#long haired ciri is just chefs kiss

[fangirleaconmigo]

Hey! Maybe Jaskel and a confession?

I have once again waited months to get to an ask, and riffed with the concept a bit. If you still want it, read on! 4441 words, rated T. Set in a modern au, but everyone still has their powers. 

The witchers run a dive diner, basically as front. They don't actually want any customers. But a wealthy young socialite named Jaskier is obsessed with the place, because they always pile his waffle with an obscene amount of whipped cream, and a generous number of cherries.

One night, after a long night of partying, he drags his friends there yet again. He’s a little buzzed and decides he must thank the chef.

Eskel is the chef.  (also features Yen x Renfri, as they are his friends, Ciri and Lambert, who are also working at the diner.)

-------------------

Jaskier was drunk.

Not sick to your stomach drunk. But not sober. He had trundled right past buzzed, arriving decisively at talks too loud and loves everyone. 

It was indistinguishable from his normal state, were it not for the fact that his words were fuzzed ever so slightly at their edges.

He smiled at his plate of waffles, and opened his thin paper napkin with a flourish.

The low slung skinny jeans that had fit him like a glove before they had embarked on their night of revelry and carousing, now stuck tight to him. His previously snug cropped t-shirt hung loose. His eyeliner was streaked in almost every direction. 

He was a hot mess, emphasis on the hot. And he was in a splendid mood. 

“Look at all these cherries,” he enthused, glazed eyes widening at the sight of the mound of unnaturally pink, fruit adjacent spheres that had definitely come from a jar.

His friends were tired and did not notice his fruit. They were mostly sober, and still thinking about the club they had just been to. It was a new, upscale place, converted from an old factory.  It had played the latest in experimental industrial music and had sold fifteen dollar artisanal cocktails, served by models who called themselves Master Mixologists.

They could all afford it. All three of them had made the ‘richest people under 30’ list in Forbes that year. They’d paid an ungodly sum for table service at the club, and a multitude of men had come by the table to proposition Jaskier. Yet he had left the club by himself.

“You were being a picky little bitch tonight,” said Renfri approvingly, just before popping a greasy, ketchup slathered fry into her mouth. Her lipstick was faded, but her gaze was sharp, and her loose curls looked as alluring as they had the moment they’d left the house. Yen sat next to her in the shiny red booth idly looping one of Renfri’s chestnut tendrils around her fingers.

Jaskier cut into his waffle and only one of his shoulders made the effort to shrug. “They were all fuckin boring. Tedious douchebags. That last guy...I think he left a film of body spray and hair gel on my earlobe.” He shuddered and stuck his tongue out comically, to entertain his friends, more than anything else.

Renfri snorted. “The one that was humping you from behind?”

“Might I request a little eye contact before you press your erection into my asscrack, please good sir?” He dipped his head in a faux chivalry, then speared a piece of his waffle. 

Both of the women chuckled knowingly.

“I, for one,” said Yen, “am glad that your standards are on the rise.” She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Renfri’s cheek. Renfri scrunched her face in an adorable grin.

Jaskier made a gagging noise. “Smug assholes.”

Yen grinned and leaned back on the booth, smugly. She was guilty as charged, though she didn’t feel especially guilty. She relaxed into the booth but then she startled. She twitched and twisted around to look at the booth as though it had offended her. “Ow!”

“You ok, baby?” asked Renfri.

“Yeah there’s just a tear in this upholstery. This place is a dive.” She straightened her black corset and touched her choker as though the shock had disheveled her and she was making sure everything was presentable. Then she flicked her finger and the rip mended itself of its own accord.

Jaskier ignored them both and stuffed a bit of waffle into his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut and he moaned a little too loud. “So buttery, fuck. Gonna cum.”

“Gross!” protested Yen.  

He groaned again, drawing out the lewd sound. “I’m almost there.”

The place was empty, so there were no customers to be offended by his crude behavior. Renfri giggled.

