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He hefted the bleeding boy up against a stone wall. His hair matted against his sweaty face: his squire looked closer to death than many he had seen on the battlefield.

It was not this that broke Sir Ren.

It was the child-like cry that came from his squire’s mouth when that arrow pierced him.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the boy murmured between clenched teeth. Death’s bosom was so much like a mother’s that they were all children against it, but the young age of his squire still made him ache inside.

His voice hadn’t even dropped yet: a joke amongst all in the encampment.

Soldiering through it, Ren’s shaking hands went to the fasteners at the boy’s armor.

“You will serve me another day, Squire Reymond,” he hissed through his teeth. The boy was at his heels as loyal as a dog since he had been assigned. It was a Godless act to have him stricken down.

Ren staked his sword deep in the earth, upright at their sides. He was not focused on the battle around them.

“I promise you will die a man of honor. But not today.”

“I will not, Sir Ren.”

He thought this child a fool many times. This one, the most tragic of all, with all of his worrying statements about truly being a Knight as though he would fail all of the tests to his character in the way. None of the other boys of his class of Pages took their vows as seriously as he did. He did not stray his eyes to fair maidens, or take up gloating competitions with the other students, and there were no reports made to Sir Ren of any of the trouble that all boys get into in the dormitories. Reymond was quiet and focused and obedient with this maddening trace of obstinance in all of his questions that Sir Ren had grown affectionate towards.

He lifted his helmet off of his head to better hear the limp words falling from Reymond’s lips.

“There are...healing baths, in Holywell. I will bring you there myself if I must.”

“No, sir,” the boys lips were white, his face swooned and bloodless. His eyes rolled back.

“The wound in my shoulder, child, that you stitched? Needs a good soak. We’ll go there together.”

“We can’t, Sir.”

Reymond’s eyes were roaming the sky as though tracking a hawk’s flight circling them. About the swoop for the kill.

Death, leave this child.

“Sir--” his squire choked anxiously, his body flinching at Ren’s hands working open the armor. With a knife, he split the arrow protruding from the young one’s chest so he could work the undershirt open. “I have made vows to you, Sir, sacred vows, and I would not like you to see them broken.”

The boy was in the midst of fainting from blood loss.

“What are you on about, Squire?” Ren hissed through his teeth, “you just need a good medicinal soak. We leave for Holywell just as once I get this arrow out. Hold still.”

He struggled: and no one was that valiant to just be left for dead.

The Squire frantically resisted him for as long as his consciousness allowed. His feet kicking uselessly in the dirt and Sir Ren crouched over him. 

Dying under my watch is not what he deserves. Not after how nobly he served. This child deserves the title of Knight so truly that I would give my own name--

“Lie still,” he shouted, but Squire Reymond was already unconscious.

The chest was tightly bound with bandages already, but he had spent weeks on this campaign with the boy, he’d know if he bore a wound terrible enough to-

A pale pink breast fell from parted wraps.

Sir Ren only fell back on his heels for a moment. The two of them, though one unconscious, breathing raggedly in the midst of battle. The clash and collision of swords and the obscene shouts of men meeting early graves fell on deaf ears.

All he could hear was the blood pumping from his stunned heart.

He once, as a Squire himself, near death as this one now was, had sardonically prayed for a sight of a lady’s breast before dying in combat.

This one is slumped against the stone wall that Ren had placed her, moments before when she was Reymond to him, his Squire and nothing else.

A Squire who had saved him from the blow of an arrow. To him, all but an hour ago: a youth, a boy, a future Knight just like himself.

But now none of these things were true.

Blood poured from the wound beneath the dainty breast. Swallowing, he tore from his own clothing something to stop the bleeding. His hand hesitated before pressing down between her ribs with the ragged offering.

He looked at the hands of his Squire, limp and upturned palms like a saint of absolution. They were the hands that should be delicately handing him a cloth, an offering of her favor to carry at his breast into battle. Hands paused over weaving, waiting for him to come home. He would debase himself to kiss these fine hands.

All the same: he had seen what these hands had done.

These were the hands that had done up his armor, tended his wounds, carried his sword as they traveled this Kingdom together. They killed with him, for him, an attack from bandits in the forest wounding his shoulder as she bravely took up his sword to fight for him in his stead. These were hands he was tied to with vows more sacred than words could name.

And she had upheld them, and would, to her last breath.

Which was looking closer and closer to moments away.

