won't be able to warn them if they make him take his medication.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“And you can’t manage this because?” you asked, though the answer was obvious.

“Because I have too many children and not enough patience left tonight.”

There was no dramatics in it. Just fact.

You looked back toward the dining room, where your sons were: one sulking, one pretending to study.

You were tired. Bone-deep, unrelentingly tired.

But Maekar did not call unless he needed to.

“Fine,” you said. “I’ll come.”

His house was louder than yours.

Disorder lived there more openly, less carefully disguised by polished surfaces and trained staff. By the time you stepped inside, Egg’s voice was already carrying down the hall, high-pitched and indignant.

“I don’t want to go to bed!”

You found him halfway up the staircase, struggling against a nanny who looked one breath away from resignation. You suspected she would've managed to put him in bed if she was allowed to actually drag him.

“Egg,” you said.

He froze. Then twisted around, eyes lighting up. “You’re here!”

“Yes,” you said, already reaching for him. “And you’re coming with me.”

“I’m not...hey!”

You didn’t argue. You simply grabbed him, tucking him securely under your arm despite his squirming protests, and continued up the stairs.

Daeron was in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, pale and watchful. Two maids stood near the door, clearly unwilling to approach.

“She’ll fall down the stairs tomorrow,” Daeron was saying calmly. “I saw it.”

You stopped in the doorway. “Daeron.”

He looked at you.

There was a long, quiet moment.

Then you extended your hand, palm up. “Should we call your psychiatrist, Dae?”

He hesitated, then reached for the glass of water and the pills on his bedside table. Without another word, he swallowed them.

You nodded once. “Good.”

Egg had gone still against your side, watching the exchange with interest.

You shifted him slightly. “You’re staying with us tonight.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

“…Fine.”

Back home, the house had settled somewhat.

Matarys was immediately distracted by Egg’s presence, whatever lingering resentment about dinner forgotten in favor of showing off something incomprehensible involving a game console.

Valarr, to his credit, had his books open.

You allowed yourself a brief exhale.

It didn’t last.

The front door opened again some time later, heavier this time. You heard voices, low, familiar, and then Maekar stepped into the room, one hand gripping Aerion by the shoulder.

Aerion looked…worse for wear. Bruised, blood dried at the edge of his lip, but standing.

“Sit,” you said, already moving toward them.

He obeyed, though not without a faint, defiant tilt of his chin.

Maekar released him and looked at you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to your forehead. “Thank you.”

You softened. “You’re welcome.”

He straightened, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “Baelor’s still at work?”

“Yes.”

Maekar’s expression darkened. He dialed.

You could hear Baelor’s voice faintly on the other end, calm, distracted. “Maekar?”

“If you don’t come home right now,” Maekar said, voice perfectly even in a way that meant it was not, “I’ll be taking your wife to my home.”

There was a pause. “What?”

You closed your eyes briefly. “Maekar...”

Maekar ended the call.

Seconds later, your phone rang.

You answered. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?” Baelor asked, confusion threading through his voice.

“Yes,” you said briskly. “Everything is fine. No thanks to you.”

A pause.

“But it won’t be,” you continued, tone sharpening just slightly, “if you don’t get home. Oh, and fire that Lannister whore of a secretary. She grates my nerves.”

There was a longer pause this time.

“…I’ll be home soon,” he said.

“See that you are.”

You hung up.

When Baelor finally arrived, the house had quieted again.

The boys were occupied, Aerion was cleaned up and sullenly compliant, and Maekar had gone, his crisis temporarily contained.

Baelor found you in the sitting room.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then he stepped closer. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

He rarely apologized without reason, and never lightly. There was no defensiveness in him, no attempt to justify the long hours or the constant demands of the business empire he ran. Just a steady acknowledgment.

“I should have been here,” he added.

“Yes,” you said.

He nodded once, accepting it. There was a faint crease between his brows, something tired beneath the composure he wore so effortlessly in every other room. You reached up before you could think better of it, smoothing it away with your thumb.

His hand came up to catch your wrist, not stopping you, just holding.

“I’ll make it right,” he said.

You studied him for a moment, then let out a slow breath. “Start by being home for the parent-teacher conference tomorrow,” you said.

“I will.”

“And Valarr’s exams.”

“I know.”

“And Matarys now hates seafood.”

A faint, tired smile touched his mouth. “I’ve been informed.”

You hesitated, then leaned into him.