“Don't encourage him,” said Yen. “Why are we here again? There are fifty restaurants still open at this hour. And you have to drag us to this place every time.”

“Yeah,” Renfri agreed, “Is this place even permitted? They have an actual child working the register. I don’t even think that’s legal.”

“It’s a family restaurant,” sniffed Jaskier.

“I didn’t see the grade notice on the door,” said Yen.

“It’s probably graded “D” for dodgy. For fuckin dubious,” chimed in Renfri.

“I don’t care,” declared Jaskier. “We are here because...” Jaskier lifted his plate and angled it towards them. “Look at this!!! Look at all this whipped cream!” He presented his plate like it was a new luxury car.

Yen rolled her eyes. “This is not the only faux fifties diner that puts whipped cream and cherries on its waffles. It’s just the only one that’s run down and practically abandoned. And the waiter’s an asshole.”

The waiter was indeed an asshole. There was no denying that. But Jaskier didn’t care. He put the plate down and took a deep breath as though summoning a battalion of arguments.

“Oh no,” said Renfri. “Here he goes.”

“So what!!” He squeaked, launching into his pitch for the diner. “Every other place in this city is stingy!” He flailed his hands in emotional circles. “They give you like one squirt of whipped cream and like two cherries!”

Renfri grimaced. “Gross, you said squirt.”

Jaskier continued excitedly, spearing one, two, three, and four cherries with his fork. “This whole waffle is covered with whipped cream!! And look!”

He waved his fork at his friends, the skewered cherries bunched on the tines like exhibits in a murder trial. “So many cherries!!”

“Why do you care if restaurants are stingy?” asked Yen. “You can go to the store and buy as many cherries as you want.”

Jaskier shook his head enthusiastically. He was fully gleeful now, words gathering momentum and tumbling over one another. “It’s not about that. It’s about the human touch. Everything’s gotta be measured out now. Every plate’s gotta be the same. Everything has to conform. Even cherries. Don't you ever get sick of it??”

“Not really,” said Yen. “What do I care if the guy next to me has the same food measurement I do.”

“It’s dehumanizing!” insisted Jaskier. “Cooks aren’t allowed to just be generous! They can’t improvise. They can’t make the food the way their heart tells them to.”

“This is why they say never to be friends with poets,” teased Renfri.

“They do not say that,” said Jaskier. “And fuck both of you, because I appreciate it.” He raised his eyebrows to punctuate his point. Then he wedged all the cherries in his mouth at once. A trail of juice trickled down his chin. 

Suddenly, he was flooded with gratitude. Gratitude for this hard working, probably exhausted cook that put a smile on his face every single visit with these perfect goddamn waffles. And wasn’t it sad that a person could put so much love into what they do and have it go unappreciated? It just wasn’t right. It was unjust.

“In fact!!” Jaskier slapped the table and Yen and Renfri jumped. “I want to thank the chef!!”

As if on cue, their waiter appeared. He was lanky and sinewy and had sharp eyes. Jaskier didn’t have to look at his name tag. He had been here too many times to need its assistance.

“Lambert,” cajoled Jaskier. “My favorite. The most skillful, most charming, most handsome waiter in the city.” Lambert tilted his head and looked at him as though he was done with his shit an hour ago. Jaskier was unfazed. He twirled his finger in the air magnanimously. “Would you bring out the chef, so that I can give him my most ardent regards?”

Lambert stared at him in silence for a moment. Yen and Renfri ate their food as though nothing amiss was occurring. Renfri stifled a laugh and almost choked on a french fry.

“Real smooth,” hissed Jaskier.

“What the fuck kind of restaurant do you think this is, petal?” Lambert replied.

He called Jaskier petal. Jaskier kind of liked it. Lambert’s personality was a nice tart flavor that tingled on your tongue, like salt and vinegar chips. Lambert tossed his towel over his shoulder, filled their coffee and left without another word.

Jaskier leaned forward and asked conspiratorially. “You think he’s gonna bring him? Or her? Or them?”

