#barmin

The other instructors made themselves conspicuously busy during the Trial of the Grasses: storerooms needed inventoried, sword forms needed practicing, firewood needed chopped. Rennes, the head of the school, took up a new hobby every year. This year he was trying embroidery, under the guise of wanting to transcribe “Drowner Food” onto every trainee’s shirt. Probably it was just one of the cheaper activities that he hadn’t mastered yet; Kaedwen’s funding for them seemed to be drying up, smaller and smaller each year.

Vesemir made a habit of facing the things that scared him, so he was the one who volunteered, every year, for clean-up duty after the mages finished the mutations.

He looked into the faces of the two boys who hadn’t made it, and he saw his own potential death there, decades past. How often had he escaped it, and how many more times would it happen before Destiny put an old wolf down? He carried the cleaned corpses into the storage room next to the laboratory, ready for the pyre the next day.

Then, as gray dawn trickled through the arrow slits, he went to see Barmin. The mages remembered the dead with tally marks under a column labeled “Failures,” but Barmin would want to know their names.

Barmin always spent the night after the Grasses in the apiary tower, his candle flickering dimly against the closed tower window when Vesemir looked up from the fire in the courtyard. Except in poor weather, that window was always open---the bees came and went as they pleased. But Barmin closed it for the night after the Trials, the night when the Witchers took turns changing their failures into ash and smoke, one Igni at a time.

While the window was closed, Barmin told the bees about the boys who had died, listing off each and every name. He did the same when any trainee or Witcher died. “You have to tell them, or they’ll leave,” he had said to Vesemir when he was teaching him. “‘No matter how young or old, the bees must be told.’”

Every young Witcher learned this, eventually, when their name came up for a week of apiary duty. Their sweet honey was made out of nectar and memories.

“Only two,” Vesemir said to Barmin, almost triumphant, even though none of it had been his doing. As an establishment, the Wolf Witchers were improving. Growing. A few more cohorts like this, and there might be enough Witchers for some to go out in pairs like they had in decades past, decrease the casualty rates among those new to the Path…

“I heard,” Barmin said, rocking in his chair amongst his skeps, the buzzing, conical basket-hives he made out of straw. His bones jutted out more than they had when he had drilled Vesemir on his forms, decades past now, but his limbs moved steadily as he reached down to the jar of honey next to him and retrieved the dipper. He offered it to Vesemir after plucking off a pale hair from his long beard.

Vesemir swiped his finger along one of the ridges and stuck it in his mouth, licking the sweetness off, just like he had after mastering a particular riposte as a trainee.

“They’re going to give a second Trial to some of the boys,” Barmin told him abruptly, his eyes tracking a bee’s flight through the window to a buzzing skep. “They’ll test the ones who endured the Grasses best. Said they’d only risk the number of boys that would have died anyway in a typical year. It’s a chance for stronger Witchers. More mutagens, more powerful.”

Geralt, strong Geralt, would certainly be among the test subjects. Vesemir went cold. He wiped his damp finger on his trousers. “Thought they’d given up on that idea,” he said. It had been tried, of course, and abandoned quickly because it had had a one hundred percent mortality rate.

Barmin’s moustache quivered with the force of his scowl. “Mages,” he said, waving the dipper contemptuously. “They never give up, only postpone.” He sighed. “Like I’m postponing the pyres and telling the bees. Might as well do it all at once.”

Some superstition there, maybe, or maybe Barmin just didn’t want to experience the grief twice.

Melitele. He was going to have to make that journey into the lab another time, discover the dead and survivors another time, wash the bodies that he had bundled, blessedly breathing, under their blankets just hours ago.

Stop this. Vesemir tried out the words in his mind, but he couldn’t make himself say them. If the mages, crackling with Chaos, said that this was for the good of the Wolf school, then it was. And Rennes must have agreed to it. Even for someone as old as Vesemir, an attempt to countermand the leader of the school would result in a lashing for insubordination, if he were lucky; exile or death if he weren’t.

Still, he imagined bundling Geralt onto his back and disappearing into the night with him (and then swiftly changed the image to include Eskel as well, because he couldn’t very well take one without the other). It was a futile wish. Witchers were among the best trackers in the world, and there was nowhere they wouldn’t pursue the boys given to them by Destiny.

“This is shit,” Vesemir announced. The background hum of the bees would disguise his words to anyone outside the apiary; they might hear that he and Barmin were talking, but they would be unable to make out the individual words. Barmin told his best stories up here, and boys on apiary duty confessed their worst fears, and no one else heard but the bees.

He and Barmin could plot a few murders, and no one would hear but the bees. Vesemir raised his eyebrows at Barmin. Was this new experiment the line that Barmin would draw in the sand? Or was a potential schism too much of a risk?

“We need Rennes to make the Kaedweni government keep giving us money, and we need the mages to keep making Witchers, otherwise the people of the Continent will be overrun by monsters,” Barmin told him, as practical as a well-honed knife. “Just like all of the Trials, these are the sacrifices we make in order to keep the Continent safe.”

Vesemir pursed his lips. “Damn your logic, old man.” As if he didn’t have a full head of gray hair himself at this point.

Barmin reached out and patted him on the thigh. “You can’t save the dead. Just do your best to keep the living—”

“—alive,” Vesemir finished with him. Barmin had said it for decades. Small comfort.

A few days later, Vesemir found Geralt breathing in a room full of corpses. He and Barmin closed the apiary window while the Witchers below burned seven bodies, and they told the bees seven names and seven stories of boys who could have been good Witchers. Could have been good people. Couldn’t be anything but ashes in the moat, now.

Vesemir made the survivors run the walls. They staggered and limped instead of sprinting, but that was fine. If they could move after the Trials, then they could move after a wyvern gored them on the Path. They could make it to safety even while they were wounded. They could make it to Kaer Morhen for another winter.

---

Vesemir stayed, by and large, in the keep, barking at young men about their footwork in the hopes that they would survive another fight, live another day. In the hopes that when the great pack of them left to spread across the Continent in the spring, no new faces would turn up missing come winter.

However, he also went hunting at least once a quarter. It kept the other fencing instructors on their toes, kept Vesemir sharp, and kept the monster population in the surrounding area low enough that the nearest village couldn’t complain.

Useless. None of that monster-hunting sharpness helped Vesemir when he returned with a juvenile griffin’s corpse slung across his horse for study only to find that there was no one left to learn from it. None of Vesemir’s training had stopped the boys from dying on the invaders’ pitchforks.

