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The Love of a Tree

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It wasn’t often that humans got the drop on him. 

In fact, Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thoroughly duped. 

The town was quiet as he’d ridden in, and that hadn’t been particularly unusual. There was always a quiet air about a town under attack. As though to speak too loudly would be to invite further calamity. No one had met his eyes, and that was familiar, too. There were shutters cracked just enough to peek through as he rode, and the whisper of The Witcher seemed to roll along the single, narrow main road ahead of him like a ripple across the millpond. Everything was as it normally was when he was summoned to a town. Not that it was much of one. 

Right on the edge of some of the most ancient forests in Velken, it wasn’t easy to assume what could be the problem when the summons he had received contained only a vague, ‘Our woods are haunted’. But it was a small village, and… Winter was nearing. A village that size that couldn’t hunt or forage enough from the woods would starve to death before the solstice. 

There was nothing that out of the ordinary. 

He’d looked for the mayor who had summoned him who had said he’d meet him for a meal in the solitary inn that didn’t look like it saw more than one traveler in a year. He’d walked past the suspicious eyes. Weighing him. Judging him. He had felt the weight of them on his back and on his armoured shoulders. It would have been comforting if it weren’t so threatening. Roach was safely ensconced in the stables, and he’d let himself sag just a little against the counter, feeling the long journey to get here dragging at him. He’d ordered an ale.

And couldn’t remember finishing it. 

Keeping his eyes closed, he could hear them. The heartbeats of the whole town around him. Their footsteps. Young and old. No one spoke a word as the cart he was on rumbled along down a rutted road. The sharp scent of pine and conifers mingled with the musk of deep loam as they moved, and Geralt had to wonder where they were taking him. Though he had gotten out of tighter scrapes than this, it had been a long time since, and he was loath to draw his swords when there were children around. 

Speaking of swords, he couldn’t- they weren’t on his back. And he couldn’t smell the tang of steel or the softer fragrance of silver anywhere nearby. Bugger it. The weight of his armour was missing, too, and he could feel soft silks moving against his skin. Head tipping up, he scented the air again, this time it was the scent of flowers that overpowered him. Cool petals brushing against his forehead and leaves caught in his hair. Some kind of flower crown if he wasn’t mistaken. He could name each one for its fragrance and the soft shapes of their blooms against his skin. 

Opening his eyes, he was almost instantly blinded by the flurry of sunbeams that spiraled down from the canopy above him. These were old woods, older than he had seen in a very long time. 

And so full of life. 

Birdsong he hadn’t thought important but now couldn’t escape rang sweetly through the trees as though heralding his arrival. The calls of species he hadn’t heard in a very long time were answered as if many of them filled the trees. Though he was bound and being carried to some place he didn’t know, he had never felt a more peaceful forest. 

Butterflies wafted past on warm breezes, the heavy scents of pollen riding with them. Scents that he’d almost forgotten reawakening old memories. 

These were ancient woods. 

The procession around him came to a stop in a small clearing. At one end there stood two granite monoliths, and one broader, flatter stone he could only assume was an altar. Flowers and fresh fruits and new-baked pies were gathered around the base of the stone. 

“The Old One is lonely,” the mayor of the tiny town said at last as six men hoisted Geralt, still bound to a board, onto their shoulders and laid him down on the altar, “As offering, we bring another old one, to be a companion.”

There was more talk, and he should have listened but as the realisation that he was an offering to some eldritch beast solidified, Geralt was bucking against the board, feeling the ropes creak and strain as he pitted all his inhuman strength against them, feeling the fibres start to tear. 

Hurriedly, the villagers started backing away, some of them up on horses that they had brought with them, others on the cart that had carried Geralt, and some setting off at a jog, but all of them making haste back up the barely used track the way they had come. 

That could only mean that either they were frightened of the Witcher - they had better be -  or the thing that they were intending on sacrificing him to was expected shortly. And while he was very much looking forward to having his knuckles bloodied in getting back at whoever had spiked his ale, he was not too keen on running into whatever it was he had been left there for. 

The ropes around his one wrist split, fibres tearing open, and he threw his shoulder into the ones that bound his chest, cursing fluidly under his breath. 

A rustle from the edge of the clearing had him really throwing his weight into the bindings, feeling them start to give. There was something moving through the trees just out of sight. Damn it all, if it was something that even he couldn’t see then he was going to be an enormous amount of trouble. Managing to sit up, he started clawing at his ankles, and had one free when there was another rustle, this one closer. Shit. 