“No.” Yen and Renfri answered in a chorus.

Jaskier huffed. “Then I'm going to go to the kitchen myself.”

Yen and Renfri loved Jaskier. They loved his natural passion and enthusiasm. But it was three o’clock in the morning. 

“You go do that,” said Yen. She slid her arms around Renfri’s waist. “I’m going to do this.” She closed her eyes and snuggled into Renfri’s shoulder. 

“Awww, baby,” said Renfri, and patted Yen’s tumbling black tendrils. “You’re so sweet. We gotta get you margaritas more often.”

——

Jaskier was already out of the booth and winding his way towards the kitchen. The till was set on a counter in front of the kitchen, and the side of the kitchen was open so that customers could see into it. However, the silver, gleaming shelf where the cooks set out the plates obscured most of the view. 

Jaskier dropped his head and squinted, trying to spot motion in the kitchen. Just then, the aforementioned child popped into his field of view. She was a teenager with ash blonde hair, looped in braids around her head. Her name was Ciri. She worked part time, but he had still seen her here from time to time.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Sir,” huffed Jaskier. “I am not old enough to be called sir.” He was not old enough to be called sir, damnit. He was still in his early twenties. 

The girl pressed her lips into a tight line. “Fine. May I help you, princess?”

Jaskier whipped his gaze to her and a pleased grin overtook him. “Ohhhh, I like you. Yes, my young sardonic queen, I would like to send--” he twirled his hands in a loop, the same one he had used with Lambert. It was his ‘compliments to the chef’ flourish. “--my compliments to the chef.”

Just then, movement caught his attention in the kitchen behind her. He snapped to attention like an intoxicated soldier whose drill sergeant had just shown up at the bar. Jaskier’s hands slid down the counter, steading him as he walked along it, trying to align himself with the figure behind it in order to get a clear look.

He could only see him from his waist to his shoulders. 

But oh, bless the merciful gods and their sacred semen, what a torso.

The cook was muscular and broad and dressed in white v neck that unselfishly displayed the dip between his pecs. Jaskier’s friends complained about the garish lighting in this place, but with this absolute specimen of a man standing under it in a thin white shirt, Jaskier could make out a lovely thicket of black chest hair. 

He would never let them speak ill of this lighting again. Never.

The stark white of the shirt offset the man’s olive skin and the sleeves strained at his biceps. He had a crisp black apron strung around his neck and tied at his waist. It was exactly the kind of waist that Jaskier fantasized about when he was alone with his own cock in his hands. It was thick and solid--the waist, not Jaskier’s cock, though an argument could be made for his cock sharing those attributes. But it wasn’t solid in a ‘has never eaten a carb and has the name of his gym tattooed on his ass’ kind of way. The man looked strong but also had soft layers that someone named Jaskier Pankratz could happily snuggle right into.

The cook’s forearms flexed as he wiped down the counter, and Jaskier’s mouth watered at the sight. He was a tall, broad man himself. It took an especially brawny man to be able to lift him or throw him around. And those were the kinds of forearms that would do the trick.

“Is that the cook?” asked Jaskier, his voice cracking. Ciri had followed him in his trek down the counter, looking at him as though he had sprouted horns. Usually, customers who needed your assistance didn’t dash away from you.

The man behind the counter must have heard the cook, because he dipped his head down to look between the shelving and the counter.

Jaskier met his eyes and froze. Jaskier never froze. He was gorgeous, young, and wealthy. He had enough men and women throwing themselves at him that he had grown slightly blase about the whole thing. 

But this man was a revelation. Jaskier actually rocked back on his heels. This man’s eyes were the most unique and lovely shade of dark buckwheat honey. More importantly, they were soft and kind. He had black hair, which was to be expected, given the lushness of the black hair on his chest. His nose was wide and his lips were full and plush. The top of his cupid’s bow tugged up on one side, pulled by the scarring that covered one side of his face.