Vesemir found Barmin’s body halfway down the apiary stairs, three peasants and a mage lying slain around him. No blood or smoke-scent further up; the long stairs seemed to have been too much trouble for anyone else to climb. Too much trouble for Vesemir to climb, too, with five corpses to carry down to the courtyard. He turned around without continuing to the top.

Barmin’s body went onto a pile with the others, but his ethos guided Vesemir’s hands. Be practical. He triaged the keep: cared for the animals that had escaped slaughter, burned the funeral pyres, dealt with the dangers in the cracked-open laboratories, patched as many holes in the walls as he could. The whole kaer smelled of smoke and death, even after he threw open the unsmashed windows and mopped the bloody floors with nose-burning lye.

Practical. Was that what Kaedwen’s mob had been, destroying the monster-makers? Recouping a drain on their budget?

Was practical what Vesemir was, dismantling all of the lab tables for scrap save one, just in case?

When Vesemir finally wound his way up to the top of the apiary stairs, the silence gaped at him, noticeable now that he had his ears pricked for it. The invaders hadn’t made it this far, but when he opened the apiary door, the skeps lay still and empty. No bees left to buzz. They had gone. Left out the open window.

Barmin’s honey jar sat half-open near his rocking chair, the wooden dipper tilted under the lid as though waiting for him to come back for a lick or two.

“Beekeeper’s privilege,” Barmin had always said when he took the dipper out for a taste.

“Century-club privilege,” Vesemir had sometimes rejoined when he was feeling his age more than usual, and Barmin had let him have a fingerful off of the dipper.

This jar was the last. Most of their stores had been destroyed, but there had been no sticky sweetness in the wreckage of the pantry. Barmin’s little jars of honey, just the right size for a Witcher to sneak into their pack, had been stolen by his killers.

Vesemir dipped his finger into the honey, just breaking the surface, and stuck the pad of it into his mouth.

The honey tasted like smoke. Like everything tasted, these days. Of course—with the window open, the smoke from the pyres would have come in the same way the bees had gone out.

Vesemir made himself swallow, set the jar back down, and closed the window and the door behind him. Closed a lot of doors that winter.

The smoke had driven off the bees. It wasn’t abandonment. It wasn’t that no one had followed the old ritual and told them that Barmin was dead, that the bees had found out from the ashes instead.

Vesemir did what he could, but it was a bitter winter for those who returned.

“I’ll take Redania and Temeria,” Geralt said before he left.

“Aedirn and Lyria,” Eskel said, the two of them mirroring as they so often did, this time hunting on opposite sides of the same central mountain range.

The others called out their intended territories, Hemminks in Mahakam and Rivia, Adon to Toussaint, all of them spreading down and across the Continent. No one mentioned Kaedwen except Lambert, implicitly. His lip curled with fresh contempt as he said, like he always did, “I’ll take anywhere but here.”

The Witcher survivors followed the bees in the spring, not a host prowling towards a monstrous hunt, not anymore, but a handful of wolves running from their den.

The keep had never been empty before, but there were no more trainees to bark at. No more animals that needed tending. (They had eaten the last of them by the end of winter.) No mages or alchemists with experiments to watch over.

Nothing left.

Vesemir, after the last of the youngsters had gone down the Killer, found himself walking the Path again too.

He was a Witcher. What else could he do?

---

“Didn’t know we’d kept any of your kind alive,” the first alderman said to him, and spat at his feet. The spittle glistened on the wooden porch in front of the alderman’s house, slightly less ramshackle than its neighbors.

Vesemir had been spat at for longer than this salty-haired idiot had been alive. Had probably been spat at by his grandfather, in fact. He waited, silent as stone.

“Been some ghouls out at the sick pit,” the alderman said grudgingly. “Give you fifty ducats for ’em.”

“Twenty-five a head,” Vesemir countered. He needed to start saving up for a horse.

“Twenty a head, and yer arse out of town right after,” the alderman said.

Vesemir nodded and left. He followed the smell of decomposition to the ‘sick pit,’ a shallow valley filled with corpses covered in post-mortem necrophage wounds. Flies buzzed around the bodies. Some villages had beliefs against interring those who died of illness in the same soil as the healthy. Most of them chose to build pyres instead, but it had been a wet winter.

Vesemir climbed a nearby tree, still damp from frost-melt, and waited for nightfall.

Six ghouls by the time the moon was high. Six monsters to die by if he got careless. A hundred and twenty ducats if he got paid fairly.

Necrophage oil on his silver blade; a couple of dancing star bombs in case he needed some distance; Cat potion because ghouls liked to hunt in the dark. Should have been like any other contract. Seemed to be, even.

He dropped from the tree and got one in the back of the knees, following through with a thrust through the spine. It collapsed without a shout, but its brethren spun around, alert to the sounds of ripping flesh and the scent of fresh-spilled blood. They moved towards him and he met them with silver.

Yes, the ghouls moved the same, bled the same, died the same.

But if they were to bite him and infect him with their venom, there would be no keep with healers ready to tend him if he could only drag himself to the top of the mountain. There would be no lit fires, no bubbling pottage, no friendly ribbing about getting slow in his old age. Nothing and no one awaited him at Kaer Morhen anymore.

Vesemir sliced a ghoul’s head from its shoulders.

Here he was, saving people near enough to the ones who had killed Barmin. They hadn’t thought about being ghoul food, had they, when they’d sharpened their pitchforks and stormed through a mage’s portal? They hadn’t thought that their isolated village might be emptied by monsters who first ate their dead, and then tore through their livestock, and then picked off their people, one by one, until they finally rampaged through the buildings, glutting themselves on everyone who hadn’t yet starved to death.

Vesemir faced the last ghoul, its teeth bared in a snarl, its face covered in flaking blood. He hesitated. He had seen many such gutted villages. What was another one, when his own home was dead? What was his life worth when Kaer Morhen lay empty and a kind of vengeance might be had for it, and all it would take was a fatal moment of stillness?

The ghoul lunged forward.

Later, he would tell himself about practicality. There were only so few of them left. Monsters still needed to be hunted. He still needed to get paid. A village could only hire him (and other Witchers, other Wolves) if that village still existed.

In the moment, Vesemir dodged the ghoul’s attack, thrust his sword to the side and under its ribs, danced behind it, and chopped through the back of its neck. He had spent over a hundred years hunting monsters. His body had been made to kill, so it killed. What power could a qualm have against the deadly force of habit?

---

A hundred ducats, not a hundred and twenty. Vesemir took them and dodged two villagers’ clumsy attempts to hide on either side of the front door and club him on his way out. He ran until he was past the treeline, walked the rest of the day, and caught a squirrel for dinner. As the weak spring sun faded, he poured the coins out of their bag and into his hands. They glistered in the light of his little fire.