He needed to get free, to get away from this thing at all costs. With one leg free and hanging off the stone altar, he looked up, not trusting the silence that had followed the last rustle. 

His eyes almost skipped over it, it was standing so still. 

Towering over him and blending in so well with the trees that it could have been one, stood the Leshen. The only thing that gave it away was the deer skull that was it’s head, looking down on Geralt with faintly glowing eyes. 

“Fuck me,” he grunted, his one ankle still strapped to the board he had been carried in on. Any weapons he might have had were in his pack, probably still at the inn. The knives he carried in his clothes had been stripped from him. All he had was this silk robe and flowers in his hair like some kind of May Day queen. 

Panic coursed through his muscles, and he shredded the last of the rope, rough stone scraping over bare skin as the robe rode up around his thighs as he slipped off the altar and onto the ground.

The Leshen cocked it’s head, watching him with those terrifyingly bright eyes. One gnarled, taloned hand raised, and Geralt watched with horror as the creature drew the sigil for Igni in the air before him. It couldn’t use it, nothing happened, but it seemed to hang in the air between them like a question. 

“I’d be bloody stupid to start a fight I can’t finish,” there was no reason for him to talk to it. He should run for the village. He of all people had a chance to escape the beast. 

But it hadn’t moved from its place at the edge of the clearing. Like Geralt was a wild animal that it was trying not to spook. Waiting for a moment, he felt his heartbeat even out in his chest, and he looked up at the creature. It had to be going on three metres tall, a heavy set of antlers crowning it. The Witcher had never seen one so alive before. It had a mane of leaves and was growing moss and vines in most places. It blended better with the forest than any Leshen he had come across before, those ones from the tiny patches of ancient forest encroached on by man. 

“I’m no child, that face won’t scare me. But I don’t trust it either,” he called out again, trying to goad it into moving first. 

Instead of charging like he had been expecting, the creature raised a clawed hand to its face, turning away from him as though trying to hide itself from him. He had just called its face frightening. A scowl carved familiar lines into Geralt’s face as he looked up at the creature that now wouldn’t meet his gaze. 

Leshen were often mistaken for old gods. Fiercely intelligent and deadly hunters. 

Drawing breath, he let out a short, deep sigh. 

Moving very slowly around the altar, the calloused palms of his hands brushing over rough cool stone, he approached. The ground was cool and damp underfoot, rich dark earth, perfectly fertile, perfect for growing. 

No wonder this was such a healthy specimen. He’d never seen one so full of life before. 

The Leshen tilted its head down, joints creaking like a tree in the breeze as it did so. It still had its face covered by enormous hands and was peering at him through gaps in its gnarled, clawed fingers. 

“You’ve got them all fooled, but you can’t trick me,” he told it, hands on his hips as he looked up at the creature that seemed to be trying to hide itself without actually using its incredible ability to camouflage itself. “Not for a minute.”

“I’ll stay one night.”




“Geralt! Geralt? Geralt, where-? Oh. There you are,” Jaskier turned from where he was trying to get his horse over a fallen log at the end of the dirt track that led into the forest, “You’re wearing green. And there are flowers-” 

The bard cocked his head to the side, hands on his hips as he regarded the Witcher fully. 

“A little more elegant than I’m used to seeing you, but it suits,”  he concluded, eyeing the green silk robe that plunged over Geralt’s wide chest and gathered delicately at his waist. He must have been taking care not to snag it on anything. Especially those long flowing sleeves, slit open to reveal his impressive, scarred biceps and once more ruffled together at the wrist. 

The Witcher let out a heavy sigh.

“Apparently it’s traditional,” he grumbled, taking the reins and leading Jaskiers horse around the log. 

“A wonderful tradition,” the bard nodded, hopping nimbly over the log himself and almost falling as he stumbled the landing. “So this is where you’ve been laying your sword? I must admit, I didn’t ever think you’d actually take to the woods like a hermit. Especially not one so well dressed.” He reached out and gently touched one of the blooms in the Witcher’s pale hair, admiring it. 

Geralt raised a brow and shook his head instead of replying, but there was a good natured tilt to his mouth that let Jaskier know he was still in his good graces. 

