"Ready?" she asked, voice soft but steady.
I nodded, throat still raw from days of intubation. "Been ready since the day I met you."
She smiled—the real one, the one that reached her eyes—and leaned down to kiss me. Slow. Deep. Her lips tasted like mint and the coffee she'd sipped while waiting for the discharge papers. When she pulled back, her fingers traced the line of my jaw.
"Mr. and Mrs. Johnson," she whispered. "Finally."
The ceremony was small. No cathedral. No hundreds of guests. Just a quiet rooftop garden on the hospital's top floor—permission granted by Dr. Voss himself after he'd personally signed the discharge. Elena wore white lace that clung to her curves, the dress short enough to show the tops of her thighs when she moved. I stood in a simple black suit, still weak enough that Mira had to steady me for the vows.
We said them anyway.
"I, Ethan Johnson, take you, Elena, to be my wife. To love you, protect you, fuck you senseless every chance I get, and never let you go again."
Laughter rippled through the tiny gathering—Dr. Voss, a handful of nurses who'd become friends, my parents beaming from the side.
"I, Elena Johnson, take you, Ethan, to be my husband. To stand by you, heal you, ride you until we both can't breathe, and remind you every day that you're mine."
Rings slid on. A kiss that started gentle and turned hungry. The small crowd clapped and whistled. My legs shook, but Elena held me up, her body pressed tight against mine.
We were married.
Back in our apartment that night, the door barely closed before she was on me.
"Bed," she ordered, voice husky. "Now."
I let her guide me—still weak, still slow—but the moment my back hit the mattress, something shifted.
Power.
It rolled through me like liquid fire—warm, electric, alive. Elena felt it too; her eyes widened, pupils blowing out as she straddled my hips.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Do you feel that?"
I nodded, hands already sliding up her thighs, pushing the lace of her wedding dress higher. "Riftmaster," I rasped. "That's what they called it. The power we unlock when we commit. When we marry."
She leaned down, lips brushing mine. "Then let's commit again. Right now."
She tore the dress off herself—lace ripping, breasts spilling free, nipples hard and dark. No panties underneath. Her pussy was already soaked, lips swollen, clit peeking out. She ground against my cock—still trapped in my pants—leaving wet streaks on the fabric.
"Get these off," she demanded.
I lifted my hips; she yanked the pants down, freeing my cock. It slapped against my stomach—thick, veined, leaking. She wrapped her hand around it, stroking once, twice, then guided the head to her entrance.
"Stretch my tight pussy, husband," she whispered. "Dig it out. Pound your wife's cunt until I scream."
She sank down—slow at first, then all the way—hot, wet walls gripping me like a fist. We both groaned. The power flared brighter—rifts of light flickering at the edges of my vision, shadows bending, air shimmering.
She rode me hard—hips slamming down, breasts bouncing, pussy clenching on every upstroke. "Fuck… yes… fill me up… cum in your wife's pussy… make me drip with you!"
I gripped her ass—still weak but stronger now—thrusting up to meet her. "Cum for me… squeeze that tight cunt… let me feel you break."
She came—hard—pussy spasming, juices squirting down my shaft, soaking the sheets. The power surged—rifts opening and closing in the corners of the room, shadows twisting into shapes only we could see.
I flipped her onto her back—still inside her—thrusting deep. "Eat your ass next," I growled. "Spread for me."
She did—legs wide, hands pulling her cheeks apart. I pulled out, cock slick with her cum, and buried my face between her thighs. Tongue circling her tight hole—slow licks, then plunging inside. She moaned, hips bucking.
"Yes… eat my ass… tongue-fuck your wife's hole… make me cum again!"
I did—tongue deep, fingers rubbing her clit—until she shattered a second time, ass clenching around my tongue, pussy gushing.
I rose, cock throbbing. "Ride that dick again. Reverse. Let me watch your ass bounce."
She straddled me backward—ass high, pussy swallowing me whole. She rode hard—hips rolling, ass slapping against my pelvis. "Pound my fucking pussy… dig it out… fill me up!"
I thrust up—deep, relentless—hands slapping her ass, watching it jiggle. "Cum for me… take my load… let me breed my wife."
She came—screaming—pussy pulsing, milking me. I erupted—seed flooding her, overflowing, dripping down my balls.
We didn't stop.
She turned, took me in her mouth—tasting us both. "Cum in my mouth… feed your wife that dick… let me swallow every drop."
I did—thrusting into her throat, erupting again—cum coating her tongue, spilling from her lips. She swallowed greedily, eyes shining.
The power kept building—rifts flickering, shadows dancing, energy crackling between us.
We fucked through the night—missionary, doggy, against the wall, in the shower—every hole, every position. "Stretch my tight pussy… eat my ass… cum in my mouth… let me ride that dick… dig out my fucking pussy… fill me up… pound my fucking pussy… stick it in my ass… feed me that dick!"
By morning we lay tangled—bodies slick, sheets soaked, power humming between us like a living thing.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.
The first mission came three days later.
A rift had opened downtown—small, unstable, leaking shadows that drained color from anything they touched. We went together—Elena in black tactical gear, me still weak but steady. The shadows recoiled when we approached—rifts flickering, then snapping shut as our combined power rolled over them.
We sealed six that week.
Each night we came home and fucked—harder, deeper, the power growing with every climax.
One morning Dr. Voss called.
"Your parents want to see you," he said. "They're heading back to their new place upstate. They'd like to say goodbye properly."
We went.
The house was small, quiet—my mother's garden blooming, my father's tools neatly hung in the garage. They hugged us both—long, tight hugs.
"You're different now," my mother said, eyes shining. "Stronger."
Elena squeezed my hand. "He's mine. And I'm his."
We stayed for dinner—simple, warm. My father clapped me on the shoulder. "Proud of you, son. Always were."
When they left the next day—car packed, waving from the driveway—Elena pulled me inside.
"Bed," she said. "Now."
We fucked slow that time—gentle, deep, savoring every thrust. "Fill me up, husband," she whispered. "Breed your wife one more time."
I did—cumming deep, holding her close as the power flared brighter than ever.
That night the rifts opened again—larger, darker. Riftmaster's voice echoed through them.
"You think marriage stops me? I will flood this world. My clones are already here."
We stood together—hand in hand—facing the storm.
The war wasn't over.
It was just beginning.