Coin---always coin. An excuse to take his life, for those wretches with the ghouls. An excuse for Kaedwen to sack his home and kill his students. The peasants hadn’t made it into the keep without help. No, the Witchers had nibbled at the royal coin purse for too long, and the king’s mages and priests had been dispatched to exterminate them like ratters tearing into a nest. Perhaps it hadn’t even been important enough to be the king’s plan. Could have been some interior secretary, puffed up with importance and trying to earn a bonus with the inspired idea that they could easily divert certain resources, and it would only cost the lives of a few dozen mutants—a bargain!

Aside from the king’s funds, Witchers hadn’t taken coin when Vesemir had been in training, back before he’d earned his eyes. It had been Law of Surprise only, the Continent overrun by monsters and the Wolf School desperate for boys to swell its ranks. Fewer monsters, now. Fewer Witchers. Same Destiny at work.

She had provided before; she would again.

---

“I’ll deal with your griffin,” Vesemir told the next alder, a wrinkled woman wearing a stained apron and a starched, feathered blue hat that seemed to be a symbol of authority. “But afterward, you must give me that which you find at home yet do not expect.”

The alderwoman paled, her eyes flitting backwards into her house, perhaps towards a child or grandchild. Vesemir had seen that fear many times. “We took care of that,” she hissed, her fingers bunching into fists. “You can’t make any new ones! No more of our children lost to you freaks! The king said so!”

“The Law of Surprise predates Kaedwen by centuries,” Vesemir said. “No king can escape it; no commoner, either.”

“Leave, then,” the alderwoman said, stepping back, her hand on the door. “Better for a child to be killed by a griffin than a Witcher.”

Vesemir bowed his head. “It may not be a child,” he said. The old placating speech. “Just something unexpected. It may be a horse. A mouse. A lover.”

This narrow-eyed look he knew, too: the fierce calculation of a leader. Could she afford to risk her offspring? Could she afford not to, with the griffin decimating her people’s livelihoods? A dog, a sheep, and a calf had all disappeared, she had said, presumably down the monster’s gullet. It would only get bolder.

“That which you find at home yet don’t expect,” Vesemir repeated.

The alderwoman glared at him. “Fine,” she said, her hands on her hips. “But don’t be making a fuss when you get a cow pie on the lawn or whatever else Destiny shits out for you.”

Vesemir nodded. He left. He killed the griffin, but not before it raked its claws across his shoulders.

The alderwoman met him at the boundaries of the village and huffed at the sight of the griffin’s severed head. “You’ll find no soul in the family way,” she said as they walked back to her house. “Made sure of it myself.”

Vesemir darted a glance at her. Abortifacients?

She pressed her lips together and looked ahead.

The unexpected prize awaited them in a hollow under the alderwoman’s yew tree, going by the high-pitched whining. The alderwoman’s entire face lit up with a relieved smile. “Zupa! Get out of there, you mongrel!” she shouted, and a scrawny brown dog crawled out from between the roots, its back matted with blood, its whippy tail wagging against the dirt.

“Zupa?” Vesemir asked.

“I always threatened to turn her into soup as a puppy,” the alderwoman said, scratching the dog behind its ears. “I suppose—you won’t eat her, will you? Be a shame if she escaped the griffin only to end up down a Witcher’s gullet.”

“It’s not called the Law of Dinner,” Vesemir said. “I’m not going to cross Destiny for a meal.” Probably this would reassure her more than his personal distaste for dog.

“All right,” the alderwoman said, her shoulders dropping. “All right.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and when she opened them again, she turned to the dog. “You be good, Zupa, you hear me? Do as the Witcher says and be a good girl. And don’t go letting any monsters take any more bites out of you, you hear?”

Zupa wagged her tail, and she cried in pain when Vesemir picked her up, as gentle with her wounds as he could be, and she barked when the alderwoman went back inside with her eyes wet and her lips trembling.

Vesemir turned them around so the alderwoman couldn’t see him. “Sleep, Zupa,” he said, twisting his fingers into Axii as he did so.

Zupa slept while he carried her, and she slept while he bandaged her wounds, and she slept while he tied a rope around her neck to keep her with him. She woke up when he had a rabbit on the fire, of course, and she took her meat from his fingers without a single graze of her teeth, as sweet a dog as he had ever encountered. She slept several feet away, on a patch of grass where she could see him while also keeping watch on the nearby deer trail.

A Dog Surprise. Not a child. Not even a puppy, young enough to be trained for life on the Path, as one or two Witchers who disdained horses had done. A full-grown dog.

What was she good for, this dog? What could she do at his side that she couldn’t in her village, where she had probably herded sheep or guarded chickens?

---

“Give me that which you find at home yet don’t expect,” Vesemir said after rescuing a merchant from a pack of drowners.

“That which I—well now, if Brin’s with child, you shall have it, for a child born from two cunts would be a magical thing indeed!” the merchant said, chuckling atop her carriage, and only kept a slightly wary eye on him as he walked next to her plodding horses. The carriage carried a number of expensive things that would have been ruined by a dunking in the river, and Vesemir had saved not only her life, but her merchandise.

Zupa, sitting next to the merchant on top of the carriage, lolled her tongue out and pressed her nose against the merchant’s hands for scratches, which were duly given.

“Not much of a fighter, for a Witcher’s dog,” the merchant commented.

“Her job isn’t to fight,” Vesemir said, though he still wasn’t sure what her job was. Enabling smoother small talk, maybe?

Zupa had seen the drowners, heard his “Hie!”, and had run behind the nearest tree, just as they had practiced. She had stayed alive. He hadn’t been sure if she would, or if her fate was to die, to show him the futility of his teachings.

They walked back to the merchant’s house and the merchant found a large parcel of fine wool waiting for her inside, a shipment that should have arrived a week ago but had been delayed by the very drowners that Vesemir had killed earlier in the day.

“Your Wool Surprise, Witcher,” the merchant said, smiling a little as she heaped the box into his arms. It towered over his head.

Zupa leaped up at his side like she had springs in her toes, nipping at the box’s top corners with excited yelps.

Vesemir dodged her attempts, craning his neck around the side of the box, and asked, “How much for that goat cart in the garden?”

“How much can you spend?” the merchant asked, and she knew her business, for she got thirty ducats out of him.

A dog and a box of wool. Around lunchtime, Vesemir stopped and made camp in a clover-filled clearing. While the local bees dipped into the pale flowers all around them, he made generous use of Axii and a ration of dried meat to teach Zupa to pull the goat cart, and by the time the last of the sun’s amber light trickled behind the horizon, she was running through the field with the cartwheels bouncing along behind her.

