I made this for the love the game, I'm making her as canon as possible.
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The wheat fields of Buena Village stretched endlessly under the late-autumn sky, golden stalks swaying in the gentle breeze like a living sea.
The village itself was small—thirty scattered households, each with its own patch of land, a few barns, and the single dirt road that wound past the Wheat Sheaf Inn at its modest center.
The inn was nothing grand: two stories of weathered timber, a sagging roof, and a signboard painted with a stylized sheaf of grain. Inside, the common room smelled of woodsmoke, spilled ale, roasted boar, and the faint tang of pipe tobacco.
Lanterns hung from low beams, casting warm amber pools of light that flickered with every draft.
Zenith Greyrat had never imagined her life would lead her here.
Born Zenith Latreia in the strict Milis faith of the Holy Country of Millis, she had once been destined for a noble marriage, a life of quiet piety and carefully arranged propriety.
Instead, she had run away at sixteen, joining an adventurer party as a healer.
That was where she met Paul Greyrat—tall, roguish, brown-haired, with a grin that could melt steel and a sword arm that had earned him S-rank fame.
She fell for him hard, despite his wandering eyes. They married, settled in Buena after their son Rudeus was born, and built a home: the sturdy two-story house with the thatched roof, the small herb garden she tended herself, the stables, the quiet evenings by the hearth.
Now, at twenty-eight, Zenith still turned heads. Her long blonde hair was usually gathered in a practical ponytail, with soft strands framing a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a clear, piercing blue that could soften with maternal love or flash with righteous anger.
Her figure remained lush and womanly—full, heavy breasts that filled her white halterneck corset to straining perfection, a narrow waist, wide hips that swayed gently beneath her khaki skirt, and long legs sheathed in tall black boots.
She moved with the graceful economy of someone who had once fought monsters for a living, yet carried herself with the quiet dignity of a Milis devotee who still whispered prayers each night.
Paul was still the village's resident hero—broad-shouldered, messy brown hair, easy laugh. But heroes, she had learned, were flawed.
The affair with Lilia had come to light three weeks ago. Their loyal maid, childhood friend of Paul's, now carried a child that could only be his. The confrontation had been explosive.
Zenith had screamed, cried, thrown plates. Paul had groveled, sworn it was a single drunken mistake born of loneliness while she was bedridden with Rudeus's difficult pregnancy years earlier.
Rudeus—five years old, green-haired, frighteningly intelligent—had stepped between them like a tiny diplomat. "Mom, Dad loves you the most. Lilia is just… helping the family. Please don't be mad forever."
His silver tongue and innocent eyes had cooled the worst of her rage. But not all of it. A cold ember remained, glowing hotter each night.
Tonight, the ember flared into flame.
Paul was in the study, nursing a bottle of cheap wine and avoiding her eyes. Lilia moved through the house like a ghost, eyes downcast, hands trembling as she cleared dishes.
Rudeus had gone to bed early, exhausted from practicing elementary magic in the yard.
Zenith stood at the bedroom window, staring at the distant lights of the Wheat Sheaf Inn. Her chest ached with a pain that no healing spell could touch.
"I need air," she whispered to the empty room.
She slipped on a simple dark cloak over her day clothes—blouse, corset, skirt, boots—and stepped out into the cool night. The path to the inn was familiar; she had walked it many times to fetch Paul when he lingered too long.
Tonight her steps were heavier, purposeful. The village slept. Only crickets and the wind accompanied her.
The Wheat Sheaf was half-full. Farmers at one table, a pair of hunters at another. Old Gerd, the barkeep, nodded respectfully as she entered, hood low.
"Evening, Missus Greyrat. Rough day?" He poured her a tall mug of the strong house ale without being asked.
She took the corner booth, back to the wall, and drank deeply. The ale was bitter, warm, and it burned a path straight to the knot of hurt in her stomach.
One mug became two. Then three. The alcohol loosened the tight coil of betrayal inside her.