No wonder Reymond protested to them bathing together in Holywell. It was forbidden. They couldn't. 

His heart fluttered in his large chest. 

They would, or he'd die trying. 

Why had she chosen this for herself? Who was this woman, disguised as a boy, and what convinced her to be a Knight?

“Please,” he said softly, but he did not know of which name to beseech.

Sir Ren’s heart was in his throat. How could his Squire be both so changed and unchanged in his eyes?

Reymond, in that moment, did die.

She was left in his place.

A woman, mature enough to bloom breasts, and someone who’s deception would be discovered any moment. Every step closer to becoming a Knight was one step closer to this discovery being made.

Still, his head swam with impossible hopes he had not known of being dashed before his very eyes by his own hand. For the both of them.

One of them bearing a secret too terrible to ever speak aloud. One of them someone he trusted, while having not known them at all.

Chapter Text

Rey had always had unexpected, maybe even blessed, success in denying her sex. 

She had always thought her mission was sacred: and the luck that passed her way was always silver and pure like an anointed blade. A sigh of reverent relief passed her lips whenever she was flagrantly close to being discovered and somehow, some way, her true identity went ignored.

When her long hair was cut short, at her own hand with a dull kitchen knife at the age of twelve, the matter was settled with little further struggle. 

She would go forth from that day as a boy as though God granted her a divine right to be one. 

And someday, the boy that she was would become a Knight. 

Her teeth grit the few times that the matter of her sex, her secret, was grimly reminded to herself, and remembered that vow she made herself. 

She never had to worry and wonder about it in her years as a page. There was little difference between her and the other boys so long as she was never naked amongst them, and her isolation in the midst of the wealthier students made it easy for her to come across as merely shy and odd. 

Her courses changed this matter a little, a matter of deep shame as up until that point her true sex was never obvious to anyone and least of all to herself, but she stuffed her clothes with rags and became quite skilled at her own laundry regarding stains of blood; a duty that made her a skilled squire when other boys were too proud to lift a finger in service to their Knights. 

Sir Ren was pleased, clearly having had to coach his share of squires in their duties to him before Reymond; but she was already better at getting blood out of fabric than any man.

Still, the burst of small, swelling breasts from her torso was a mild shock, one she carried like a bruise around the ribs until the bindings soon felt second nature. She got used to them, and hence buried Reyna, what was left of her as she was already nothing, in favor of Reymond, swinging her shoulders and curving her stomach inwards to hunch the modest swells out of sight.

This was the nature of herself that made for a peculiar boy. 

Breasts bound. Voice low. Shoulders back. Hips drawn and tight. 

Her true sex was ignored, even once a month, up until she was assigned to serve Sir Ren.

And after him: it was impossible to ignore their differences. 

She was aware of her cunt like she had never been before. 

A vulgar thing, a place for an aching burden to be hidden by a drunken man in need, she’d heard the songs around some of the more vulgar lodgings what the part that she hid was meant for. 

And yet. 

When he would shed his sparring clothes, or needed someone to crouch at his feet and help with the laces of his boots after a joust, she was forced to bring her face above his strong thighs, she’d feel something there that she had so easily avoided up until then. 

A pulse in her most tender flesh. 

Her heart beating there, for him.

Once every so often she pictured him leaning forward, finding the beating place between her legs, and tapping it with his finger to the rhythm of her heart until it soared for him. 

Then reaching through to her from her reverie: he’d hand her his sweaty shirt to launder, muttering something dry and amused about Squire Reymond’s unwavering obedience, and then would stumble away from her in search for a drink or the maiden who had tossed him a token before his match. 

He’d practice sonnets to Reymond to recite to them if he won. He always won. Cheerfully reciting as he stripped himself bare. 

She would be aware of the flames in her cheeks as she gathered up the garments in his wake, and the things about her that made her so different from him, the differences he ignored that she wanted to take his large hands into hers and smooth them over her form to show him. 



 

 

She woke up suddenly aware of that part of herself, as aware as all other parts of herself, feeling strange but good.

When she awoke she suspected that perhaps she had gone to heaven, as she was warm, and floating. Weightless. Her shorn hair drifting around her skull. 

But she felt the weight of other burdens upon her body. Weakly, she opened her eyes to see hands upon her knees. 

Her Sir was floating her gently on her back in a waist-deep pool of clear water. He stood between her open legs. His chest was large and bare above her own, keeping her afloat with hands under her body. 