“You have a commendable amount of energy,” Vesemir informed her when she flopped down at his side. He took the cart’s harness off of her and rubbed her soft belly.

She wouldn’t be as fast tomorrow, with the weight of the wool behind her. They would have to take frequent breaks. If he weren’t careful with her stamina, he’d wind up hauling the cart with the wool and the dog both laden atop it.

Wool and a dog. Destiny might as well have tied iron shackles around his ankles.

The next day, Vesemir turned east instead of south. He would circle Kaer Morhen rather than fleeing from it. If Destiny kept giving him slow surprises, who knew how long it would take him to make the trek back for the winter?

---

The little boy was smelling a flower as red as his hair. The chort was smelling the little boy.

Vesemir tossed the boy up the nearest tree and thanked Melitele that he had the sense to hold onto a branch once he was up there.

“Bees, bees, I’m scared, I’m scared, good bee, please be good—”

Shit. Vesemir, trying to deal with a charging chort, stopped listening at that point. The bees wouldn’t kill the boy. Probably.

“Wow,” the boy said afterward, gaping. He had two missing teeth and at least three swollen red bee stings on his face. Six years old, maybe? “That was so cool! Ouch! How did you do that? Ouch! Your sword just went whoosh and that gold shield went kapow when that thing plowed into it, and—”

“I was there,” Vesemir interrupted dryly. The pain of the bee stings didn’t seem to be stopping the boy from talking.

Zupa, sensing that the danger had passed, sprang out of the bushes with her cart behind her. She had grown used to maneuvering it around various obstacles.

“You have a dog!” the little boy shrieked, and as he said “Ouch!” he tumbled down the tree trunk and ran to her.

Zupa pinned her ears back and glanced at him.

Vesemir started dissecting the chort corpse. She was better at handling this kind of threat than he was anyway.

Eventually, amidst the rambling, the boy said, “Blessed Melitele, I could have died!” and put his hand to his chest, clearly mimicking some older person’s shock. “Thank you for saving me, sir!”

“If you wish to repay me, you can give me that which you have at home yet do not expect,” Vesemir told him. No chance of a Child Surprise here, but at least he could get the ritual out of the way.

“What I have at home?” the boy asked. “I don’t have hardly anything! Just a wooden horse, ouch, and a nice shirt for special days, ouch, and a scarf for when it’s cold out, and an old pair of socks that’s more patches than sock anymore but Mama says they’re fine and to not complain, and—”

Vesemir sighed and withdrew one of the bolts of wool fabric from the box in the goat cart. He had already sewn several pairs of soft shirts and trousers, but many of the bolts of wool remained untouched. “Here,” he said, slicing off enough material for a family’s worth of socks and a little boy’s trousers. “Let’s take this to your mama.”

The boy’s mother shrieked when she saw them approaching her garden, and she dropped what she was carrying and dove for the boy with the fierceness of a griffin. “You can’t have him!” she shouted, clutching the wiggling child to her chest.

“Mama,” the boy said, muffled, “it’s all right!”

Vesemir picked up the little basket that she had dropped. Wild strawberries. Rare, this far north, but it was getting to be the season for them.

“Take them!” the boy’s mother shouted. “Just take them and go!”

Vesemir carried the basket back to Zupa, who sniffed it but deemed it much less interesting than peeing on the chort corpse for a third time.

Summer seemed to be the season of Food Surprises, given how often monster-hunted people had come home to unexpected cheeses, ales, breads, pies, fruits, vegetables, and even roast chickens. Not the most helpful surprises. Not the worst, either. At least he had a pouch full of seeds to take back with him.

No children yet. Not in the spring, not in the summer, not in two whole seasons of calling the Law of Surprise.

Vesemir eyed Zupa, who had started to gnaw on one of the chort’s horns. She could use a little more of a rest before they moved on.

He ate the strawberries, sweet and juicy. How long had it been since Barmin had had strawberries, so long off the Path as he’d been? He left the basket under a rock near the dead chort. Then he looked up at the beehive, hanging tantalizingly above him. Hmm. Zupa would benefit from resting for at least as long as it took him to retrieve a little honeycomb, too.

---

Vesemir never took Zupa into a village with him. They would kill her for her cart, or for being a Witcher’s dog, or for entertainment. She stayed at whatever shelter he could find for her, with Axii-bound orders that if he didn’t reappear within a certain time, she should seek out another Witcher. That was what a Child Surprise would have had to do, and a Dog Surprise would be no different, he imagined. He left an introductory note in the box with the wool fabric and garments: her name and village of origin, the fact that she liked honey and apple cores but trained best with sausage or cheese, a warning that she would try to jump a full-grown deer if you didn’t keep an eye on her but that she never made a move towards a fawn.

Zupa was always waiting when he came back for her.

---

The old woman’s sopping dress had more patches than original cloth: colorful squares and ovals, sometimes flower petals or oak leaves, all fastened with tiny stitches. “Thank---thank you,” she said in between heaving breaths, and one of her strong hands gripped Vesemir’s knee as he crouched beside her. “I would---I would have---”

Drowned. She would have drowned. She had kneeled by the river with her basket of washing next to her and the rusalka had pulled her under. It had only been coincidence that Vesemir had been waiting behind a willow tree for it to surface: a contract from the next village over.

Diving in after them, one hand grasping the woman’s ankle, another forming the sign for Aard---it could have been disastrous if the rusalka hadn’t accepted the rebuff, if it had turned around and pursued them both. But this one liked an easy kill, or was shy. The first sign of magic had it dissolving back into the river water, and Vesemir had been able to heave them both onto the shore.

The woman laughed a hoarse laugh. “Not time for these two old goats to meet Melitele, it seems! We’ll get even tougher and stringier before we go into nature’s stewpot.”

“May it choke when we get there,” Vesemir said.

The woman grinned. “We would really stick in someone’s craw, wouldn’t we?” She clapped his knee and heaved herself up, her pale braid swinging behind her. “Come on, Witcher! I don’t have much at home, but we’ll see what we can find you as recompense.”

This bend in the river lay equidistant between the two nearest villages, a place not frequented by either of them, but neither quite abandoned. The woman must live alone, existing with the knowledge that it would take a long time before anyone noticed her absence if she died. If a rusalka killed her, for example. Or if a Witcher weren’t as friendly as he seemed.

Witchers lived like that too. Often, this year, no one in the sparser villages had noticed that the Witchers who usually took the Kaedweni Path, the ones who had visited them off and on for decades, were now absent. That a kaer’s population had been reduced to a cottageful. Or in the more worldly villages, who had gotten the news, they laughed about it. Good riddance to the yellow-eyed monsters.