The bard babbled on happily, filling the amicable space between them with news of friends and enemies, and the state of the world around them since Geralt had last seen the outside. Every so often Geralt would throw in a question that would send him spinning off down a tangent. It was nice to catch up with all the latest gossip and happenings. 

But he couldn’t help but feel that maybe he was better off apart from it. It was a busy life. It was a hard life, and in the two months here he had become somewhat accustomed to the gentle way of living fostered by the Lashen. Hunting only to eat and existing in harmony with the trees and plants. He’d rekindled his love of herbs from when he was a child at Kaer Morhen. Everything grew so abundantly here, it was easy to make a poultice to help soothe an old ache. Instead of having to make do with what he found on the side of the road, he was almost spoiled for choice of ingredients for balms. 

He hadn’t mentioned it, and wouldn’t, but some of his scars had even started to fade under the treatment. 

Jaskier had brought wine and cheese, and preserves. Little luxuries that were hard to come by in the forest and ones that Geralt appreciated with his new slow living. It was all well and good to hunt the land and bake his own bread with the offerings of flour left by the villagers, and he could feed himself well enough on wild greens and berries that his teeth wouldn’t fall out, but it was nice to have these little treats too. 

Technically, he could have asked the villagers. As the companion , they were willing to grant him pretty much anything so long as he didn’t try to leave. 

But he still wasn’t entirely trusting of them, and frankly he didn’t like to ask. Jaskier on the other hand, he did trust, and he knew would bring those things without him having to ask. He also brought all Geralt’s books on monsters, judging by the looks of it, and about anything else that he could lay his hands on in the Witcher’s various storerooms across the continent. 

Jaskier’s arm found its way across his back as they walked through the woods, towards the dark heart where syruppy golden sunlight barely managed to drip through the thick canopy above them and the air was cool and scented with damp things.

The Leshen wasn’t anywhere to be found, though Geralt did listen and look for it as hard as he could while also trying to keep half an ear on the latest news from Ciri, who was ruling her country beautifully by the sounds of it.

Still, he told Jaskier about the creature, and how they had come to be friends. Companions even. How they would talk with their hands and communicate as much as they could. 

How they were lonely. 

“How can you tell it’s-”

“They,” Geralt reminded.

“How can you tell that they’re lonely?” Jaskier asked, correcting himself. The fire was burning in front of them and the droplets of golden sunlight had long since evaporated, leaving the forest floor dark and cool. The evening songbirds starting to make themselves known in the trees around them. 

“Like knows like, I suppose,” he shrugged, and Jaskier gave him a sad smile. For all the human friends he had, they couldn’t seem to quite understand the toll of Geralt’s agelessness.

“Well then, I suppose I’m glad you’ve found like. Even if like is an enormous, violent-”


“I’m just saying, it is a little odd.”

“A lot about me is odd. There are just as many people who say I’m an enormous, violent monster.” The Witcher grumbled, handing Jaskier a bowl of some assorted stew he’d knocked together from his own supplies and the ones that the bard had brought him. 

Jaskier opened his mouth, words stuck for a moment, and he closed it. 

“I wasn’t going to say monster,” he said at last, voice a little softer, “You’re certainly not. And if they have your seal of approval then I can’t very well go calling them that either. I’m sorry. I suppose… I just never saw you retiring to live in the woods.”

“I’m not retiring,” Geralt muttered into his stew, eating with all the good grace of someone who usually ate very quickly and like someone was going to try and take it away from them. “I’m just… taking a break.”

It was the second night of Jaskier’s stay in the forest that Geralt was woken in the middle of the night to find the bard wrapped in roots and being dragged down into the Earth, still asleep and blissfully unaware of his fate. 

“No!” Geralt hissed into the darkness, “You stop that, he’s my friend!”

The trees around him creaked resentfully but slowly, the bard’s body was dragged up, covered in soil and laid on a patch of bare ground, not like the soft moss that cushioned Geralt’s rest. 

Jaskier had had several questions the next morning, none of which Geralt answered with more than a grunt, though it was obvious that he was covering for the Leshen. 

Still, a week later when Jaskier was on his way, he waved to the forest behind the Witcher and bade it farewell, wishing both of them to enjoy each other’s company. 




“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Geralt sighed, leaning against the Leshen’s leg, his bare feet dangling in the water of the stream. He didn’t need to hunt any more today and the Leshen provided shelter and comfort in the form of moss. Though the nights were starting to get cold.