“Holy mother of fuck,” uttered Jaskier, his eyes widened the way they do when you reach the top of a ridge and see the waterfall just as a rainbow glimmers into life above it.

The man flinched and pulled his face back out of sight.

Ciri’s voice changed from lightly sarcastic to acid. “Do you have a problem with my Uncle Eskel?”

“Wait, come back,” Jakier whimpered, staring at the man’s torso, but already yearning for his eyes to return.

“I said--” repeated Ciri. She hadn’t heard his whimper and was still waiting for an explanation as to why he was staring rudely and slack jawed at her uncle. “--do you have a problem with my uncle??”  

Jaskier looked back at her and recoiled at the murder in her eyes. He made a note to never piss off this child. “Yes,” he said loudly. “I do have a problem. This is supposed to be a restaurant and you’re hiding the most delicious snack away in the kitchen.”

Ciri blinked, face blank.

“Your uncle is criminally hot,” said Jaskier, bluntly. “He’s a great cook, is that handsome, and has those forearms? There ought to be a law. I’ll propose one to my father. No one should be that attractive.”

Her face faltered doubtfully but also softened.  “Oh,” she said. “I see. I mean, that’s good.” 

“And those biceps--”

Ciri wrinkled her nose. “Ew. I’m leaving now.” She slipped away to wherever restaurant hostesses slip to when they don’t want to see a customer ogling their uncle.

Jaskier was unperturbed and unconcerned. He had come up here to thank the cook, and that was what he was going to do.

“Excuse me,” he called. He tried to make his voice flirtatious and musical.

The man --Eskel, he now knew-- was shuffling silverware. The silverware stopped clinking at the sound of his voice.

“Are you the earth angel who makes my delicious, buttery, waffles with the generous helping of cream and cherries?” Jaskier persisted.

In the far corner of the diner, Yen and Renfri paused their conversation and instinctively slunk closer to the wall and farther from their companion making a ruckus at the counter.

Eskel leaned in, and once again, Jaskier’s breath hitched. He held the man’s gaze steadily and flashed a toothy smile, hoping that Eskel would find it charming. He popped his hips to one side and leaned forward on the counter. Jaskier was fully aware of his powers. He knew that his cropped top dipped down when he did that. He’d seen several men at the club, metaphorically boring holes in his chest with their stares.

Eskel’s face once again disappeared from sight. 

“Can you come out here, so I can properly thank you, gorgeous??” he called even louder.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he heard a grumble from somewhere in the back, probably from the office. It was definitely Lambert.

Eskel threw down his towel and was suddenly gone. Jaskier held his breath and waited. Hoped. Eskel could be leaving to hide in the office, or he could be coming out to speak to him.  After a few moments of absence, Jaskier began humming to himself. Then he started singing.

It was a song set to the tune of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. It spoke of waffles and whipped cream, and hungry, grateful, tired men, who just wanted to thank the extremely handsome cook.

The song died on his lips when Eskel appeared through the swinging doors.

He had on a lopsided smile and his eyes glittered with amusement. Jaskier blew out a relieved breath. People were either absolutely charmed or utterly irritated by him. There never seemed to be any middle ground. Thankfully, Eskel’s expression placed him in the former category.

Eskel walked over, running his hands through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. Then, the full force of his beauty was directly in front of Jaskier. Only the counter separated them.

Jaskier swallowed hard. Eskel’s eyes followed his throat bobbing. Then he locked eyes with Jaskier again. “You wanted to speak to me, sir?” 

The gorgeous man was teasing him. That was another positive sign.

“Jokes on you,” Jaskier said. “Turns out I enjoy it when you call me sir.”

Eskel’s smile widened. Jaskier's knees suddenly felt like jelly. He willed them to steady themselves. Then he cleared his throat.

“Yes, I wanted to thank you for my delicious dinner. I appreciate your hard work and your--” his eyes flicked down, suddenly feeling the tiniest bit bashful. What if Eskel thought this was as overblown as his friends did? “--artistry.”