“We’re glad to save someone when we have the chance,” Vesemir said, thinking of the pyres of Wolves he’d failed, outlasted. “Just give me what you find at home yet do not expect.”

“Easy enough!” she said. “I’m always surprised by something or other these days. Oh! I’m Marta. What’s your name, Witcher?”

“Vesemir,” he said. When had he last said it aloud? He perched her washing basket against the jut of his hipbone and followed where she led.

Her home had much to recommend it: a little paddock for chickens and goats in front of the small wooden house; a massive pile of firewood crouched at its side; a garden in the back overflowing with green vines and yellow squash flowers in bloom. All around, trees loomed in a protective circle.

An unmistakable buzzing came from the crook of a two-pronged oak: bees swarmed against the bark and roiled over each other like a small, fuzzy sea.

“Ha!” Marta said, hands on her hips. “The old hive must have split.” She nodded to herself. “There’s your surprise, all right. Do you know how to lure them to you?”

Vesemir did not. Barmin’s bees had largely materialized in the apiary without Vesemir questioning it.

“Come on, then,” Marta said. “I’ll tell you over lunch. And it’ll be a while—you can’t rush bees—so you might as well stay for dinner, too.” She poked his bony hip below the laundry basket. “Seems you could use a couple of good meals anyway!”

She led the way into the house, and if Vesemir wasn’t mistaken, there was perhaps a little more sway in her hips than there had been previously.

Melitele wept. Did his cock even work anymore?

The inside of the little house brimmed with clay bottles, deerskin books, and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The trick to luring the bees, Marta explained to him over bowls of pottage, was lemongrass oil. You put it in a container to attract them, the bees investigated, and once the queen was inside, the rest of the hive would follow. Luckily for Vesemir, she had some oil, a spare skep, and a leather bag he could use to contain them.

“Queens are used to people following their lead, you know,” she said, her eyes warm as she looked at him. “So are hedge witches.”

Vesemir took a chance, reached out, touched Marta’s sun-spotted hand with his. “I would be happy to make you happy,” he said simply. Time was, he would have flirted about treating her like royalty; now he couldn’t stomach it.

She grinned. “Bees first. Then we’ll see how happy we can make each other.”

Hers was the friendliest touch he had had in a long time. After they were both satisfied, he pressed his face into her ample belly while she stroked over his shoulders. “Hard life,” she said, her touch warm as she traced over the scars from the griffin. “But we’re still here, stubborn as burrs on a fur coat.”

---

Zupa sniffed the bag of bees until she got her nose stung, and then she decided to keep watch on them from a distance.

Vesemir returned to the river.

“They polluted my water with their filth,” the rusalka said, breaking the surface with hardly a ripple.

“Find a new river,” Vesemir told her.

She tried to fight him rather than leave.

He caught her in Yrden, so that she couldn’t collapse into her watery form, and made her death quick.

The alder of the impacted town gave him a good blanket, knitted by her sister in secret, and far too soft and delicate to survive life on the Path with him and Zupa. He put it in the box with the wool.

A blanket for a life. No wonder he had retired to teach in his old age.

---

Marta had given him a jug of honey from her other hive so that the bees would be able to eat safely, but he couldn’t travel the Path with a swarm of bees the way he could with Zupa. They needed a place to build their hive, familiar fields to harvest and pollinate, a warm place to help them survive the winter. They needed a home.

A dog. Wool. Seeds. A blanket. Bees.

Bees instead of boys.

Vesemir took the hint and the quickest route back to Kaer Morhen.

---

The Witchers who returned that winter came back to a dog who leaped into their arms with full faith that they would catch her, new clothes made out of warm wool, a hot cauldron of pottage on the kitchen hearth, and fresh bread rolls spread with honey. Their faces lit up with barely concealed relief when Vesemir met them at the gate. The keep wasn’t empty—not again.

The remaining Witchers brought their own Surprises with them, too: sacks of grain and dried beans; a cow and her calf; a mule and a donkey; a pen full of chickens; bales of hay, carted up by a mystified Witcher who was just relieved that they had animals that would eat them. Lambert showed up with a dovecote hauled behind him, wrapped against the cold and kept warm with careful applications of Igni in its general vicinity.

“Not Law of Surprise,” Lambert said. “I don’t do that shit.” He left before Vesemir could comment that this must mean he had a thoughtful bone in his body, which was probably for the best.

The keep seemed empty, still, without rowdy packs of boys running through it and old instructors with their heads put together to share the gossip. No more boys left alive—but that also meant no more little corpses that they had to Igni into ash. They trained during the day, mitigating the flaws pointed out by Vesemir’s sharp eyes and tongue, and they drank and gambled at night. Some nights there was even a little laughter. There was life in the keep yet, and a shameful freedom, and sweetness amongst the bitter grief. Kaer Morhen was more than a tomb to mourn.

At dusk, Vesemir rocked in Barmin’s old chair and told the bees about the dead, one at a time. If there were a few nights when he strayed and told them about the day’s adventures too, they didn’t seem to mind. At his side, Zupa lay on her rug and chewed a bone or a stick. She didn’t mind what he talked about either.

Someone would need to take care of the animals and the garden after the winter. Someone would need to keep the hearth going, the infirmary stocked, the rooms ready for their occupants’ return, the training equipment ready for the winter’s exertions. When the next Witcher died, someone would need to tell the bees about it. Witchers deserved to have someone who would do that for them.

That spring, the bees stayed. Vesemir did too, with Zupa at his side, her cart full of gardening tools now.

Keep the living alive, Barmin had said. Vesemir would do more than that. There might be no future Wolf Witchers, but he could still make a home for the ones who were left.

Notes:

She shouldn’t be thinking this, she thought, tipping her head back to drain the rest of her wine. She was in a committed relationship with a great guy who treated her perfectly. She didn’t need anybody else.

Sonny said something, making Barba laugh. The older man’s hand dropped to Sonny’s knee, giving it a small squeeze. Sonny stopped laughing, his blue eyes growing wide. He looked at Kat, panicked. Barba quickly withdrew his hand, the tops of his cheeks turning pink.

Kat waited for the drop of jealousy to well up in her chest, but instead, a rush of arousal flooded her core. 

It felt too warm in here. Her hand went to the buttons of her blouse, undoing the buttons until she had a nice deep V that showed off her cleavage. Both men eyed her, Barba's gaze going straight to her chest. 

