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    Summary

    Witchers used to have omegas, back in the old days, before the raids and the pitchforks. Vesemer remembers it fondly. The laughter, the warmth. Kaer Morhen meant more than just protection for the winter. He remembers the excitement, adding up the days in his head, counting down until he could come home. The long days of the path turned short as winter crept over the continent. Desperate for the warm arms of an omega, one that doesn’t stink of fear.

    It didn’t matter now. They were all gone. The Witchers. The omegas. It was only him now. Vesemir and his boys. Eskel, Lambert, and Geralt.

    It was hard, though. When the nights got long and the cold darkness of the keep seemed even colder. The boys became restless, he became angry, and it always felt like something was missing. Something softer. Something to round out their sharp edges.
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    Instead of Witchersexual Jaskier, I give you Jaskiersexual Witchers! Enjoy :)

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