“You’re welcome,” said Eskel. He put his hands on the counter.

Jaskier looked down at his own fingertips as though he were checking his black nailpolish. He didn’t want to stare at Eskel’s hands like a weirdo. “I like the cherries,” he whispered, attempting a breezy tone.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Eskel. “Jaskier, right?”

Jaskier looked at him in surprise. “How do you know?”

“You’ve told Lambert.”

Jaskier offered Eskel his hand slowly, mind whirring at the implications that he had spoken about him to Lambert.

Eskel took it, but instead of shaking it, he drew it towards his mouth. Jaskier’s stomach fluttered as Eskel brushed his knuckles with a light kiss. “The pleasure is mine.” Eskel’s lips were every bit as soft as they looked, and his hands every bit as warm and strong.

“Fuuuuuu-” whispered Jaskier under his breath.

“Can we please put an end to my suffering,” cut in Lambert, who had come out to gather some plates. They hadn’t even noticed his appearance, but now he was unavoidable. He didn’t even look at them as he cleared the dishes, but he spoke loud enough for the whole diner to hear, even if the whole dine was just them and his friends. “He’s off in a half hour. Here’s his number. Get out your phone, petal.”

Eskel blushed a crimson red but nodded his assent. Jaskier fumbled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. “Ready?” said Lambert loudly from the table where he was clearing the ketchup bottle. “I’m not gonna repeat it.

“I can--” began Eskel.

“Five five five,” said Lambert cut in, strenuously and slowly, “three one two, zero zero.”

Jaskier tapped in the numbers eagerly and then batted his eyes at Eskel. “E-S-K-E-L?”

Eskel nodded. “That’s it.”

“And the cranky man is right? You get off in a half hour?”

Eskel nodded again. “That’s right too.”

“Do you mind if I---wait? Do you want to get a coffee? Or--”

“I’d love to.” Eskel answered eagerly, almost cutting him off.

Jaskier fluttered in place for a moment, not knowing what to do next.

“Meet me out by the back door?” Eskel asked. 

“Yes, alright. Yes. Of course. I will.” Jaskier turned on his fashion booted heel and walked back to the table, making an airy squealing noise all the way back to Yen and Renfri.

They were deep in each other’s lips.

He was insufferable for the next half hour, gazing dreamily into the middle distance and repeating Eskel’s name occasionally, apropo of absolutely nothing.

----------

Jaskier, Renfri, and Yen filed out the jangling, scratched, glass front door. Lambert held it for them, as he planned to lock it up after them.

“I’ll meet him around back? There?” Jaskier pointed in the direction he thought the back door would be.

“Yes, finally.” said Lambert. “Thank fuck.”

Jaskier was halfway through the door, but he stopped stock still and turned to face him. “Finally? What do you mean?”

“I mean finally,” said Lambert. “If you took any longer to notice him, I was gonna have to take out a second mortgage to pay for all those jars of cherries we go through. Butter’s not cheap either. Spoils faster than oil.”

“I-” Jaskier stopped stock still. 

“I can see the gears turning,” said Lambert. “He’s gonna be out in like five minutes. That’s how long you’ve got to have your epiphany.” 

The girls were already halfway around the building. 

“So that was all...Just for me?” Jaskier asked.

“S’what I said.” Lambert made a shooing motion with his arms. He shut the door after him, clicking it locked.

Jaskier walked in silence to the side of the building where Yen and Renfri were waiting. 

---------

A few moments later, Eskel emerged from the back door, his apron gone, and an open button up thrown over his shirt. He had one strap of a backpack slung onto his shoulder, and he walked in long strides. He smiled bashfully and rubbed his cheek as he drew close.

The girls had refused to leave Jaskier until they were confident that he was safe with Eskel.

“Hi ladies. I’m Eskel.”

They shook his hand in turn. “Renfri. Daughter of one of the most notorious mob bosses in the city. And if you harm a single floppy hair on this head,” she ruffled Jaskier’s hair, “you’ll wish you were never born.”