Kat stood up, reaching for the tequila and the shot glasses. “It’s a shame if we let this go to waste,” she said, pouring out three shots. She handed one to Barba along with a lime wedge, her fingers lingering too long to not be deliberate. Rafael’s brow raised. Kat just shot him a slight smirk, confirming his suspicions. 

They all clinked glasses, throwing their heads back in unison. The alcohol burned all the way down Kat’s throat, heating up in her stomach. Her body felt like liquid, her courage soaring. 

Barba sucked on his lime wedge, the obscene noise going straight to Kat's clit. His eyes never left her’s as he sucked every last drop from the fruit. He found her very attractive, with a tight, strong body apparent even under her clothes. Her bright brown eyes were arresting, pulling him in.

Kat leaned forward in her seat, putting her hand on Sonny’s knee. She massaged gently, rubbing up and down his thigh.“You didn’t even flinch, baby. Do you like that?”

Sonny lifted his brow, looking at her quizzically. “Yes…” He glanced at Barba, lifting his glass in a toast. “Very good bottle.”

“It’s a special occasion,” Rafael said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. He shifted in his seat, angling his body towards the man beside him. “Only the best for you, Sonny.”

The temperature of the room seemed to go up a couple of degrees, the tension thickening. Kat looked at Rafael, trying to communicate what she was thinking; what she wanted.

His mouth curved into a smirk, picking up on the vibes she was sending him. His hand went to the back of Sonny’s neck, tugging on the strands of his hair. Sonny shivered at his touch, once again looking at Kat, who was running a finger over her own lips. She was looking at him like a wolf looked at a rabbit. Sonny peered at Rafael, who had the same leer as his girlfriend. 

“Okay, what’s...what’s going on?” Sonny tripped over his words, the drinks making his tongue thick in his mouth. They were acting weird. Not drunk, but just… weird.

“Do you wanna know a secret, Rafael?” Kat asked, tilting her head. Her brown eyes looked black with want, making Sonny even more confused.

“Tell me,” Rafael answered, his fingers still stroking patterns into Sonny’s skin. Sonny unconsciously leaned into his hand, seeking his touch.

“Sonny and I have been fucking non-stop since you got into town.” The words spilled out of Kat’s mouth before she could stop them. Not that she wanted to.

“Kat!” Sonny hissed, his eyes wide as saucers. What the fuck was she doing? He thought, his heart leaping into his throat.

“I think he was thinking about you,” Kat continued, as if Sonny hadn’t said anything. Her tone wasn’t accusatory or jealous, but an almost purr, ladened with arousal.

“Hmmm, is that true, cariño?” Rafael moved closer to Sonny, his mouth near his ear. His hot breath brought goosebumps to Sonny's skin. “Were you thinking of me?”

“I-” Sonny couldn’t speak, too baffled at what was going on. Rafael’s stubble scratched at his cheek, making his shudder. His girlfriend was watching them, her breathing slightly laboured.

She was turned on. Sonny’s mind spun, trying to make sense of it. She was turned on watching Rafael and Sonny together. She was biting down on her bottom lip, her nails digging into his thighs. What the fuck?

“Cariño, do you want this?” Rafael asked in a husky voice. He brushed his lips over the shell of Sonny’s ear. “Do you want me?”

Sonny hesitated, his gaze once more seeking Kat’s. She laid a hand on Sonny’s cheek, soft compared to Rafael’s scratchiness. “It’s okay, baby, tell the truth.”

It was like a dance, but Sonny didn’t know the steps. He looked from Rafael to Kat and back again, trying to get the rhythm. He paused, wondering if this was a good idea. But the beat was too intoxicating to step away.

He took a deep breath and joined their dance.

“Yes,” he answered in a rough voice. He looked between his current lover and his former one. “I want you. I want…” He swallowed, suddenly nervous about saying what he truly desired. “I want both of you.”

Kat let out a breath of surprise, sitting back in her seat. “Really?”

Sonny’s light brows drew together in a frown. “Of course I do.” She was his girlfriend, and no matter what she might say, he felt like being with just Rafael would be cheating.

Kat crossed her legs, trying to control the throb between her thighs. “I was just going to watch, but…” She looked at Rafael for reassurance, licking her lips nervously. “If that’s okay with you?”

Rafael let out a low chuckle, rolling his eyes. “You’re really asking if I’m okay having two of the sexiest members of the Special Victims Unit at the same time?” He got to his feet, offering his hands to Kat who took them without hesitation. “It would be my pleasure.”

Kat rose up with Rafael’s help, pausing to touch Sonny’s shoulder. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

It was no surprise that Rafael and Kat took the lead. They both loved to be in control, even more when they were in control of Sonny. He loved it even more, all his thoughts evaporating at their touch.

As soon as they entered the bedroom, Kat's lips were on Sonny's, frenzied and hungry. She undid the buttons of his shirt, so fast she almost ripped them off the fabric. Kat felt a mouth on her neck, strong hands on her hips. Rafael stood behind her, pressing into her. She could feel the slight bulge in his pants, a slight moan escaping her throat. Rafael kissed up and down her neck, stubble rubbing at her skin.

Once Sonny's shirt was on the floor, Kat turned to kiss Rafael, his tongue plunging into her open mouth. He tasted like lime and salt. His five o’clock shadow scratched at her skin, pain mixing with pleasure. She worked at the buttons on his shirt, a bit more carefully than she did with Sonny. His clothes looked a tad more expensive, and she knew she'd feel guilty if she wrecked the fabric.

Sonny went behind Rafael, helping him out of his shirt, leaving him naked from the waist up. Kat ran her fingers over his hairy chest, rubbing his soft stomach. His body was different from Sonny's, but it was just as sexy.

She ended their kiss with a soft nip at his lower lip, stepping away from Rafael. She intended to strip off her clothes slowly, give them a show, but the two men weren't even watching. They were drawn together like magnets, their bodies pressed close to each other. As she got rid of her top, Kat watched Sonny and Rafael kiss, almost manically. They kissed like they had to make up for lost time. Rafael gripped Sonny’s cheek, trying to bring his face as near as possible. Sonny sighed into his lips, feeling content. His hands roamed over Rafael’s body, remembering each dip and curve.

Kat wasted no time getting naked, cupping herself as she watched them kiss. Her body was positively burning with desire. She carefully reached for Sonny's belt, not wanting to disturb their makeout session. As soon as she tugged it off him, Sonny drew back from Rafael, breathing hard. He stepped out of his pants, stumbling in his haste. Rafael put out a hand to steady him, his own face flushed. "We have time, cariño. Don't worry."