They were flush up against each other. 

Was she dead?

His eyes were expressionless as he kept her from sinking in the healing baths. His hand firm around the back of her bare thigh. The other spread across her hip. The water rocked her so their skin brushed softly in a gentle caress. It was calm and terrifying. She stared up for him, seeking help from her Master. He gave it in the form of his peace. His gaze heavy on hers. 

There was nothing she could hide now. Clearly, graced upon his handsome face, she could see that.

“Sir?”

She was completely naked under his eyes. Her wound in her ribs was still bleeding, slowly dripping out, darkening the pool around them. She shivered as her blood drifted around his waist.

“Shh.”

He held her in his hands. All of her secrets. Everything about her. There was no hiding what she was; he had to have already known for her to be naked like this. Her breath stuttered in the water, her mouth gaping open like she was a fish who needed to breathe below it instead of above.

So frightened. So aware of her cunt, bare in front of his eyes, and his nakedness too. It hadn’t frightened her before.

Only once had it frightened her before.

The knife wound in his shoulder, the muscle taut under her hands as she was tasked with stitching it closed. He laughed at his squire, fainting at the mere sight of blood, he mocked, but truly it was more shameful than a weak stomach that the master she served for so long dropping his clothing and was wounded affected her so deeply. She couldn’t control her emotions. 

Call me your Squire, Sir. Again. And again. And again...

“I’m right here. You’re safe now.”

Now, he lurked over her, bare and powerful. Vulnerable and untouchable all at once. His large eyes somehow equally forceful and kind. 

He moved them through the water, bodies and eyes locked.

His hands were so tender on her body. She’d watched baptisms that went like this, the gentleness and reverence in the priest’s hands, the way he was holding her now did not allow her a moment’s fear. With a soft whimper, her thighs tightened around him, the strength of his hips, and his steps through the stone bath faltered. They each felt her motions, needy and weak, against his skin and both breathed slow and deep for a second. Just a slight squirm and...

A gasp left them both. With a low groan, her eyes fluttered shut.

Not just her body betrayed her secret to him, but her voice, sonorous and feminine, cracked out of her throat and echoed through the high stone ceilings of the healing bath. No doubt a woman's voice, but the most damning indication was the way his hands tightened on her. 

He must have known of her false vows, her betrayal, her disgrace to the order of Knights they both served. 

He showed no anger. 

Maybe this was heaven...

Maybe she had died from her injury. 

Not once had she lifted her arms in an attempt to hide herself from him.

Chapter Text

Reymond’s hands trembled as they pulled the edges of the tunic apart. A slender throat came in to view of Sir Ren’s eyes. 

“To think you would be...unhappy with me, Sir.”

“You have yet to fail me even once,” he swallowed thickly, steam curling his hair in slick coils. Drips from the walls of the baths echoed throughout the stone surrounding them.

His squire trembled and undressed quickly. Not like some seductive temptress he had been warned about before taking his vows. But like a comrade come to share a bath. Like nothing was different. Reymond’s shoulders hunched and even trembled as the tunic was removed. 

The changes he had teased his squire about, the jokes about someday becoming a man, clearly had not set in because he was not in the presence of a young boy but a woman. It was not just the reveal of her sex but the vision of her, noticeably older now than he had thought before. That boy was not a robust creature, but she was lush and fertile under the armor and dirt that had hidden it from him.

She had become a man to the best of her abilities. And the mask that had formed her transformation was being peeled away. The realization now did not cast her in a light as unknowable as such revelations should have, but instead granted him a clarity to see, to understand, to want was she was. 

The squire clearly had bound her breasts, the nuns must have removed the bindings, for even with her torso hunched to hide herself, to express a level of modesty, he could not help but give a gentle appraisal of the sweet breasts that fell free from the bloody garment.

“Don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you.”

Her eyes lashed up from their focused spot on the floor. Reymond, the only name he had for the squire, swallowed thickly.

Her hands moved much more quickly to remove the leggings, shoving them down fuller hips than he had ever noticed before. Clumsily. Like a lad before his first fuck. 

This almost made him grin in approval. She was still green as Reymond.

“Sir?”

That airy voice. He hadn’t heard it like that since she was so near death. She bent forward, on her hands and knees on the side of the pool as she undressed, and worked the pants below her knees to kick off and crawl forward. 

“You have been so steadfast, I’d be gone without your hand.”

“My...hand?”