Eskel nodded mildly. “Of course. I promise it won’t come to that.” He turned expectantly to Yen, awaiting her threat.

A chirping issued from someone on Eskel’s person. He creased his brow, wondering who could be calling him at that late hour.

“That’s me,” said Yen. “I took down your number when your friend was shouting it out. I just wanted to make sure it was the right one.”

“Dear god, woman,” said Jaskier. “He gets the picture. You’re both terrifying. Please leave. Go the fuck away.”

“Not quite yet,” Yen took out her phone. “If he’s going to your house I want your address.”

“Uhhh-” stammered Eskel. “My house?”

“That’s what I said,” said Yen.

Jaskier sidled closer to Eskel. He waited to hear whether he would be invited to his home. He very much wanted to be invited.

“I--don’t know. I don’t want to assume--” said Eskel. He glanced shyly at Jaskier.

“Just in case?” said Jaskier. He leaned closer and skimmed his hand down his chest suggestively, hoping Eskel would get the hint.

Eskel dutifully recited his address to Yen.

“Alright,” said Renfri. She clapped her hands together as if to say job well done everyone. “Have fun boys.”

Their driver had arrived right on time, and both women kissed Jaskier on the cheek, then ducked into the black leather back seat and pulled away.

Jaskier felt their absence, leaving him blessedly alone with Eskel. He glanced at him sideways and his heart pattered. “Sorry, they’re just protective.”

“It’s three in the morning and they don’t know me,” said Eskel, “I get it. I’m the same way with my family.”

“Thanks,” said Jaskier. “Thanks for understanding.”

He slipped his hand in Eskel’s. Eskel turned to face him, a surprised smile on his face. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand, lacing their fingers together. 

“So,” said Jaskier.

“So,” said Eskel. “You don’t slather whipped cream and dump entire jars of cherries on everyone’s waffle?”

Eskel’s head dropped back and he made a noise that was a cross between a groan and a laugh. “Lambert told you.”

“Lambert told me.” Jaskier leaned against Eskel, playfully nudging him with his shoulder. Eskel was like a tree. He didn’t even budge. Jaskier changed tact and just enjoyed being pressed up against him. 

“Yes,” he said. He looked at Jaskier, and the sensation of being so close to him was absolutely lovely. “Can you blame me? You come in here looking like-” he looked Jaskier up and down, “--that. And being stupidly adorable.” He clapped a hand on his chest. “I’m only human. Mostly.”

Jaskier drew even closer, tilting his head temptingly towards Eskel.

“I’m honored.”

“Coffee?” asked Eskel and nodded in the direction where presumably, there were more coffee shops.

“Coffee.” agreed Jaskier.

“I know a place down the street with more courteous waiters.”

Jaskier laughed like a tumbling brook. “I can’t wait.”

He started to pull away towards the sidewalk, but Eskel’s hand held him tight. Jaskier pulled to a stop by the force of it and bounced back towards him. Eskel must have taken a step forward, because Jaskier found himself suddenly pressed up against his chest. He tried to control the surge of warmth stealing through his body.

“Before we go,” said Eskel. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for months.”

Jaskier chewed his lip and tipped onto his toes, hoping Eskel meant to do what he hoped he would do.

Eskel took his chin gently and pulled him close.

And Eskel kissed him. 

One thing Jaskier liked about first kisses was that they were unpredictable. No one can know what a first kiss will be like. A person can be gorgeous to look at, but then they press their lips to yours and it’s like kissing a door. A person can seem confident and saucy, but their kiss turns out to be timid and listless.

All he knew about Eskel was that he had kind eyes, and could make a mean waffle. Eskel could have kissed him any old way and he wouldn’t have known the difference.

The way Eskel kissed him was with an alluring mix of tenderness and passion. He pressed against him, hot and sensual. He was self assured, and his kisses held promises.