Rafael turned his eyes to Kat, widening at her bare body. He had been so busy focusing on Sonny, he didn't notice her getting undressed. He swept his eyes up and down, taking in her part nipples and the dusk between her legs. His cock began to firm at the sight. "You're so beautiful, Katriona," he murmured. Her name sounded like honey in his mouth, making her even wetter.

"Thank you," she responded, moving towards him. "But I'm very interested to know what you're hiding under here." She touched the waistband of his trousers, trailing her fingers to touch his hardening cock. 

Rafael's hips instinctively rutted against her hand, seeking friction. He undid his belt, shimmied off his trousers and briefs. Kat and Sonny gasped in unison as they finally saw Rafael's prize. His cock was shorter than Sonny's, but thicker with a delicious looking vein on the underside. Sonny wrapped his hand around the shaft, feeling like he was greeting an old friend.

Kat's mouth began to water, her cunt clenching at the sight. She sank to her knees in front of the two men, putting her face to face with their cocks. Sonny was already at full staff, precum leaking out of his slit. She started there, licking up his salty fluid, the taste familiar but exquisite. Her hand came up to hold his cock steady as she took him into his mouth. Sonny let out a loud groan, echoing in the small room. His girlfriend was one of the best cock suckers he ever had. She could swallow him whole without even flinching.

As she began to bob her head, Kat's other hand went to Rafael, squeezing the base of his cock with her strong fingers. He was so fat, she almost couldn't fit her whole hand around him. She let her hand go to his balls, heavy and full. She fondled him, still sucking Sonny off.

She felt Sonny’s hips get more and more erratic, a signal that he was close. She wrenched her head back, switching to engulf Rafael's cock. She took all of him in one swoop, making him shout. Her other hand jerked Sonny off, using her own spit as lube. Her mouth was hot and wet around Rafael's cock, her tongue swiping along his skin. Pleasure radiated down his spine, growing with thrust into her mouth. 

Over the next few minutes, Kat pleasured them both, alternating between her mouth and her hand. Her mind went blissfully blank, only focusing on her instinctual need to please them. Wetness was leaking from her cunt, leaving a puddle between her legs. Her knees were burning from the cheap rug, but she paid it no attention. 

She just needed their cum.

Rafael put his hand in her hair, yanking her away from his cock. She whined at the loss, her tongue going for Sonny's. Rafael stopped her with another tug of her hair. "What do you want, Katriona?"

"Your cum," she panted, not even thinking. "My face. My mouth." She looked up at Sonny, her eyes pleading. "Please cum for me."

Fuck. Sonny's hips stuttered, so close, her words spurning him on. "Open wide," he said through gritted teeth.

Kat leaned back on her heels, Rafael's hand still tugging on her hair. She put her hands on both their cocks, quickening her strokes. She opened her mouth into a large O, waiting like a baby bird for food from its mother. 

Sonny came first, a stream of cum hitting her cheek. She reached her tongue out further, catching his release. Rafael came a moment after, shooting his cum right into her mouth.

Kat swallowed as much as she could, their seeds mixing together in her stomach. It was salty and delicious, coating her tongue. A few strands landed on her face and chest, painting her dark skin white. 

Sonny thought she never looked more beautiful, cum spilling from her mouth. Her brown eyes were dark with desire, her cheeks a faint pink. 

Rafael thought so too, cupping her chin to get a better look at her. "So beautiful," he murmured, swiping his thumb along her bottom lip. He brought it to his own mouth, tasting his and Sonny's mixture.

Kat got to her feet, unsteady from being on her knees for so long. She stumbled to the bed, laying down on her back. Her chest was heaving, making her tits jiggle.

"Now, this won't do," Rafael announced. He knelt on the bed beside her, looking at her body. Her thighs were sticky with her juices. He licked his lips. "We can't leave you like this, now can we?"

Sonny got on the bed, tucking himself behind Kat. She placed herself between his legs, his chest pressing into her back. Sonny tweaked a nipple, making her jerk in surprise. “You want Raf to eat you out, doll?”

Kat nodded enthusiastically, thrilled her fantasy was about to become a reality. 

Rafael knelt between her legs, his hands ghosting over her shins. “What do you say?” the lawyer asked in a mocking tone.

Damn him and his fucking words. Kat was no sub in the bedroom but something about Rafael’s voice made her want to obey. “Please, Raf… Touch me.”

Rafael’s face broke into a wicked grin. “With pleasure.”

He dipped his head between her thighs, cleaning up the mess she had made on herself. Goosebumps erupted all over her body, made worse by Sonny touching her breasts. Her boyfriend played with her nipples, twisting and pinching softly.

She needed more. Her hips jerked to try and meet Rafael’s mouth. He just chuckled softly, looking up at her. “Impatient.” His gaze shifted to Sonny. “Hold her down, will you?”

Sonny obeyed, his strong hands moving to Kat’s hips, pinning her down. She whined, craning up to look at him. Sonny just grinned, enjoying the tortured look in her eyes.

Rafael finally moved his head to her core, his stubble scraping her sensitive thighs. She gasped at the sensation, another drop of wetness escaping her pussy. Rafael caught it with his tongue, licking into her entrance. She wanted to thrust against him, but Sonny stopped her again, his fingers surely leaving bruises.

Rafael moved to her clit, sucking the bud into his mouth. Kat threw her head back, almost knocking into Sonny’s chin. “Fuck, Raf… Just like that.”

His talented tongue circled and swiped along her clit, sending sparks up her spine. Pressure began to build in her core. She felt fingers at her entrance and eagerly spread her legs.

Rafael stopped his movements, ignoring Kat’s whine, to ask Sonny: “How many fingers can she take?”

Sonny thought back, biting his lip. His face curved into a smirk, nuzzling at Kat’s hair. “3 easily, especially when she’s this wet.” In honesty she could take more, but Sonny wanted her to be able to do a few rounds tonight.

Rafael shot them a decisive nod, going back down her body, flexing his fingers. Sonny was right: Kat swallowed all three fingers with ease. Kat shrieked at the intrusion, Sonny having a hard time keeping her still. Rafael’s fingers were bigger than Sonny’s, stretching her further than her boyfriend usually did.

Rafael thrust into her, angling his fingers to press into her front wall. His tongue didn’t stop, lapping at her clit. Kat screwed her eyes shut, her pleasure building and building. 

Sonny could feel her shaking, so close to the edge. He put his lips near her ear, whispering: “Let go, doll.”

She did, with a long, loud scream. Wetness coated Rafael’s fingers as she came. He kept thrusting into her, letting her down easy until she stopped twitching. He withdrew, putting his fingers in his mouth to taste her sweet juices. The tangy liquid tasted like sweet nectar, straight from the Gods.

