#ask request

You’d been out here for almost an hour.

The lounge chair was angled perfectly to catch the best light, and you'd put real thought into that. Towel flat beneath you. Sunscreen rubbed into every inch of skin you could reach. The pool caught the afternoon sun and reflected it back in broken flashes of light across the tile. By every possible measure, it was a perfect summer day.

The Velaryon family had left for Essos three days ago. Some long trip Rhaenyra had put together, ruins and coastlines, their mother insisting everyone needed fresh air. Jace had gotten the call about his postponed finals the morning they were supposed to leave, and you’d watched the whole thing from the kitchen doorway, still holding your coffee (you practically lived here). His mom’s face. His quiet, steady I’ll be fine, I promise. The way he’d kissed her cheek and then, once the elevator doors had shut, turned around to look at you with a grin so wide and open it made something warm bloom in your chest.

Just us, he'd said, like he was handing you something.

And it had been, genuinely. Three days of the penthouse entirely to yourselves. You'd cooked terribly and laughed about it. You'd watched movies tangled together on the couch until way past midnight. You'd slept in and ordered takeout and just moved through the space without thinking too hard, without that low hum of being a guest in someone else's home. It felt easy. It felt, briefly and sweetly, like yours.

Today, you'd decided to make the most of the pool.

Which had led, through a very logical and completely reasonable chain of thought, to your current situation.

Okay, the swimsuit top coming off had been a choice, yes. But a justified one. You were fifty floors up. The terrace was private. The nearest building of any real height was blocks away, its windows too far to matter. You’d thought it through. And more than that, there was the simple, stubborn fact that you were not going back to university with weird pale stripes across your shoulders from this top.

So off it came. You tucked it under the chair, stretched your arms up near your head, and let the sun get to work.

You were nearly asleep when the shadow fell over you.

The warmth on your skin slowly faded, and you frowned without fully waking up. The sun didn't just disappear. You shifted, confused, and then you opened your eyes and found Jacaerys Velaryon standing directly above you with his arms crossed and an expression that was nothing short of accusatory.

You blinked up at him. Sunspots floated at the edges of your vision.

"What?" you said. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

He held the look for a moment, jaw tight, brow furrowed, clearly sitting on a whole speech. Then: "You know why I'm staring."

You genuinely thought about it and concluded that you didn't, or at least that you didn't understand why it was a problem. You'd been very reasonable about this.

"Jace," you said patiently, "you've seen me naked. Multiple times."

"That's not-" he started, then let out a breath. "Obviously. Obviously that's not the issue- Obviously I-" another pause, "that's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

He gestured at the sky, at the city, at the general idea of the world existing around you. "What if someone sees?"

You stared at him.

Then you looked, very slowly, at the terrace railing. At the city spread out below it, hazy in the afternoon heat. At the sheer drop of fifty floors of glass and steel between you and street level.

"We are," you said, "fifty floors up."

"I'm aware."

"Who," you continued, "is going to see me, Jace?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. You watched him search for solid ground. And then, with the energy of someone who had just found exactly what they needed: "The birds."

The word just sat there in the air between you.

You pushed up slightly to look at him properly. "...The birds."

"The pigeons-" He said it with growing confidence, like this was obvious and you were just not keeping up. "You know the theory- they're not real- they're surveillance- the government."

"Jacaerys."

"Basically drones with little cameras inside them."

"Jacaerys”

He stopped. He had the decency to look, for just a second, like he knew exactly how that sounded.

"The pigeons," you said slowly, "have cameras in them."

"It's a theory," he said, quieter now. "A widely circulated one."

You let your head fall back against the cushion. The sun was still there, still warm, still perfectly placed, and you wanted very badly to go back to enjoying it. "Jaaace," you said, letting your voice go soft and drawn out and whiney, the way you knew worked on him, "please.” I don't want tan lines."

You heard him breathe out. The sound of someone whose argument was losing to the simple fact of you.

Then there was the sound of fabric.

You opened your eyes.

Jace had slipped his shirt off, the light linen button-down he'd been wearing all morning, pale blue stripes, soft from too many washes, and was just holding it loose in one hand like it was nothing. The afternoon sun hit his shoulders and you stared at him for a full second before it clicked and annoyance rose quickly to fill the space.

"Excuse me," you said flatly. "You can just stand there like that with your nipps, but I can't?"

The corner of his mouth moved. He was trying not to smile and losing. "It's different."

"How is it different."

"I'm a man-"

"That," you said, "is genuinely not the defense you think it is."

He looked at you. You looked at him. The afternoon sat warm and still around you, and then he laughed and whatever tension was left between you just melted into something softer.

"You're impossible," he said.

"You love it," you said, and turned back toward the sun.

You heard him move, footsteps on the tile, the shift of his weight, and you were already closing your eyes again when the shirt came down over your chest like a curtain, laid across you gently. Then the chair dipped as he settled beside you and tucked his head underneath the fabric, right against you.

You went completely still.

Then you looked down.

Jace was lying with his head on your chest, the shirt draped loosely over both of you, looking up at you, actually looking up at you, with an expression that had no teasing left in it. Just dark and steady and focused, the way he got when he stopped performing and just was.

"Hi," you said, a little weakly.