He drew you closer without hesitation, one hand settling at your back, grounding, familiar.

The day had been long. It would likely be long again tomorrow. But for now, he was here.

Part 2

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you jump, spinning around to find nicholas leaning against the doorframe, hair damp from his shower, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants. which is... illegal. that should be illegal.

"i was just— your accessories are—" you gesture vaguely at the dresser. "they're very, uh, restraint-y. very cool."

his smile goes sharp and interested. "restraint-y?"

"you know what i mean," your face is definitely burning now. "they're handcuffs."

"they're fashion," he pushes off the doorframe, crossing to stand beside you, and picks up the cuffs. they dangle from his fingers, deceptively delicate for something so suggestive. "but yeah, they function like handcuffs. got them custom-made."

you snort, "why would you need functional handcuff accessories?"

"why are you thinking so hard about my functional handcuff accessories?" he counters, and the teasing edge in his voice makes your stomach flip.

you should leave. you should absolutely leave. instead, you hear yourself say, "they'd fit my wrists."

the temperature in the room spikes about forty degrees.

nicholas goes very still beside you, then cautiously turns to look at you. "yeah?"

"i mean, probably? they're smaller than regular ones," you're rambling now, nervous energy making words spill out. "not that i would know the exact sizing of regular handcuffs. i've never been handcuffed. but, these look like they'd—"

"baby," his voice cuts through your spiral, low and rough. "are you asking me to handcuff you?"

your brain short-circuits. "i— that's not— i wasn't—"

"because if you are," he continues, setting the cuffs down to face you fully, "you need to say it. can't have any confusion about something like this."

the shift in his demeanour makes your mouth go dry. gone is the playful teasing: this is something more serious, more intense. more nicholas in a way that makes you want to simultaneously flee and get closer.

he kisses you, and it's different from usual. there's a claiming edge to it, a promise of something more. your hands claw at his bare chest, feeling his heart thunder under your palms.

"the guys won't be here for another hour," he murmurs against your mouth, reminding you of how you'd invited his eight friends for lunch that afternoon. "we have time. we have privacy. and i have these—" he reaches past you to grab the cuffs, "—if you want them."

you should think about this more. should process the implications, the vulnerability, and the trust required. but standing here with nicholas looking at you like he wants to devour you whole, you find you don't want to overthink for once.

"okay," you breathe. "i want... i want to try."

his smile is devastating. "good girl. but first," he sets the cuffs aside again, "we're going to talk about this. boundaries, safe words, all of it. because i need you to feel comfortable with me. always."

and that casual prioritisation of your comfort, even when you can see how affected he is, makes you want him even more.

fifteen minutes later, you're on his bed, wrists cuffed to his headboard.

the metal is cool against your skin, fitting perfectly. your shirt is still on—nicholas had been insistent about moving slow, working up to more—but you're hyperaware of how exposed you feel like this.

"colour?" he asks, kneeling beside you on the bed.

"green," you say, testing the give of the cuffs. "very green."

"yeah?" he leans over you, hands braced on either side of your head. "like being restrained for me?"

your face burns, but you nod.

"words, baby."

"mhm," you manage. "i like it."

"good," he kisses you, deep and hungry, taking his time now that you can't touch him back. "because i really, really like seeing you like this."

his mouth focuses on your neck, that spot that makes you gasp. you instinctively try to reach for him, only to be stopped by the cuffs. the restriction sends an unfamiliar jolt through you.

"that's it," nicholas murmurs against your jaw. "can't touch me, huh? can't do anything except take what i give you."

you whimper, hips lifting involuntarily, and he makes an approving sound.

"so responsive," his hand slides under your shirt, palm hot against your ribs. "and all mine like this, aren't you?"

"yes," you gasp as his thumb brushes the underside of your breast. "yes, h-hah, yours."

he maps every sensitive spot with his hands and mouth while you writhe beneath him, unable to do anything but feel. it's overwhelming — the lack of control, the intensity of sensation, and the way he seems determined to learn every single thing that makes you come undone.

"nicho, please—" you don't even know what you're begging for.

"please what?" his hand slides lower, fingers toying with the waistband of your shorts. "tell me what you need."

"need you," you sigh, pulling against the restraints. "n-need, ah, more."

"more?" he traces patterns on your hip, maddeningly gentle. "you're gonna have to be specific, baby." it's torture. sweet, deliberate torture, and he knows it. he knows exactly what he's doing to you, keeping you on edge, and making you ask for everything.