She muttered to herself at first—"He vowed before Milis… only me…"—then louder, voice thick. A shadow fell across her table.
"Evenin', ma'am. Mind if I sit? Looks like the weight of the world's on those shoulders."
Mike.
He was one of Buena's handful of full-time hunters, twenty-five years old, skin a deep bronze from years under the Asuran sun. His body was built for the wild—broad shoulders, thick arms corded with muscle, a chest that strained the laces of his leather vest.
Scars told his story: a long jagged line across his left forearm from a direwolf, a puckered burn on his right shoulder from a fire drake, smaller cuts and nicks across his collarbone and ribs. Short-cropped black hair, square jaw with a trimmed beard, dark eyes that held surprising gentleness beneath the hunter's hardness. Callused hands that could snap a neck or skin a rabbit in seconds.
Normally Zenith would have given him a polite smile and turned away. Married. Milis. Proper. Tonight she didn't care.
"Sit," she said.
He did. He listened without interrupting as she poured out the poison: Paul's lies, the maid, the humiliation of discovering it in her own home.
Mike's voice was low, rumbling, steady. "Some men chase the new thrill and forget the hearth waiting at home. A woman like you… you're the reason a man builds that hearth in the first place."
His jokes were simple, earthy, perfectly timed. A story about chasing two rabbits and catching none made her laugh—genuine, surprised laughter that shook her shoulders and brought tears to her eyes for an entirely different reason.
Their knees brushed under the table. Her hand, unsteady from ale, landed on his scarred forearm. The muscle was warm, solid.
She didn't pull away. He didn't either. The conversation flowed easier, slower, deeper. Hours passed. The tavern emptied. Gerd gave them a knowing look but said nothing as he locked the door and retired upstairs, leaving the two of them alone in the common room.
The first kiss happened on the stairs. Slow. Hesitant. Mike's hand on her lower back, guiding her up the creaky steps to the same small room they had unconsciously chosen. Lantern light inside. The door clicked shut.
What followed was a blur of sensation and alcohol. Clothes shed in haste—her corset unlaced with trembling fingers, his vest tossed aside to reveal the scarred, powerful torso beneath.
His mouth on her neck, rough stubble scraping delicate skin. The way he lifted her onto the bed as if she weighed nothing.
The thick, blunt pressure of him pushing inside her—stretching, filling, deeper than Paul had ever reached.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his back. Thrusts that were primal, urgent, relentless.
Her cries muffled against his shoulder. The wet slap of skin on skin. The way her body shattered again and again, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His low growl as he spilled inside her, hot and deep.
Then darkness.
Morning came too soon.
Sunlight slanted through the dusty window. Zenith woke to soreness everywhere—between her legs, in her thighs, her breasts, her neck.
She felt sticky, marked. Her eyes opened to the sight of Mike's broad, scarred back rising and falling in sleep beside her. Horror crashed over her like ice water.
"Oh Milis… no."
She scrambled out of bed, legs shaky, a trickle of dried seed on her inner thigh. Bruises—dark love bites—dotted her neck and the swell of her breasts.
She dressed in frantic silence, cloak pulled tight, and fled down the stairs and out into the bright morning.
The walk home felt endless. Each step reminded her of the stretch, the fullness, the raw pleasure she had allowed.
Rudeus was in the yard, practicing water balls with perfect control. "Mom! You look… tired." She forced a smile and sent him inside.
Paul met her in the kitchen. "Zenith? Where were you all night? I was worried sick!"
The remaining ember of rage ignited.
"Worried? You? After what you did with Lilia?" Her voice rose, sharp and clear. "I was at the tavern. Drinking. Because my husband—the man who swore fidelity before Milis—betrayed me in our own home! How dare you question me when you started this?" The argument lasted an hour. She won. Paul crumpled, apologizing, promising. She retreated to their bedroom alone that night, body still aching with foreign pleasure.
In the dark, fragments returned. Mike's thick cock—longer, girthier than Paul's—splitting her open.