Wood creaked and bone groaned, and Geralt sighed, tipping his head to rest against their knee. 

“He’s my friend, I didn’t think you’d do something like that to someone I invited here.”

Long, sharp claws worked their way gently into thick white hair and carded through it, a deep, melancholy moan echoing through the woods around them. 

A soft sigh on his lips, Geralt reached up and wrapped his fingers around one of the Leshen’s.

“I’m here. I didn’t leave.”

A little smile pulled at his lips at the sound of rustling leaves, their fingers in his hair stroking slowly, gently, lulling him to sleep with their gentle touch. 




It was getting harder to sleep on the ground. Despite the thick moss and the comfort of the forest, the nights were getting colder and the ground was getting harder. He’d slept in worse, and he wasn’t about to complain, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t think a little longingly of the town and the comforts of the inn when he laid his head down at night. 

And it didn’t much help his sleep that the Leshen had been behaving oddly lately. They had been secreting away after they had hunted and not coming back for hours. It was distressing, given the pattern that they had adopted of sitting a little way from Geralt’s fire and just being together, the Leshen often braiding his hair or drawing pictures in the dirt that Geralt would then narrate. 

Had they grown sick of him so quickly? 

The thought had stung briefly before settling into the dull ache that usually accompanied such thoughts and it hurt him more to think that he had grown more attached to them than they had to him. 

It had barely been six months that he was here, his first winter just starting to crisp the air and frost the ground. 

Still, he got up and pulled on his boots, not exactly relishing the thought of going down to the river to bathe but going to do it anyway. In summer the water had been pleasantly cool, but with the change of seasons it was positively icey. 

Stepping down onto the bank, he stripped off his clothes and waded in, gritting his teeth as he felt his balls shrink in on themselves. Still, it was good to be able to clean himself every day, and though it was by no means luxurious, it was peaceful and he often found his mind slipping to the way dew droplets slipped through lush leaves. The comforting groan of wood was almost a familiar melody and he had to wonder if it was almost a way of speaking. 

If there were other sounds. 

His hand found his shaft below the surface of the water, surprisingly warm, and he stroked it hard, intent on finishing more than his own pleasure. Maybe there would come a winter night when he would stumble into the inn and take a room for the night and indulge his odd little fantasies but for now the Leshen could come upon him at any moment and he should at least make himself decent. 

The thought of those void-like eyes watching him made him shiver and his nipples peak, cock throbbing in his hand as he came. 

The river swept away his spend, and he finished cleaning himself brusquely, a little of the tension leaving his body. He had a whole new kind of tension since living here. Not the usual fear that made his shoulders hunch up and his actions quick and mistrustful. This was a kind of tension that made him ache and yearn. 

He’d never let himself do that before. Yearn for something. For touch and affection. He’d always pushed those wants aside. He was a Witcher, a mutant. Subhuman. Those things weren’t for the likes of him. 

But somehow now that he had found another being that lived so long and was so patient. He wanted something that they could share. Together. 

When he was done, the Leshen was waiting for him quietly on the bank, just at the edge of the trees. Their shape, which was supposed to blend so seamlessly with the forest that even the keen eyes of a Witcher were supposed to have difficulty picking it out, was now so familiar that he barely had to glance to see them. Drying himself off with a towel that Jaskier had brought him, Geralt couldn’t help but wonder if they were watching him. Did they look at him while he changed? While he bathed? While he stood there, naked and brazen?

His thinking kept him entertained as he dressed again, pulling the light silk over himself. He was used to it now. The soft feel of it was as comfortable now as his armour ever was.

The Leshen beckoned him forward, and he followed, wondering what new and secret part of the forest he would be shown today. Sometimes it was herbs, sometimes fruit and berries, or creatures to hunt. Sometimes it was just a beautiful place. But somehow, for six months in these deep woods, the Leshen had managed to show him some new wonder every day. 

Following with light steps, he was lead to a cave, a crevasse in the rock tall enough to allow the Leshen through, and lit inside with softly glowing bioluminescence in the  rocks. 

Slowly, he walked in their footsteps. THe air in the cave was warm and thick and he could tell by the chittering above him that at least the entrance was used as a home for bats. The deeper they got the more used to the faint glow his eyes became, and soon he was admiring the way that the glowing rocks cast their light over the Leshen’s glossy leaves more than where he was going. 