"touch me," you finally cry out. "please just t-touch me properly."

"where?" his hand stills. "show me— oh, wait," his grin is absolutely wicked. "you can't, can you? guess you'll have to use those words instead."

"you're evil."

"you love it," he kisses you again, swallowing your protests. "now be good and tell me where you want my hands."

your breath stutters, “touch me… lower.”

nicholas props himself on one elbow like he has all the time in the world, gaze dragging down your body, lingering everywhere you can’t cover. “lower,” he repeats, voice a soft, dangerous hum. “so needy when you ask nicely.”

you tug helplessly at the cuffs and curse when they don’t budge. it only makes him grin. his lips trail heat over your stomach, your hips, until he’s right where you need him — close enough to make you shake, yet not close enough to relieve anything.

“colour?” he checks in, thumbs brushing your inner thigh.

“green,” you breathe. “green, nicho. just— please—”

“i know,” he sounds almost proud of you for begging; what a jerk. “i’ve got you.”

and then he licks you.

just one long, slow stripe, but it hits like an electric shock. your whole body jerks against the restraints and a choked sound tears out of you.

nicholas groans, low and delighted, “god, you’re already a mess for me.” his hands slither under your thighs, pinning you open, and holding you still.

you whine his name, and he finally gives you what you’re craving. his mouth seals around your clit, sucking hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

“nngghh, n-nicho... oh—”

your wrists twitch, metal biting your skin, but you can’t stop. can’t ground yourself. can’t do anything but take the way he’s devouring you, patient and greedy all at once.

he hums, the vibration wrecking you, “that’s it. let me hear you.” you’re already on the edge, embarrassingly fast, and he can sense it, smiling against your drooling cunny.

his mouth works you harder, wetter, filthier, and soon—

—his fingers slide in.

you arch so violently the cuffs rattle against the headboard.

“easy,” he soothes as he pushes deeper, curling exactly where you’re weakest. “i’ve got you.”

you twist and turn. or, at least, attempt to. “t-too much, nicho—”

“mmm, not yet,” his thrusts ease, perfectly controlled. he fucks you with his fingers while his mouth slants back over your clit, sucking in time with every curl of his hand.

you sob and nicholas moans like he’s tasting something addictive.

“my pretty girl,” he mumbles, voice dripping with want. “look at you. tied down and still trying to run from it.”

you didn’t even realise you were pulling until he presses your hips to the mattress, trapping you mercilessly. “no, baby,” he sounds almost gentle. “take it, hm? i fucking know you can.”

the orgasm hits too fast to brace for — violent, full-body, and tearing through you so hard your vision blanks and your voice breaks on a sound you’ve never made before.

“fuckkk, that’s it. that’s my girl. let it happen, let me have it.”

you’re still coming when he decides you’re not done. his fingers don’t stop. his mouth doesn’t stop. he pushes right through it, relentless, insatiable, and you squeal.

“n—nicholas—s-shit, mffnghh... i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he whispers, sucking your clit a little too softly to be kind. your body jerks uncontrollably. your wrists burn. your thighs shake so hard the bed shifts underneath you.

“n-nicho! pleasepleaseplease...”

he lifts his head for you to see how ruined he looks, with his pretty, flushed cheeks, swollen mouth, and pupils blown. “you can handle another one. you’re doing amazing for me, baby.”

his fingers curl, nudging your sweet spot voraciously.

you scream—wordless, broken—and he presses a kiss to your trembling thigh like he’s comforting you while destroying you.

“there it is,” he breathes. “god, you’re perfect. c'mon, give me another.”

so, you do, helplessly and violently, the second orgasm ripping you apart harder than the first, your mind flooding white as your body convulses around his fingers. you squirt, coating his sinful face with your juices and soaking the sheets. it's such a filthy sight and nicholas adores it.

he moans into you, drinking every bit of it like it’s his.

for some inexplainable reason, he keeps going. your eyes widen, handcuffs rattling urgently as you whimper due to the punishingly delicious overstimulation.

“no, no, no. nicho, i came—”

his voice is tender, unbearably sympathetic, “i know, baby. but, fact of the matter is... you’re cuffed.” his pace doesn’t falter and you fear that you've unleashed something devious in your boyfriend as you feel your next orgasm already building.

“and i’m not done with you yet.”