The way it dragged against every sensitive ridge inside her. The heavy slap of his balls against her ass.
The way she had clenched and squirted around him, screaming into his neck. Her face burned with shame… and something hotter.
"It won't happen again," she whispered, shaking her head.
Weeks dragged by.
Domestic routine continued. Rudeus studied magic and swordplay.
Lilia served meals in silence, her belly still flat. Paul tried—flowers, extra chores, gentle touches at night.
Zenith rebuffed him. Her anger had cooled on the surface but burned elsewhere.
Touching herself brought no relief. In the bathhouse, fingers circling her swollen clit, plunging into her slick folds, she chased release again and again. It was never enough.
Her body remembered the stretch, the force, the primal depth. Paul's cock, once satisfying, now felt… insufficient in her fantasies.
Night after night she lay awake, thighs pressed together, aching.
One humid afternoon, alone in the house, the decision crystallized.
"Just once," she told her reflection in the mirror, adjusting her ponytail, tightening her corset until her breasts sat high and full. "One more time. To prove it was the ale. Then never again."
The Wheat Sheaf was quiet that evening. Mike sat at his usual stool, muscular frame relaxed, nursing a mug.
When he saw her enter—cloak open, blue eyes nervous but determined—his smile turned awkward. He raised a scarred hand in a hesitant wave.
"Zenith… didn't think I'd see you again."
She sat beside him. "Neither did I."
They talked slowly. Ale flowed, but neither drank to excess this time. He apologized again for the first night, voice low.
She shook her head. "We were both at fault." Their knees touched under the bar. Her hand found his thigh. The air grew thick, charged. An hour passed. Two.
Finally, Zenith leaned close, breath warm against his ear. "That night… it was different. Rough. Full. I've never felt anything like it." Her cheeks flushed crimson. "I want to feel it again. Just once. Slowly. So I remember everything."
Mike's dark eyes lit with hunger, but he kept his voice steady. "You're sure?"
She nodded, shy and breathless. "Yes."
He paid their tab and led her upstairs, hand gentle on the small of her back. The same room. Lantern lit. Door closed.
This time there was no blur.
Mike turned to her and cupped her face with both large, callused hands. Their first kiss was slow, exploratory—lips brushing, parting, tongues meeting in gentle strokes. He tasted of ale and salt.
She moaned softly into his mouth, hands sliding up his chest to feel the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
He undressed her with deliberate patience. Cloak first, folded neatly on the chair. Blouse unbuttoned one button at a time, revealing the white corset.
He unlaced it slowly, eyes never leaving hers, until her heavy breasts spilled free—full, pale, pink nipples already stiff and aching.
He lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud while his hand kneaded the other.
Zenith arched, fingers threading through his short black hair, soft gasps escaping her.
"Mike… please…"
Her skirt slid down her legs. Boots unlaced and removed. She stood in only thin white panties, already soaked through, the fabric clinging to her swollen outer lips. Mike dropped to his knees, hooked his fingers in the waistband, and drew them down inch by inch.
Her sex was revealed—neatly trimmed blonde curls, puffy pink lips glistening with arousal, clit peeking out swollen and needy.
He kissed her there, slow and reverent—lips brushing her mound, tongue tracing the seam of her folds, then delving deeper to circle her clit with firm, wet strokes. Zenith's knees buckled. He caught her, lifted her onto the bed, and spread her thighs wide.
Missionary first, exactly as she had asked—slow.
Mike shed his own clothes. His body was magnificent in the lantern light: powerful chest, ridged abdomen, thick thighs. His cock rose heavy and proud—eight inches, thick as her wrist, veined, the broad head already leaking clear fluid.
He climbed between her legs, rubbing the hot length along her slick slit, coating himself in her wetness, teasing her clit with every pass until she was whimpering.
"Inside me," she breathed. "Please."
He pressed forward.
The head breached her entrance, stretching her slowly, inexorably. Inch by thick inch he sank in, eyes locked on hers, watching every flutter of pleasure and discomfort cross her face.
