Netflix’s first stab at a fantasy epic comparable to Game of Thrones arrived in 2020 in the form of The Witcher, adapted from Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski’s book series of the same name. The first season, saddled with all the trappings of a problematic fantasy jaunt, premiered to a sarcastic golf clap from critics and eye-rolls from the stans. While I initially pressed play on Season 2 out of sheer boredom (and because I’m sick of watching School of Chocolate), I stuck around for the soft core porn that is Geralt of Rivia, and not at all for Henry Cavill, the objectively hot man/actor who plays Geralt.
There are many heroic characters like Prince Eric, Hercules, and even Spidey that juice my jammies, but actors like Henry Cavill leave me drier than a cobb-webbed crypt. Cavill is too pretty, his hair too coiffed and muscles too defined. He’s so attractive in a heteronormative sense that he and his chiseled jaw were cast as Superman. Despite being hailed as all sorts of eye candy, I don’t want to have sex with Cavill because his features are perfect, leaving me feeling more insecure than primed for a hot rod.
But Geralt of Rivia? My home office is now as wet as Hurricane Harbor. Forgive me for loving a damaged man, but when he pats his snowy white weave and says in a gravelly tone, “Ciri, watch out,” I lose every one of my marbles. Some people have Legolas, others have Cedric Diggory, but I’m here to eat up Geralt of Rivia. Geralt is everything Cavill is not. Geralt, the brooding sort, oozes fatal flaws. His amber eyes (yes, I know they’re contact lenses), icy force fields, and hands bloodied by decapitated basilisks all point my attention to his avid swordsmanship, assuming Geralt must use other things expertly, too. He’s so un-Cavill that he’s irredeemably fuckable.
Replacing Cavill’s perfect furrowed brow and swoopy prince hair are bloodied scars and a scraggly half-up half-down unkempt white wig. His growl-speak topples all the mages on the block. I like when he shows us his perfect amount of chest hair, which is enough to grab—but not enough to get lodged in the shower drain. I like that his anatomically correct shoulder-to-waist ratio is offset by a pair of black, veiny dead eyes, which of course I must assume also occurs to his dick in witcher mode.
Most of all, Geralt in Season 2 is irresistible because he’s daddy now. Having rescued Princess Cirilla and promising to keep her safe, the season devolves into a giant compilation of Geralt in different settings saying something like, “Ciri, I will protect you,” prompting me to believe that the Ciri/Witcher daddy dynamic would make for a very fun role play at home.
Nothing against Cavill, but the only reason I will be tuning into Season 3 is for more Geralt fanfic inspiration. I will be the damsel in distress to Geralt’s tortured hero, but if Superman shows up, you can just feed me to the monster.