He watched that pretty bare throat swallow, face bowed. Shorn hair fell over her eyes.

Did she cry when she cut the lengths of it to become a page? Did she feel free? 

“Get in the water before we lose you again.”

“Mhmm.”

That annoyance, that slight defiant edge even when doing as she was told. It made him shiver with longing. But it was like a bucket tipped over when she diverted his control, and the bucket had to be set back upright. Sometimes he felt she tipped it on purpose to have him restore order.

So he said:

“And don’t mumble.”

“Sir,” she growled, sounding every bit like his young squire after a long journey.

She entered the water quickly, like a stone dropped into a steam, and though she passed him so closely to enter the pool, to respond to the way he beckoned, she began to create distance. 

He cupped a hand to her bare waist.

As if she could pretend this is what he meant, what he wanted, or that she herself was so ignorant of what the order was leading to.

This was where the game of it ended. He could play pretend that she was still his squire, just a boy sharing a celebratory soak after a battle won. Or he could touch her, a fine lady and the daughter of a house he was now disrespecting, as he was doing then, his palm working in a circle, and a sound bleating out of her pretty lips preparing him to crush every vow he ever made to himself and to his order. 

“How are you healing?”

It was the opposite set of rib than the one his hand rested on, the injured one, from the one he touched so boldly. This was not as coy as his previous plan, to pretend he did not know. 

He could not feign ignorance to touch his squire so intimately.

“Sir…”

Her skin was so clean, so fresh, ears turning bright red as his fingers crept up…

This was nothing like a game when her head fell back on his shoulder and he began to play with her nipple. Neither of them thought he was a fool enough to still think she was a boy with the moans coming out of her mouth. 

“What is your name?”

“My name,” she curled her hand over his own, holding it frantically to her breast, “was Reyna.”

He pinched her tit on the edge of cruelly: just to hold what was his in place.

“Should I call you Reyna?”

“Rey will suffice,” she whimpered as he plucked at the swollen bud, pinching once as if to punish, and then rolling between his fingers gently like he was trying to work grains of sand off the surface of a shell.

“Fearsome, precious Rey,” his free hand turned her chin over her shoulder and he kissed her as reverently as he could. 

Like he was kissing a Saint, and at the same fondling her breast in his cursed pilgrim’s hand.

“Your greatest sin was to hide these,” he squeezed her, and she let out such a hopeless sound. “But what of my sins?”

“Your s-sins, Sir?”

As if he could have ever seen her any other way than how he saw her now: made for him, made to take this torment, meant for his body to savor each night until he died.

His guilt rose in his chest that he never had a choice after she was naked in his arms, so close to death. He would not lose this most precious person.

“What life did I take you from, Rey? Family?”

She winced harder than any pinch of his fingers provoked. He doted on the breasts in his hands apologetically. Soft touches, squeezes, fingers gliding over prickling skin.

His tenderness bade her to speak. 

“From nothing, Sir. Not a life worth speaking about. I wasn’t taken. These were vows I made willingly. This is what I wanted.”

“This?” his thumb caressed her peak in a deliberate circle, and she grit her jaw and shivered in his hands. 

“All of it,” she admitted without shame, with a mere swallow of pause, no other resistance, “to fight. To serve. To choose my own life.”

He pressed a slow kiss under her hardened jaw. He had never known a longing like this because his world was so detached from women: his vows kept him in reverence to them, no doubt, but they were more foreign to him than any enemy he fought. Even when loving them from afar he was nowhere near understanding them. This, a comrade, a fellow soldier, and a woman. These things blended into a temptation he could have never anticipated. Someone he understood, who could understand him.

“I just have one question?”

“I wouldn’t fault you for having a thousand, Sir,” she sighed as he brought his other hand up to play with her poor, neglected breast on the other side of his working hand. 

“Why do you hide your eyes from what I am sure you must have seen a hundred times?”

She twisted on her toes in his arms. He lost his hold on her breasts for her to take one with her arms around his neck, kissing him boldly on the lips. 

“I shouldn’t…”

“You should. For us both.”

His hands covered her ass. She flinched but he kept his touch soothing, massaging in slow circles, until she was trembling in his arms.

“I am forbidden from making vows to a Lady. But I could make vows to you...as you have done to me, until you are a knight.”

“We have been in the habit of...making vows outside of convention,” she dug her fingers into his hair, moaning as a hand dipped lower, beyond the perfect supple curves of her cheeks, and stroked the place that had rubbed against his belly in the water. “I have already done so, Sir, so your sin would be no greater than mine.”

