Kleine Füchsin

Black tarry streaks stained the walls as the flames licked against their smooth, stone-carved mantles, the candles burning down to sloppy stumps, their wicks curling in on themselves as they flickered against the shadows. 

You were naked, neck-deep in a scented bath, enjoying a massage and a luxurious hair treatment from your attendants. Soft white petals floated leisurely around your heavy breasts, the oils and perfumes creating a rainbow on the water’s surface, dancing around your generous curves like a maiden’s ribbon. The water was hot enough to melt the day's stress away, and the touch of skillful hands against your muscles was enough to make you sigh. 

Someone offered you a cool glass of water with frozen fruits and mint floating in it, and you denied them with a polite shake of your head. You didn't want to be cooled. Not yet. You wanted to melt. To burn. 

The one thing that sparked your attention the most, however, was the ever watchful eye of your dedicated Keeper: Duke John MacTavish of Celestia. He had been watching you bathe from his unwavering post in the corner of the room, those piercing blue eyes forever pinned on you, as was his duty. 

Johnny, as you lovingly called him, had been by your side since you were a child. He was your age, and because you were the seventh daughter of the Astral Queen, he was elevated through the ranks of his sect as a seventh son, one of the many hopefuls who might become your Keeper one day. Nothing less would do for the High Septan Princess of Alpha Astra. You were destined to have the best of the best of everything. 

Which, most days, was much to your chagrin. 

But not Johnny. You were grateful for his presence and his loyalty. He'd saved your life a good many times, and he'd more than earned the shining medals that glittered across his armor. 

You weren't afraid of your lack of dress around Johnny, either. He'd seen it all. Ever since you had both come of age, you had chosen him as your Keeper, your protector, not only because he won all of the tournaments, but because he was your favorite of them all. Once he completed the Keeper ceremony, taking the Maol into his mouth and purifying himself for his sacrifice, he'd kept his eyes on you as if you were his one true purpose. 

And, you supposed, you were. The only day that Johnny would take his eyes off of you would be the day that he died, which would be in the coming weeks. 

If you thought about it too long, you would cry again, and you didn't want him to see that. After your mother had decreed that the Seventh planet had come into the Astral fold, you'd sobbed for weeks, wrapped in Johnny’s arms as he comforted you about his own wretched fate, watching you mourn him far ahead of schedule. You had always relied on Johnny’s physical touch to ground you in your more stressful moments, and this was the same. He was still here for you, holding you, protecting you even from the unseen. 

And now, you were being cleansed, prepared for a line of suitors who awaited you on the Celestian space station that orbited their atmosphere, being made ready for someone else to take you and keep you for themselves. 

You wouldn't need Johnny, then. 

You tried to imagine another man standing so tall and broad and still at the foot of your bath. As unwavering. As intense. But you couldn't. 

You leaned forward, breaking away from your attendants, insisting on washing yourself the rest of the way. You kept your eyes on Johnny, and something inside of you told you that observing your nightly ablutions were more than just part of his duty. His eyes roamed - he was not forbidden from that - and you saw him rake his gaze across your soapy breasts and belly, following your hands as you wiped yourself clean. 

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the entire room, as was also in his power. Attendants of all sorts filed out of your bathing chamber, and you were left alone together. A condition that both of you much preferred. 

“We could still run, you know,” you mused, braiding your hair loosely as you knelt in the wide basin. 

Johnny narrowed his eyes at you, wordlessly chastising you for such a ridiculous idea. 

“I know where they keep the escape pods on the Galactica. We could steal one,” you finished tying up your plait in a large bun on the top of your head, feeling the water drip down your neck and through the join of your tits as you emerged from the water. “I bet we'd get as far as Kantika before they even knew we were gone.”

Johnny grabbed your towel, wrapping it around your body as you stepped onto the cool stone floor, following you over to your vanity as you spoke to him. 

You knew, if Johnny could reply, he would tell you:

Nae, bonnie. I cannae break my vow. You are the Septan, and you'll rule the entire Solarium one day. You're too important. 

He'd said those exact words to you before he took the Maol. It had been the last thing you'd heard from his throat. Once he placed the black muzzle between his teeth, he'd never speak to you - or anyone else - again. 

Not in proper sentences anyway. The only time he was allowed to remove his Maol was to clean his mouth, to imbibe oral medication when needed, and during his weekly Seeding rituals. He could also remove it at your command, and he would speak if you demanded it, but you wouldn't do that to him. It was too shameful, too taboo of a thing, and you wouldn't dare bring shame on such a proud man. 