That was at least until they came to a cavern, large enough to hold the Leshen but small enough to be called cozy. The entire floor was covered in a thick layer of animal pelts. All the ones that they had caught this season. Probably a good few more as well. 

The Leshen creaked, and gestured forwards for Geralt to try it. 

With bare feet, he walked forward, setting himself in the middle of the sea of furs. It was warm here, and would be warm for the whole of the winter he should imagine. With the Leshen to hunt for him and the furs to keep him warm he could stay in here, fat and happy all winter. Like a bear in hibernation. 

Looking around him, Geralt ran a hand over the pelts beside him, soft and thick. There were layers, enough so that if it was really cold he could bury himself in furs without having to sleep on the cave floor. 

“This is big enough for both of us,” he said at last, looking up at them. He nodded his head at the space beside him, “Let’s see if we both fit.”

There was a lot of rustling and creaking as the Leshen bent their knees, crawling until they were lying on their side beside him. 

“We should go get my pack, so we can stay here tonight,” Geralt said, voice pitched soft in the dark. Reaching out with one gnarled finger, the Leshen pointed to a spot in the corner of the cave. Getting onto his hands and knees, Geralt crawled forwards, finding his pack nestled in a cranny at the side of the enormous bed. 

It had oil in it.

Jaskier probably picked it up from one of his usual stashes not thinking much of it or about it, just that it was a supply that obviously had some use to Geralt. Not thinking, obviously, of the Witcher on his knees three fingers deep in his own ass and longing for more. 

Such chances came so rarely on the road. 

It was only on the few occasions he’d felt safe enough to do it, and the opportunity was so rare, he liked to be prepared for it. 

Something deliciously hot ran through his stomach, curling in his groin. 


Could he?

Did he dare?

Picking up the bottle, he brought it with him, settling back down close to the Leshen, his fingers reaching out to run over the wooden planes of their chest. He could feel the ridges of their bark under his fingers, and in the darkness there was a soft rustle, like a slight breeze through their leaves. 

The silk of his robe had ridden up around his thighs  as he moved closer, and he could feel his interested cock twitching against his thigh. Vines and leaves passed under his fingers. The textures building the warmth in his groin. 

Heartbeat thudding in his own ears, he grabbed the ruched up silk and pulled it over his head, leaving his skin bare to the tickle of fur beneath his skin. Bundling it up and pushing it away, he looked up at the Leshen, eyes seeking. 

It was virtually impossible to tell what they were thinking. Their bone face and fathomless eyes gave nothing away as they raked over Geralt’s bare chest and flushed cock. 

Ever so slowly, and with leaves barely whispering, they reached out, their clawed, gnarled hand coming to rest on the Witcher’s hip, fingertips skating over a scar long since healed before stroking lightly down over his thigh. 

“It’s for you,” he said, trying not to shy away from the trembling emotion in his chest.

The Leshen pulled their hand back slowly, using it to cover their face, looking away. 

For a second, Geralt felt his heart drop. Just for a second he thought he had been rejected. Then he realised what they meant. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly, rising up and stumbling over plush furs on his knees until he almost fell into their chest, his fingers wrapping around theirs to pull them away from their face. “I’m not frightened of you. And I don’t think you’re ugly either.”

Leaning in his fingers wandered the bark of their chest, moving up to cup the cool white bone of their face, lips touching the slope of their nose, “I think you’re beautiful.”

The Leshen lowed, a wanting sound, and Geralt smiled, fingers tracing the shape of their eye socket. Reaching out with one hand he took a hold of their finger again and dragged it towards himself, placing their hands on his waist. “Yours to touch,” he said gently, running his hands over theirs, a shiver of heat running through him as one of their hands wrapped almost fully about his middle. He’d never felt small or fragile as a man. Hadn’t felt truly weak since his trials. But here with this predator, with their hands wrapping around him like a child’s toy. He felt breakable. 

His cock dripped down his thigh, flushed and hard. 

He wanted to be silent, to be gruff and to brush off his feelings. But if nothing else, for their sake he needed to speak. To let them know that they were doing the right thing as  their thumb pressed into the nook of his groin, the rough texture of their skin leaving faint scratches and their claws pressing against his stomach and into the soft part of his thigh. 