A man who kissed you like that could do anything. He could make love to you gently. He could bend you over a table and fuck you mercilessly.

Jaskier was pretty sure he was already in love. Sure, he had just met the guy. But Jaskier had never been accused of exhibiting anything resembling caution or prudence.

Eskel finally pulled away, and they panted softly in the quiet, abandoned parking lot. 

“Alright cherries,” said Eskel. “Lead the way.”

And so he did.

[my-merry-idle-mind]

Some thoughts on Witcher S2

It’s pretty, of course it’s pretty

Good riddance to the terrible nilfgaardian armor from S1

I like Tris’ new look (to be clear, I love both S1 & S2 looks). She goes from floaty light dresses and beautiful voluminous gravity-defying hair, to stricter looking kirtles and long gravity-complying hair. They also made her hair more red. In S1 Tris has this amazing kindness and positivity, like nothing could hold her down for long. Her wardrobe and hair reflect that too. But in S2 she is dealing with trauma and depression or some sort of ptsd. Her hair and dresses now work together to hide her scars. Her look in S2 is a visual representation of the weight of her emotions and experience, and shows that she is change by Sodden. I like it.

A makeover I don’t like is Ciri. In S1 the makeup artists intentionally make the actress look younger than she is. Ciri looks maybe 14-ish. But S2 starts with her wearing makeup in a way that makes Ciri look like she is in her late teens. No time skip as explanation. Ciri looking older this season made her seem like a bratty teen, instead of a terrified child trying to find their way in this world.

They also did this to Pavetta. I think there was a change in makeup artists between the seasons.

Fringilla’s hair!!!!!! Chef’s kiss. During her days at Aretuza, Fringilla had lovely curls that (to me) read as sweet and innocent. When we see Fringilla on the warpath, her hair is short (still lovely) but it reads as more militant (this perception may be because of the US military’s restrictions on female hair, and how sometimes it’s just easier to chop it off and ignore that piece of your femininity). Once we see Fringilla step into a position of political power, she gets the robes and hair to match. She has this wonderfully regal braided hairstyle that she maintains for most of the season. Every time Fringilla and Francesa were talking, I was struck by the similarity in how they styled their hair. No, not twinzies, but similar enough that it could represent their current alignment. Many small braids forming a headband, and two main braids hanging over their shoulders with decorations.

TISSAIA!!! I’m so happy we had more tissaia scenes. I liked that the conversations between yennefer and tissaia weren’t adversarial, they were on equal footing.

Someone please tell me Tissaia is using Vilgefortz, because idk if I can handle it if she actually likes him. 😫

Nenneke shows up in quite a few fics, so I was really happy that I had a visual reference for her and her temple.

WHO DO FIRE FUCKER AND LYDIA REPORT TO??!?!

Are Stregobor’s hands really burned off, or is it another lie??

If stregobor can hide his hands, why can’t Tris hide her scars?? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the writers touching on the aftermath of the battle and how some wounds are invisible and heal more slowly.

All the costumes were amazing, the Batman armor was hilarious, Jaskier’s hair was terrible (nice shirtless scene tho).

Yennaia moments!

Gerraskier reunion!

Whatever the fuck Yen and Jaskier had going on!

ALL. THE. BRAIDS. I love any hairstyle that uses a lot of braids, and the elves made me so happy this season!!!

[henrycavillobsessed]

Porcelain

Characters: Henry Cavill x Anwen Evans (fictional fiance)

Summary: Henry and Anwen’s life was perfect. Until one day, one phone call, changes everything.

Words: 3,444

TW/CW: Death, car accident, description of injuries, hospital, grief. Slight mention of implied sex; some bad language. 

Notes: So here it is, my latest fanfic. It’s been a while, due to a bit of a mind block. The idea for this came to me, after being inspired by the song Porcelain by Emarosa (link below in case you’re interested). This one is different to my other fics, for one it’s not the usual Henry x reader narrative. I have created a character this time to act as his partner. Also this one is LONG (3,444 words). I have enjoyed writing a longer and more complex story and I hope you enjoy reading it. (As a warning, it’s SAD. I am not ashamed to admit I cried just writing it.)