His lips curved. He pressed a slow kiss to the center of your chest, eyes still on yours, and then his hands found your waist, warm and sure, fingers curling into your sides like he just needed something to hold onto. The warmth of it spread through you like something poured in. "I'm trying," he said quietly, "to be a gentleman." He kissed a little lower, hands squeezing gently at your waist, and you gasped softly, your hands coming up on their own to rest on his shoulders, grounding yourself against him. He looked up at you through his lashes when you did that, something satisfied flickering behind his eyes. "You make it so damn hard."

Your fingers pressed lightly into his shoulders. Your voice came out much softer than you meant it to. "Jace."

His hands tightened just slightly at your sides, thumbs tracing slow, idle shapes against your skin, like he was in absolutely no hurry. "This view," he said, with complete and total seriousness, still holding your gaze, "is for my eyes only even if we are 50 floors above."

He held it for one more second. Then he winked.

And before you'd even processed that, the wink, the words, the shift in his face, he was already moving, and you had about one second to make a sound before you were up, lifted and thrown over his shoulder like it cost him nothing at all, the world suddenly sideways, your hands grabbing onto him out of pure instinct.

"Jace!" You held on tight, the city somewhere dizzyingly far below. "What the hell, put me down."

"I don't think so." He walked back toward the terrace door like nothing. It slid open and the cool air of the penthouse rushed over your sun-warm skin.

"Jace- I swear to god."

"There's something else," he said, easy and conversational, moving down the hall, "that I prefer to keep for my eyes only." He said kissing the side of your hip.

"You can't just- that's not- oh my god."

"You were saying something about tan lines?"

"Jacaerys Velaryon!" you said, as sternly as anyone could manage while hanging upside down over someone's shoulder, "you are such an ass."

"You love it," he said, and you could hear the smile.

You pressed your lips together hard against the one threatening to take over your face.

The shirt was somewhere on the floor of the hallway. Your top was still out on the terrace by the chair.

Let’s just say, getting a perfect tan was not on your list that day.

You’re on your knees in the center of the rug, back arched, tail high and trembling, calico fur fluffed out. You’ve already come twice today—once on Price’s thick fingers, once on Kyle’s clever tongue—and it’s still not enough.

Price kneels first. His hands are steady as he strokes down your spine, thumb pressing the base of your tail until you keen.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, brows drawn in single-minded focus. “We’ve got you. All of us.”

And he’s the first to take you.

He eases your thighs apart, lines himself up, and slides in slow, stretching you wide. You yowl, nails sinking into the rug, tail wrapping tight around his hairy forearm like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. John fucks you deep and deliberate, hips rolling in a rhythm that makes your whole body rock forward with every thrust. When he finally comes, it’s with a low groan, spilling hot and thick inside you, holding you still while you shudder through your own release.

He kisses the back of your neck, voice rough with satisfaction. “First one’s mine, princess.”

Kyle goes next. He’s gentler, hands everywhere—scratching behind your ears, stroking under your chin, whispering filthy praise while he sinks into you.

You’re still dripping from Price, slick and open, and he groans at how easy you take him. He fucks you fast and playful, nipping your shoulder until you arch and beg. When he finishes, he laughs breathlessly against your ear, “Gonna give me a pretty little spotted kitten, yeah?”

You nod with a whimper, drooling onto the rug, too far gone to speak.

Johnny’s third. He’s eager, impatient, practically vibrating out of his skin.

He flips you onto your back so he can watch your face, so he can kiss you sloppy and deep while he thrusts. His cock is fat and slightly curved, relentless, and he drives into you until you’re clawing his shoulders bloody, tail thrashing against the floor. He comes with a shout, flooding you until it leaks down your thighs, and growls against your mouth, “Fuckin’ hell, lass. Feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

Simon is last; loves you cockdrunk and throughly prepped.

And he waits until the others retreat to the couch, watching with lazy, possessive eyes, stroking their half‐hard cocks to the sight of you.

He’s the biggest, the quietest. When he finally moves, it’s slow. He lifts you into his lap, arranges you facing the others so they can see how well you take him. His cock is long, heavy, and he sinks in inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge, every vein and piercing. You’re whimpering, overstimulated, but he just rumbles low in his chest, one massive hand splayed over your soft belly.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he murmurs gruffly. “Waitin’ to fill ya up proper.”

He fucks you like he’s claiming territory—deep, relentless, hips snapping until you’re crying, tail thrashing, ears swivelling and pinning back submissively.

When he comes, it’s with a low, broken groan, spilling deep inside you and adding to the seed already filling your sopping cunt, holding you against his massive chest with strong arms while you shudder through the aftershocks.

“Mine,” he murmurs into your ear, so soft the others almost don’t hear. “Ours.”

You’re a wreck when it’s over—fur matted with sweat and cum, thighs trembling, belly feeling all heavy and warm. They clean you gently, one at a time. Price with a warm cloth, Kyle with soft kisses, Johnny with teasing licks along your jaw, Simon just holding you while you continue to purr even in your sleep.

Nine months later, the litter arrives.

Four perfect, squirming babies; each one a perfect resembling their sire. Smaller than humans yet twice as resilient.

They’re all yours. All theirs.

And your mates spend the next months rotating night feeds, changing tiny diapers, and arguing over who gets to hold the kittens longest while you spend it sprawled in the biggest bed they could find, purring loud enough to rattle the windows, tail curled around four tiny bodies that smell like home.

Their princess.

Their queen.

The mother of their future.

simon's never seen a forest before. at first, he thinks it has to be another hallucination. it looks like the pictures in books he saw as a child. it looks like the maple tree on eden. he thinks about his sapling. about the last tree. how could this many trees be in one place? how can they just... live?