You wished he could taste the sleep draught that your chef had prepared for you tonight. It was a mixture of honey and cinnamon, and the flavor was divine. You lifted it to his nose for him to smell, and he indulged you, bending forward over your shoulder to take a long whiff of the drink. 

“Mmm,” he hummed. 

Often, your friends and ladies in waiting had scolded you for being too permissive with your Keeper. Your mind flashed back to a recent conversation that had turned your stomach.

“Letting him stick his nose in your supper like a lap hound! I've never seen such a thing. Really, Princess, you should not encourage such hedonism. His loyalty wi–”

“His loyalty is never in question, Lady Dijak. There is no Keeper under the Pale Star more devoted than mine. Do not question what I permit him to do.”

“No, Your Highness, I would never. But, does he enjoy such things? We assumed that with no ability to eat, it might be too teasing to let him only scent a dish.” Lady Dijak had a way of hiding her opinion behind a royal sort of “we” when she knew she was treading on thin ice. 

“My Keeper is not my prisoner. If he does not care to smell my perfumes or the aromas of my desserts, he is allowed to refuse.”

You grew tired of her ignorant questions. The Dijak family could afford an estate, but they would never be granted access to the Keepers of the Nine Houses. And she would certainly never enjoy the security and loyalty of her own Keeper. She merely liked to play in the royal sandbox; she did not belong to it. 

“Certainly not. But by his grotesque size, some might assume that he does more than just smell your meals, Princess,” the woman thought she had gotten in a jab, but all you had to do was look up at Johnny and Lady Dijak was whisked away by two of your attendants, stumbling and protesting all the way to the door of her cytonic carriage. 

You took a bite of the caramel treat in front of you, lazily scooping up a morsel onto your spoon and, to no one in particular, which meant that it was a message to everyone in the room, you had said,

“If anyone believes that my Keeper has tasted food or drink for the past three years of his service, they will answer to me for their ignorance. I consider an accusation of that degree treason. I hope I have made myself perfectly clear.”

“Oh, yes, Your Highness,” your sycophantic companion, Lord Saturnus clutched his lab-crafted pearls and gave his husband a long, damaging look, “How dare she even think such a thing. You know, I've heard that Lord Dijak has spent some evenings with a Miss Cicero, last spring when they traveled through the Tau Belt. Can you believe…”

And so on and so on with their lies and their gossiping and their posturing and their bullshit. 

No one was allowed to question Johnny’s sacrifice. You knew what he had done to earn his place as your Keeper. What he had given up. They had no idea. 

Now, here in the mirror of your vanity, your most loyal friend stood by your side as you applied your creams and your powders. You held out the small tray of one-of-a-kind perfumes and put it in front of him.

“Which one should I wear for the parade tomorrow? You're the one who will have to smell me since we’ll be trapped inside that awfully small palanquin. You know how much I hate that thing.”

Your pouting was a little much, but he indulged you. Johnny reached out and pet your cheek with the gloved thumb of his hand, and you immediately felt reassured. He knelt in front of you, eye-level with your perfume tray, and he selected the small, round bottle of amber liquid for you to wear, holding it out to you for you to take. 

“Of course. Your favorite,” you smiled, but as you did, you felt a hot tear streak down the side of your temple and onto your chin, betraying your feelings to him. 

He set the tray aside and took your hands in his, shaking his head. You could hear his voice in your mind, although you would've given anything to hear it in your ears:

Dinnae fash yourself, bonnie. Dinnae cry for me. This is what I asked for. What I fought for. 

You couldn't help yourself. You reached out to him and put your arms around his neck, letting him cradle your body in his arms, trying to pull your silks over you to keep your modesty. But you didn't care about that. You let him lift you from your stool and carry you to your bed, laying you gently in your pillows before covering you up and keeping you warm in your blankets and furs. 

For a moment, he just held you close, but as soon as you stopped your weeping, he shifted away from you and stood back, moving towards his post by your bedside. 

You held his hand in yours, refusing to let him escape, dragging your other hand through his perfectly coifed mohawk cut in the traditional Celestian style as he'd always worn it. His brown hair was so soft under your fingertips. Like a bird’s wing. 

“I have a special prize for your final Seeding ceremony tomorrow, Johnny,” you whispered. “I want you to have whatever you want. The cost is nothing to me. They'll stall the entire parade for me if you want to take all morning. They can wait. You deserve it. And…” You deepened your voice, altering the timbre to get his attention, “I have something to show you as well. Afterwards. If you'll indulge me.”

You watched as his breath filled his chest, the air heaving in his lungs, his dark hunger roiling beneath the surface. 

Finally, you had the strength to look away from him, and you gave him his nightly command. 