Zenith's mouth fell open in a silent cry as he filled her completely—deeper than Paul, thicker, the blunt head kissing her cervix with gentle pressure. Her walls fluttered and clenched around him, adjusting to the delicious invasion.
"Gods… you're so tight," Mike groaned, voice strained. "So hot… so wet for me."
He began to move—long, rolling thrusts. Withdrawal almost to the tip, then smooth re-entry until his hips met hers and his heavy balls rested against her ass.
Each stroke dragged the ridged head across her g-spot, sending sparks up her spine. Zenith's hands clutched his scarred back, nails digging in. Her full breasts jiggled with every thrust, nipples brushing his chest.
"Harder… but slow," she gasped. "Let me feel every inch."
He obeyed. The pace stayed languid, deliberate. The wet sounds of their joining filled the room—obscene, intimate. Her juices coated his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheet. She came the first time without warning—walls clamping down, thighs shaking, a long, keening moan as pleasure crashed through her.
Mike held still, buried to the hilt, letting her ride it out, kissing her neck softly.
They continued. He shifted angle slightly, grinding on the upstroke so his pubic bone pressed her clit. Another orgasm built, slower, deeper. Zenith's legs wrapped around his waist, heels urging him deeper. She came again, harder, squirting faintly around his cock, soaking his balls.
Finally he pulled out, breathing ragged. "Ride me," he said, voice rough. "I want to watch you take what you need."
They switched to cowgirl.
Mike lay on his back, cock glistening and standing straight up, thick veins pulsing. Zenith straddled him, knees on either side of his hips.
She wrapped one small hand around his girth—fingers barely meeting—and guided the head to her entrance. Slowly she sank down, eyes fluttering shut as he stretched her open once more. The angle was different—deeper, fuller. She bottomed out with a soft cry, ass resting on his thighs.
For long minutes she simply sat there, rocking gently, feeling him throb inside her. Then she began to move—slow rolls of her hips, grinding her clit against his base.
Her heavy breasts swayed hypnotically. Mike's hands rose to cup them, thumbs circling her nipples, pinching lightly.
She leaned forward, bracing on his chest, and started bouncing—slow at first, then faster, the wet slap of her ass meeting his thighs growing louder.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
She did. Blue eyes locked with dark ones as she rode him. Another orgasm built, coiling tight. When it broke she cried out, body convulsing, walls milking him rhythmically.
Mike's control finally snapped. His hips thrust up to meet her, hands gripping her ass, fingers sinking into soft flesh.
"I'm close," he warned, voice strained.
Zenith slid off him immediately, sliding down his body until her face hovered over his glistening cock. She looked up at him, shy yet hungry. "In my mouth. All of it."
She took him between her lips—tongue swirling the head, tasting herself on him. One hand stroked the thick shaft in time with her sucking.
The other gently massaged his heavy balls. Mike groaned, hips twitching. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat until her nose brushed his pubic hair, then bobbed faster.
He came with a low, guttural roar.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded her mouth—salty, slightly bitter, copious. She swallowed greedily, cheeks hollowing, not spilling a drop. When the last pulse faded she licked him clean—slow, thorough strokes of her tongue along every vein, around the sensitive head, down to his balls—until he was spotless and softening.
They collapsed together, tangled and sweaty.
After long minutes of quiet breathing, Mike stroked her damp hair. "Stay a little longer," he murmured.
Zenith rested her head on his scarred chest, listening to his heartbeat. Guilt hovered at the edges of her mind, but for now it was drowned beneath the warm, heavy satisfaction in her body. She traced one of his scars with a fingertip.
"Just once," she whispered again.
But even as the words left her lips, she knew the lie had already begun to fracture.
The lantern burned low. Outside, the wind whispered through the endless wheat. Inside, Zenith Greyrat—wife, mother, Milis devotee—lay in the arms of another man, body marked and sated, wondering how many more "just once" nights she could survive before the reckoning truly came.