Their leaves were soft and cool as they tickled against his chest, pushing him back and down into the furs and his hands found the bottle he had left buried in them. Did Leshens even have? It was too late now. Geralt slicked his fingers up, spreading his legs for them to see as he slid slick fingers over himself, circling the tight pucker. Wetting it with oil. Shivering a little, he closed his eyes as he pressed the first finger in, feeling the resistance to the stretch he hadn’t had in so long. But he needed this. He needed it so badly and he wanted them to see it. See how needy they made him. 

“Please,” he rasped, pushing a second finger in too soon and starting to scissor and stretch himself, “Please touch me.” His eyes were so tight shut he could see spots on the insides of his eyelids as a thumb and single finger wrapped around him, giving cause for a throaty moan. 

And they were moaning too. The Leshen creaked and groaned as it leant over him, the sound of wood and bone moaning loudly in his ear. They were gentle as they stroked him, careful and so slow he thought that he might not cum at all. But the way that they were teasing the head was so good, and the rhythm was so inescapable that between his three slick fingers pumping into his hole and the gentle hand curled around his shaft, he was cumming sooner than he had thought. 

Their fingers pressed to his lips, dripping with his own spend and he moaned against them, licking and sucking at rough digits. His mouth full of the salt of his own cum and the earthy flavour of their bark. 

Breathing heavily, Geralt let himself sink back into the furs, looking up with hazy golden eyes at the Leshen, who was leaning over him. The air was somehow still thick with want, and the Witcher found himself struggling to catch his breath as they took his hand and guided it down. 

“Fuck-” he sat up a little, looking between their legs to see a thick shaft of what seemed to be polished wood. The surface was smooth, but textured with lumps and knobs where twigs might have been snapped off. It looked more like a club than any cock Geralt had seen.

His own shaft gave a pathetic, eager twitch as he watched it, and with his hand still slick with oil, he reached out to stroke it. Unyielding and wooden, just like the rest of them. But it was warm.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathed again, and he felt the smooth shaft throb under his hand, “Fuck, put it in me.”

They moaned loudly, and he shook his head, “You can’t break me. Fuck, I need it-”

The Leshen canted their hips, the head of their cock sliding through the slick mess Geralt had left on his stomach, making him shiver, his head tipping back. He could feel just how long, and heavy and hot they were against him. Could they really fuck that far into him? He wanted nothing more than to find out. 

Spreading his legs again, he braced his feet against the furs, his own hips tipping up.

“Claim me.”

The sound that came from the Leshen was wild, like shrieking metal and howling wind echoing around their little cavern.  Their hands covered his hips, pulling him back, rocking against his loose hole until the head caught in his rim and he moaned. This was so much thicker than he had prepared for, but the feeling of the Leshen pushing into him, slowly, slowly sinking into him, his body yielding to the constant, obliterating pressure. Every slide against his insides, every knot of wood that caught at his rim before sinking into him was driving his sensitive body even higher. His cock was hard and leaking again, whines driving from between gritted teeth as he rocked his hips back. 

“Fuck-” the sound was punched out of him as another smooth knot dug into and dragged over his prostate, cum splattering across his chest. He whimpered as another one followed close after, the pattern of them getting bigger and more frequent as he got closer to the base. 

And yet somehow they just kept pushing into him. Geralt could feel their shaft up under his ribs as he gasped for breath, “Fuck- I’m shit. Full,” he moaned, one hand coming up to touch the taut skin of his stomach, feeling the firm bulge of their shaft inside him. Gasping for breath, a keening moan slid from between his lips as the Leshen began to thrust in earnest, slow at first and then faster, knocking cries from the Witcher’s lungs with every thrust. Were it not for their clawed hands on his hips, holding him in place as they fucked into him, he would have been driven across the cave floor by now. 

Strong hands tightened around him and Geralt almost screamed out as they lifted him up, those hands and that enormous cock the only things keeping him upright. But the angle had the head of their shaft rubbing so perfectly against his insides that it thought it might drive him mad. With each thrust the Leshen seemed to be trying to drive all the way through him, and his poor prostate was so raw with being fucked that tears were beginning to course down his cheeks. 

Just when he thought it was going to be too much and they were going to destroy him, Geralt felt an odd warmth fill him, and he was laid down gently on the furs once more, a child’s soiled doll. Reaching down between his legs, he found something slick and a little sticky, like sap oozing from his stretched hole. 

The Leshen hovered a moment, and Geralt smiled up at them, waving them down and cuddling up close to them, the scent of their flowers blooming filling the cave.