“Keeper MacTavish, I order you to abandon your post. Set the nightbots before you take your leave.”

Johnny placed his fist over his heart, pressing his thumb into the armor of his chest piece, and bowed deeply to you. You knew he would not actually leave his post. He would set the bots to patrol, but then he would lay against the divan you'd had made for him, and he'd watch you sleep. His oath was everything to him, and not even a direct order from you would make him stray from it.

You enjoyed his little rituals, and he was all too obliged to show them to you. The way he programmed the machine to guard you both in your sleep, punching buttons and putting in his code with a practiced hand. Then, he would strip out of his armor until he was only wearing his kilt. It was a tradition of Celestial men and women to wear the color of their royal house, and the MacTavish blue seemed like a direct match with his eyes. 

The kilt was his only undergarment, and he would use the long belt of it to protect his chest from the metal clasps of his armor, or at night if it was cool enough to give him a chill. But now, in the heat of the summer, the castle was comfortable in the evenings, so he simply tucked it into his waistband and let it drape across his hip. Johnny also slept with his Keeper’s knife, a blade that was at least half a cubit long, tied in a sheath on his thigh. 

All over his body, he was decorated with the black tattoos of the Astral warrior’s guild for his conquests in service to the crown. There was one that wrapped around his ribs and onto his back from when he saved you from would-be assassins in the western quadrant, and another for when he leapt into the Unez River to keep you from being washed away in the rapids. Each inked image held a story of his devotion to you, and you loved seeing them on his skin. He'd chosen the designs himself, and you'd remained with him during each of his inkings, even going as far as to bring artists on some of your longer journeys in your vessel just so he could have them finished and not need to leave his post. 

You admired his muscles and his huge size, gaping at the way his mountainous shoulders rolled out of his pauldrons. He was indeed larger than any other guard or warrior you'd ever seen. His chest was broad and well-built, and his belly was thick and strong like the trunk of a great tree. His legs, too, were powerful and hardened from the dedication he had to his training. Even his hands were sinewy and lethal. Everything about him was dangerous. But not to you. For you. 

When he was a boy, he'd been taller than all the others, and when you played together, Johnny would always let you win. You knew it was so, because when you watched him with the other boys in his sect, he would dominate them in any game. Capture the flag, rolling eights, swordsmanship; it didn't matter. If they were smart, he was smarter; if they were strong, he was stronger. If they wanted to win, he wanted it more. And, to your joy, he always made sure that you were watching him. 

But you wanted to experience that power for yourself. You wanted to know what he was really like. So, with the help of a very unwilling maiden, you disguised yourself one day, dressed as a rival boy from another sect, masking yourself to hide your identity. Johnny didn't notice you. He was too busy scanning the crowd, trying to find out where you'd gone. So, when you swept his legs out from under him, he was more than a little shocked. He tackled you into the mud, hard, and the air left your lungs. You'd wrapped your legs around his middle and fought to grab his throat, pinning him with your arm. With an incredible ease, he bested you, trapping both of your arms above your head, taunting you as he ripped off your mask.

“How’d you like it, lad? Too rough for– oh, fuck me. I mean, I just... Your Grace. Please forgive me. I didnae recognize you,” Johnny dropped the mask from his hand and knelt in the wet mud his head hung to the ground, submitting to you with his whole body. 

You lifted his chin, forcing him to look at you, your teenage years making you annoyingly daring and overconfident.

“Nice work, Johnny. Now, I'd like to schedule a rematch.”

He'd stared at you transfixed, stuck in utter shock at your words, still in disbelief that you were his opponent. 

When your mother had found out what you'd done, she'd given you more than just a piece of her mind. She was cruel in her punishment, and after you'd handsewn a brand new banner for the MacTavish sect, she told you, “When you give this token to him on next Shield Day, you will thank him for his service to the Crown, and you will add your monthly allotment to his tournament bank.”

“My entire –” You tried to be bratty and indignant, but she was on a tear, and she taught you a valuable lesson with her sharp words.

“Imagine never tasting the coolness of water again on your tongue! Imagine, no food, no wine, no treats that you adore so much. Imagine leaving your mother at only six years old. He has already left his home, all of his life in Celestia, his title as the Duke of Clan MacTavish, miles and miles of lands and ore and power – all of it! He has given it up just for the chance to give his life for you. You will show that boy the respect he deserves. Your royalty does not exempt you from honor.”

In your youth, you hadn't realized all that. You'd just been playing a game, but she made you realize that it wasn't a game anymore. If you selected John MacTavish as your Keeper, you would seal his fate and yours, all for the glory of the kingdom that you would one day rule. Tears filled your eyes, and you regretted everything you'd done that day. 