“Your sins are forgiven.”

“So would yours be, Sir,” she promised boldly, “make these vows before I lose my strength…”

A sigh left her as those searching fingers dipped to play with her wetness. Hot and snug, the power of that flesh requiring quick work of his fingers to ply it to take the length of them. A few pleading wiggles of those digits and he coaxed such a delicious gratitude from the inside of her. 

She made a choking sound, her thighs pliant yet gripping like silk around his hand.

“I vow to protect you. I vow my loyalty. I vow my service. As you have done to me, Squire.”

“Mmm,” she pleaded, her leg lifting to wrap around his waist in the water, to bring him closer. “I vowed to be yours Sir, until I am ready to become a Knight. Say this is what you wish of what is yours.”

He was warned, before he took his own oath to be a Knight. That he would be sorely tempted. Those who trained him believed he would be weak to sins. They spoke of women and their finery, their seduction, the power behind being a man of an estate.

He did not choose that life for himself. 

He didn’t feel now, that he was in danger, that he was failing those vows from the way he pleasured Rey’s sweet sex. She was not a Lady, he was not leaving his life to wed her. He was performing service on his equal, one he had chosen for his own. 

“It is my wish to be yours in return,” he proclaimed, hungry lips returning to her throat. 

Rey pressed her hands to his cheeks and kissed him chastely and devotedly.

"I would not have you be any other's."

Chapter Text

The nuns hid their eyes when he wrapped her in his cloak and carried her from the baths, up the stairs, to the room he’d been given. A second room for his squire had not been let: though they two had no chance to learn of this as what they were both given to share. 

The nuns hid their eyes as they passed the door of the occupied rooms in the convent. As if through the door they would see him rid his squire of his cloak and kneel to kiss her blessed nakedness from head to toe. They tore their gaze away and quickened their pace through the hall as he rolled his equal around his bed with a hunger like a caged lion, and her clutching and hungry as well, bound together to sup until they could feast no more. 

They hid their eyes, and the vibrancy of their blushes, when a female voice soared up and echoed over the walls made out of stone. As real as a bird flying through the eaves of the convent. As real as anything.

 


 

After the medicinal bath, Sir Ren bowed at Rey’s feet and peppered kisses up the inside of her bare leg. She was soft and smooth under his touch. Her feet swiftly kicked in soft protest against his belly from the ticklish feeling of his caress. He smiled up at her at each gentle, accidental brush of her toes against his bare stomach.

He caught her squirming foot in his hand and worried the ball and arch with his thumb, while his lips wandered higher up her thigh.

“Sir,” she whispered, her hands in his long hair, a soft and high sound that he was struck dumb from came from the lips of someone he thought he knew.

“You pass for a fellow soldier so well,” he lifted his head to meet her eyes, “you pass for a dream even better. You are unreal, Rey.”

It was all before him now. Her tight and pretty breasts, her toned stomach, every muscle of her strong legs. Her wiry arms, sharp collarbones, delicate face. Everything that was of her was bare under his eyes.

She drew his hand into her naked lap, splaying out the open palm and fingers to caress the lines of his skin.

“Am I not real, Sir, if I tell you I gave you this scar?”

She planted a kiss on the meaty flesh below his thumb, which was marked with a twisting wound. An older one, almost as old as their pact to each other, that she had nicked with a practice sword while he was teaching her to spar. He had thought the boy -as Reymond was a boy to him then- would fall into a puddle of his own tears, the poor thing was so sorry. He’d laughed and had a drink brought to them both and taught him that no one could hold a weapon without being ready to draw blood.

His thumb stretched to caress the curve of her jaw, and then his cupped hand dove forward and slid along her sex. Her warmth filled his hand like a breath. Rey’s own breath stuttered and she opened her legs for him.

“Please.”

“I should turn back,” he said gravely, standing to kiss her as he rubbed her soaking cunt in a way that showed he had no intention to, “you are a holy, virtuous being. I should leave you here in this convent for your own protection. The worst thing I have done would be ruining you.”

The musing of a man of faith were wholly meant to tease her: he would not commit this act of grace, but it tortured her to hear this. 

“I a-am not virtuous,” she covered his searching hand in hers, rolling her hips into his slow, steady caress, “nor do I wish to be. I am not a Lady if it keeps me separate from you. I will be your equal.”

