Sometime in the past:
It knew that humans, strange little things, were prone to recklessness, and foolishness, and it wondered sometimes, how a species such as they could have survived for as long as they had, spilling over the land like water. It was hidden, out of sight, observing the two humans who had walked into its home, bold as anything, shucking off their clothes, faces mashing together over and over again, and oh. Oh, they were mating.
The animals in this place did that often enough, though they seemed limited to certain times of the year, or month. Humans apparently did not feel restricted in the same way, and they were very very loud, startling some birds away from their nests with their ruckus.
How badly did it hurt for them to be making that much noise? It reached out, awareness spreading to all the things that dwelled in this place, even ones as temporary as this, and it almost startled away as well, shocked.
Animals didn’t feel like this when they mated. They didn’t really feel much of anything, except for a desire to start and then finish as quickly as they could.
That same kind of urgency was there, but so was the want to savour, to enjoy, and there was danger, as well, and that did manage to shock it, that these humans knew the Leshen lived here, that it might stumble across them, see them, and that even the thought of it excited them further.
It stayed until it seemed the pair had finished, giggling and redressing, still bumping their faces into each other. Kissing, it knew now. They held hands and walked and kissed their way from it’s domain, happy and together, alive and in love.
In love, with life, with each other.
It isn’t built like humans, and Geralt was a Witcher, but he was more or less the same as them, shape wise, and it worried that it wouldn’t be able to give him what he needed. He claimed to not need it, but the Leshen could feel desire from him, arousal drifting thickly through it’s mind.
Geralt let himself be laid on a nest of furs, amusement flickering brightly, and the Leshen is crouched over him, and it should be terrifying but it isn't; it can't feel any fear, only excitement and curiosity.
And at first it's so so gentle, barely running it's giant hands down pale skin, but Geralt is squirming, pushing into the touches, and it goes a little firmer, talons ground down just for this, and Geralt starts making the same kind of noises those bold humans had made, so long ago.
It cups a hand around Geralt's face, and the Witcher turns his head, sucks a finger into his mouth and the Leshen can feel how much he likes it, can smell it, can almost taste it, and it's growling, low in it's chest, without understanding, really, why.
It plucks at a nipple when it sees Geralt doing that, and he likes it more from the Leshen than he does from himself. He gets louder, and the thing humans use to mate with, his cock, is red, leaking over his Witcher’s stomach, and it wonders.
Pushes curious, help? at Geralt, who reopens his eyes with a fond sigh, and shows it what he likes, and the thoughts sting like little bites, sharp, but feel deeply wanted. It worries about it's claws, and that slips through. Geralt smiles, oozes trust and wry self-confidence. The Leshen continues on, and magic helps, here, because Geralt isn't quite human but he is human enough, and slick is required.
Geralt pushes in with his own fingers, first, to show, to teach. The Leshen learns, and soon enough it's slowly slowly wriggling one of it's own fingers inside, and Geralt likes that so much he throws his head back and moans, loud and long, back curving. It twists around, pulls out and pushes in, Geralt's legs spread as wide as he can manage, and when the Witcher begs for another it complies, enraptured, enthralled, by what Geralt is feeling.
It's so much, pulsing like a rabbit's heartbeat, and something else is swelling up, and Geralt's hands are frantic on his cock, and he's coming, and the Leshen is swept away for a blazingly sweet moment.
It's dizzying, and powerful, but it can feel a bit of discomfort prickling up and it takes its claws away, and it has left little marks on it's bride, pinpricks of red, and it is satisfied with them because Geralt is. It wraps one of the furs around Geralt, who is grinning, sore, but glad with it.
He reaches up, small hands sliding over it’s skull, and he pushes all his feelings out, and the Leshen is swept away again, gratitude, satisfaction, love. It will have to do this often, if it pleases him so. It curls itself around it’s Witcher, the way it always does when Geralt needs to sleep, and decides to think some more on this.