After the Shield Day had come and gone, another tournament win in his pocket, Johnny found you to apologize again - the fourth time - begging your forgiveness. 

“Your Grace,” he bowed, his armor singing as the metal of the battleship’s bridge came into sharp contact with his knee, “Please for–”

“Up! Get up, Johnny. Stop all this. It was my fault. Please.” You grabbed him and hoisted him up, realizing that he was much too large for you to manhandle as you had when you two were just children. Your hubris had distorted your view of him, and you realized you never should have challenged him like that. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to trick you. I just… I wanted you to win. You always let me win. You're too easy on me.”

“Nae, bonnie,” he pulled a stray hair behind your ear, brushing the shell of it with his ungloved hand, “You didnae mean any harm. And I'm sorry, Your Grace, but I will always let you win.”

“Even if I order you to defeat me? To make me lose?” You smiled, shaking his shoulder with your hand. 

“Aye,” he smiled back, brushing your chin with his thumb. “And when I'm your Keeper, anyone who dares to challenge that fact will meet the end of my wee blade.”

“If you become my Keeper, you'll die. I won't choose you.” You turned away from him, but he wasn't done. 

He pulled you to him, holding your back to his chest, whispering in your ear, “If you willnae choose me, you willnae be safe. And I cannae have that, bonnie. I chose this path for myself. I chose you already. Choose me back.”

You leaned your head into his neck, letting his strength carry you as he squeezed you tight to his breastplate, not caring about how the gleaming darksteel bit into your skin. 

“And when they force me to marry? What then?” You turned your head to look up at him, making him confront the truth. 

All you got back was a cocky smile and a soft kiss on your hand, “He better be a tough bastard if he wants to go through me.”

As you drifted off to sleep, your memories of the man that lay in front of you swirled and twisted in your mind, and all the future stretched out before you into a terrible, tangled knot.

He tries to drop you off at home, but you demand he come inside and at least shower off so he doesn't have to drive back to the barracks grimy with sweat, sunscreen, and sand. Of course he agrees - the man has never said no to you in his life, even before he finally had the courage to ask you out - and he turns eggplant-purple when you casually shuck your swimsuit to join him.

You're stupidly horny for him after seeing him half-naked all day, so you take your sweet time lathering your vanilla bodywash into his skin. He sighs beneath the steam of the shower and the ministrations of your hands, shoulders slumping like his joints and tendons finally realized he's no longer in a combat zone. Blissed out and half way to falling asleep on his feet.

But he wakes right the fuck up when your fingers creep lower and you begin to massage his cock.

König loves your handjobs. He says you're unbelievably good at them and he never needs to worry that his size is hurting you - a frequent insecurity of his when you first became intimate. While you languidly work his hardening member back and forth, you rest your head between his pecs as the water pours down on you both.

He makes the most pathetic little whimpers as your lazy tugs turn into proper pumping. One of his hands flies against the tiles to keep himself steady against the urge to turn into a puddle at your feet.

When you tell him its time to wash his hair, he seems perfectly willing to accept that the handjob is over without having come. But when you ask him to get on his knees so you can reach his head, he quickly picks up on what's actually happening: a perfect excuse to smush his face into your tits.

König may love your handjobs, but he worships breasts.

You squirt some shampoo onto his head and begin to spread it through his short hair while König attends to your chest. Sucking, rubbing his face, thumbing your nipples, and whispering breathless gratitude into your cleavage. It's not terribly long before he picks up where you left off, the wet noises of his hand sliding over his cock speaking to something primal in your cavewoman brain. "I'm so lucky," he says over and over again. "So fucking lucky."

It doesn't take long for him to empty his balls, splattering your legs as he leans so hard into your body you nearly topple. The shower quickly washes away the mess as he plants a final kiss beneath the swell of one breasts.

He quickly asks what you'd like in return - he's happy to lick your pussy for the rest of the night, or he could sit you on his lap and use his fingers - but all you really want right now is a nap. There's something so satisfying about pampering this man, who got dealt a shit hand in life but is somehow still the type to fumble his way through a homemade mojito recipe if he thinks it'll make you smile.

Neither of you bother to put clothes back on as you collapse into bed and wrap your bodies around each other. You think to yourself, not for the first time, what a wonderful father he would make. You can picture with ease König's big hands spreading sunscreen over a little boy who has his eyes and your hair.

A goal for next summer, maybe.

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I dont usually do requests, but I would literally jump off a bridge for @the-californicationist ❤️💕🧡 Thanks for the prompt, Cali!!