He kissed her in agreement. 

His thumb parted her naked lips and crept to circle the depth of her opening. Rey nearly howled. He drew up his hand to cover her mouth, fearful of the nuns overhearing. But his sins deepened when he heard her choke on her noises, curiosity uncovered his hand from her mouth and her voice rang freely through the stone walls. 

Rey’s pushed her hips back on the mattress, retreating to lie for him on the bed. He followed, his own trousers slipping down his legs as he guided himself up and them down. He felt a flare of masculine pride when she whimpered at the sight of his cock. It was flushed red and hard as a battering ram. It pointed at her like a threatening lance. It felt wrong, along the delicate garden of her body. He hated how violent his arousal was. Rey was soft and perfect and in his lust he felt himself becoming a beast. Sonnets and ballads always made this act seem so tender, but he was seeping out a feeling he had only recognized before in battle through every pore. 

Rey reached tentatively for him, but appeared to doubt herself.

He grasped her hands tightly when they withdrew. Once teased with the idea that she would touch him; he could not bear to have it taken away.

He wrapped her trembling hands around his length and guided a slow stroke.

“Feel it,” he urged, “feel how I long for you.”

His cock pulsed in her hands and she trembled for him. His longing feeding hers as much as his touches in their shared bath.

“I was told I would be tested,” her eyes fluttered open and locked on his. He felt dizzy in this stillness. Her conflict was like a beast that needed taming. His too.

Kylo shook his head. This was too goo to be temptation. This was sacred.

“Not like this.”

Rey nodded. Her eyes opened and she looked up at him guiltily. 

“I was engaged to be married and I ran away.”

He rested on his knees between her open legs and grunted when her hands squeezed around his cock. The head wept a few tears for her, smearing under her stroking hands. 

“You won’t belong to me, or him,” he stilled her with every muscle of his body coiled in restraint, “you will be your own.”

Her shorn, clean hair curled in the place it was tucked behind her ears. Boyish. Girlish. Rey.

“He’s looking for me, Sir.”

“He will not find you here.”

“He might come to take me away.”

“Not from me,” he swore, and bowed to kiss her sweet lips. 

Rey wrapped her legs around his waist and urged him with her hips to rub against her soft sex. Kylo accepted her guidance and they rolled their hips together in exploring slides. It was bliss, rubbing against her. He was so near to the end. 

His head came to be cradled against her breast.

“I can’t be your squire forever.”

“You won’t. Someday, you will be a Knight. We’ll serve together.”

Rey’s voice lilted into a frightened cry as Kylo hunched back and began to feed his prick into her body. She clamped down and spasmed upon his entrance, twisting in the sheets beneath his solid chest.

He slowed himself and cradled her to his chest. She was soft in his arms.

“Are you frightened, my Squire?”

“Overwrought,” she moaned, nuzzling his throat, “Happy. Grateful.”

His hips relaxed so his weight pressed into her more naturally. Slowly. He hadn’t meant to overwhelm her with his eagerness to sink inside. His patience was all the sweeter when he had entered her warmth fully. Little shocks of pleasure twitched down her thighs as he stroked her hip bones. He took the time to admire her body when it was pinned beneath his. She was so strong. Lovely.

She cupped his face in her hands and pleaded with her eyes, words lost, and he nodded and pressed forward. The sword, the lance, the battering ram: he attempted to be as delicate with his weapon as possible to the perfect thing beneath him. She had acquired many wounds in their travels, her training, worst being the scar knotting between her ribs that had brought them to Holywell, so he had no intention to wound her further. 

She rested soft and sweet against the mattress when she took him to hilt. Blinking her long lashes up at him ponderously. He didn’t move at first. Both of them reveled in the sensation of her being perfectly filled, and him being perfectly held. He smiled down at her and brushed some of the hair out of her hands with a tender paw. 

Rey turned into his hand and kissed it. Her lips fluttering with adoration to his palm.

His head was spinning at the feeling of being inside her. This was the most sacred thing he knew. She was not Reymond, nor was she Lady Reyna: but his Rey, perfect as she was by somehow being neither and both.

“Are you sad that we gave into ourselves?”

Rey blinked up at him, understanding tears filling her eyes.

“No, Sir, I am happy.”

“You were conflicted.”

“I was,” Rey smiled, and he almost choked when there was a squeeze of her muscles in the sheath around his cock, “but no more. My fate has been chosen for you.”