Sonny let her hips go, rubbing the red skin tenderly. She opened her eyes, looking glassy eyed. “How was that?” he asked her, pushing a strand of hair off her sweaty forehead.

“Amazing,” she answered lazily. She looked at Rafael and repeated her words: “Amazing. Fuck, you got a mouth on you.”

“So do you,” he replied, bringing her in for a kiss. She could taste herself on his tongue, a bolt of pleasure running down her spine.

Kat sat up, rolling off Sonny’s body. She laid down on her stomach, exhaustion settling in her bones. “Okay, your turn. I need a minute.”

Sonny’s head turned to Rafael, his gaze expectant. His blue eyes swiped down his ex’s body to his half-hard cock. The sight made his own dick twitch. He got to his knees to give Rafael a kiss. Their tongues danced with each other, wet noises emerging from their mouths. 

Sonny felt Rafael’s strong hands moving to his ass, kneading the pliant flesh. A thrill went through Sonny’s body. He knew what was coming next.

Rafael swiped a finger down Sonny’s crack. “I missed your ass, cariño.”

His words sent shivers through Sonny’s body. “I missed you in my ass,” he admitted, swiping his tongue along Rafael’s lower lips.

Rafael groaned at the admission, his grip tightening on Sonny’s hips. His cock hardened to it’s full state, precum leaking out of the tip. “Get on your knees.”

There was no room for discussion. Sonny got onto the bed on his hands and knees, his ass in the air, his face near Kat. She watched, her gaze sharp, taking in everything.

Rafael looked down at Sonny’s pink hole, virgin tight with disuse. It would take a bit to open him up, but Rafael was confident in his abilities. 

“Do you have…” he trailed off as Kat rolled off the bed, rummaging in the bedside table. She emerged with a bottle of lube, almost empty from use.

“Sorry,” she said, handing it to him. She walked to stand beside Rafael, putting a hand on the base of Sonny’s spine to signal her whereabouts.

She followed Rafael’s movements as he drizzled a healthy amount of oil on his fingers and Sonny’s ass. She took the bottle from him when he was done, like a nurse in an operating room.

“Have you done this before?” Rafael paused to ask her, lube dripping onto Sonny’s cheek, making the other man flinch in surprise.

Kat nodded. “Not with a guy, though.”

Rafael’s brow shot up. “Really?” 

Kat shrugged; shot him a coy smile. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, counsellor.”

The title went straight to Rafael’s cock. Normally he abhorred being called that in the bedroom, but he found himself liking it coming from her mouth. His mind spun, picturing himself fucking into her, Kat moaning the title into his ear.

Sonny’s ass wiggled impatiently, drawing Rafael back to the present. “Sorry, cariño.” He rubbed his finger around Sonny’s asshole, making the other man jerk back into his touch. He started slowly, pressing his ring finger into Sonny, working past the tight ring of muscle.

Kat’s breath caught in her chest as she saw Sonny swallow Rafael, the man’s finger disappearing into his ass. Rafael, very patiently, stretched Sonny until he could fit another finger.

Sonny moaned at the intrusion, pleasure radiating at his spine. Every thrust of Rafael’s fingers brought sparks behind his lids. It didn’t take long before he was meeting his movements, seeking more.

“Are you ready?” Rafael asked, rubbing Sonny’s left cheek.

“Fuck yes,” Sonny asked, his voice strangled. He was already panting.

Rafael smirked, withdrawing his fingers out of Sonny. Before he could adjust to the emptiness, Raf pressed the tip of his cock to his hole. He slid into Sonny, Kat watching as it went in, inch by slow inch.

Rafael bottomed out, his pubic bone pressing against the swell of Sonny’s ass. It was heavenly, feeling Sonny’s ass around his cock. He was so hot and tight. “Good boy, cariño.”

He began to thrust into Sonny, slow and steady, letting him get used to the stretch. Sonny’s walls clenched around his cock, drawing a loud groan from him. He moved his hips faster and faster, rocking into Sonny.

His cock dragged along Sonny’s prostate, lightning shooting through his body. With every thrust, Sonny moved closer to the edge. It had been so long since he came like this, he wasn’t sure how much he could take.

Kat’s hand went to her clit, her core dripping at the two men fucking. She circled the bud, desire building in her abdomen. Rafael’s gaze shot to her then to her hand. He moved his hands from Sonny’s hips to his waist, hoisting him up, to the blonde’s shock. Sonny yelped at the change in position, Rafael’s cock hitting at a different angle.

“Get under him,” Rafael said to Kat through gritted teeth. 

Again, there was no room for arguing. Kat slid under Sonny’s body, spreading her legs. She grabbed his cock, red and angry looking, and guided it into her pussy. Rafael snapped his hips, pushing Sonny deep into Kat. The two lovers moaned in unison at the feeling.

Sonny thought he was going to pass out in pleasure. With a cock in his ass and his own in a pussy, he felt fireworks going off in his body. His eyes rolled back in his head at the push and pull. Every atom, every molecule, every cell of his body was screaming. He was going to die between the two people he adored most.

Rafael set the pace, fast and rough. He fucked Kat through Sonny, his eyes never leaving her face. Her mouth was open, small mewls spilling out. It wouldn’t be long for each of them to cum. Rafael bit his lip, trying to stave it off. He tried to think of something, anything to keep his body from giving in.

It was no surprise that Sonny came first, with an almost animalistic howl. He would have collapsed onto Kat if Rafael hadn’t caught him, holding him up as he spilled into his girlfriend.

Rafael was still fucking him, and it became too much for Sonny.

“Stop,” he gasped, trying to pull out of Kat. “I need…”

Rafael pulled himself out of Sonny’s ass, letting the younger man move out of their embrace. Sonny was barely out of the way before Rafael pushed into Kat in one swoop, Sonny’s cum making the transition easy.

Kat moaned at the switch. It felt deliciously dirty, two men right after the other. She met Rafael’s thrusts with her own, close to the edge. Her hands gripped the sheets, holding on for dear life. So close, so close…

Sonny saw the signs of her orgasm. He was exhausted, but he knew what to do. He put his mouth on Kat’s breast, sucking a nipple into his mouth.

His mouth mixed with Rafael’s thrusts made her pleasure peak, waves of ecstasy rolling through her. She screamed as it came, over and over again. The orgasm seemed never-ending.

The clutching of Kat’s walls sent Rafael over the edge as well, his cock spilling into her with a twitch. The pressure in his lower back ebbed, relief pouring into veins.

He stilled his movements, making sure Kat was done. When she shot him a shaky nod, he stepped away. Sonny and Rafael’s cum dripped out of her, making a mess on the sheets.