having thoughts about being the personal guard of a queen who has survived an assassination attempt, and though she trusts me wholly and completely, she still wants to have the skill to defend herself should i fall or be taken from her. so she asks me to train her. to fight her as cruelly as those that would see her blood spilt upon her own throne, and to show her how to hold her own against me.
it goes against every instinct i have, save the instinct that tells me to follow her every command to the ends of my ability. so that same shield that i would place in front of her, i now place between myself and her. the blade i would swing to block another before it struck her, i now aim at her weakest, softest points.
she is never afraid, not with me as her instructor. she knows that even as she urges me on, i only wield my sword with a fraction of the ferocity she has seen me show to her enemies. she recognizes that in the absence of a shield and blade i would use my very flesh to protect her, should this ever again extend beyond a training drill.
she believes that my knowledge of her behavior from years of service makes me uniquely poised to teach her to cover her faults. she realizes that i know her body and her senses as intimately as i know my own, and i will care for them even more carefully than mine.
she is aware that even as i knock her dagger aside, grasp her wrist and kick at the back of her knee to knock her off kilter, i counterbalance her weight as she falls to make her landing softer. she understands that as i plant my knees about her hips and lean over her, grasping for her dropped dagger in the dirt, putting it to the soft underside of her chin while my other arm braces across her chest, i do it only to serve her and not my own desires. only her. only her.
but, i dare to consider, what if her desire matches my own? what if she wishes for me to take what i crave, if she equally craves it to be taken? what if, in her endless wisdom, she foresaw that it would come to this, with her at my mercy and me at my most riled and ruthless, and welcomed it?
what if my hand twitches on the blade, a thoughtless reflex, but enough to nick a single jewel of blood from her throat? what if, when i drop the blade, i dip my mouth instead of my hands to clean the wound? what if her hands caress the back of my neck as i linger there, if her voice moans soft in my ear with the press of my lips? would it be so wrong to serve myself in this moment?
if there was any doubt, the words my lady whispers in my ear absolve me. i know her body and her senses as intimately as i know my own, and i shall care for them. oh, how i shall care for them.



