Link to song: https://open.spotify.com/track/7rk8cH53nI8ffb5ZccjfpT?si=QMVvEmA3TK-3WuQXJanMmQ

“Oww! Shit!”

Henry looked up from the book he was reading in bed. Anwen was rubbing her forehead and looking very wounded. She’d clearly just walked into the doorframe. Again. Henry laughed out loud.

“Don’t laugh at me!” A pillow flew through the air and missed its target of Henry’s face by a considerable amount. He laughed again. 

“I can’t help it. You are so clumsy!”

Anwen climbed into bed, still massaging the sore spot on her head. She scowled at Henry. “If I remember correctly Mr Cavill, it was because of me being clumsy that meant we met for the very first time.”

“Hmm,” Henry reached over and gathered her up in his arms, leaning back against the headboard. He kissed her gently on the faint bruise that was blooming on her pale skin. “I do remember,” he said fondly. 

          It had been over five years ago now. Henry was out with his friend and colleague Simon Pegg, drinking their way through some of London’s best nightclubs. It had been a great night so far, with both men enjoying their freedom; they’d recently finished filming their latest movie and were celebrating. Henry was feeling happily tipsy, and when Simon offered to go to the bar for another round, he didn’t refuse. 

“Get some shots too!” he shouted at Simon’s back as he left their table. Simon waved a hand in response; Henry took that as a yes and smiled. He was just checking his Instagram on his phone when something- someone- crashed into him and he felt the cold wetness of a spilt drink over his shoulder and down his shirt. He looked up incredulously. A woman was stood there with an empty glass and an equally shocked expression.

“Oh, my go- I am so sorry!” she said in a very attractive Welsh accent, Henry thought. He felt his annoyance dissipate immediately. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it, accidents happen. How much have you had to drink anyway?” he asked cheekily. 

The woman’s ivory skin blushed, contrasting prettily with her ebony hair, which was cascading around her shoulders in thick waves.

“Um, I actually don’t drink,” she admitted. “I have just shown you how uncoordinated I am; I really don’t need to throw alcohol into the mix.” 

“Very wise. Hi, I’m Henry Cavill.”

“Anwen Evans, nice to meet you.” They shook hands and were making pleasant small talk when Simon returned with the drinks.

“What on earth happened to your shirt?” he asked Henry. 

“Anwen happened. Anwen, this is my friend Simon Pegg.” 

Anwen’s face lit up. “I love your movies! Hot Fuzz is just hilarious!” she said to Simon, who smiled widely and they spent the next few moments quoting lines from the film. Simon looked sideways at Henry, and saw the way he was looking at Anwen, and cleared his throat.

“Well, it’s been lovely to meet you, but I must get on. Henry, I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, winking at his friend. Henry mouthed a silent thank you, grinning. 

After Anwen explained to her girlfriend’s that she was going to continue the night with Henry, prompting a lot of excited giggling and whispering, she sat herself down at Henry’s table. The hours flew by as they got to know each other. Anwen was an up-and-coming chef, who’d recently opened a new restaurant nearby in London. She told Henry about the restaurant’s menu, and Henry promised to try it out soon. In return, Henry told her about the films he’d been in. He was mock-outraged when Anwen admitted she’d never seen a Superman movie, let alone Man of Steel, and laughing, she promised she’d check it out soon. Conversation naturally flowed between them, Henry felt so at ease with her, and it turned out they had quite a bit in common. As Henry told Anwen about his akita Kal, Anwen told him she also had a dog, a golden retriever named Ciri.

“Ciri?” Henry had asked. “As in Ciri from The Witcher?”

“Yeah! I’m such a huge fan, I’ve read all the books, and I’ve played all the games!”

Henry laughed. “You are never going to believe who I’ve just been cast as for my next job…” Anwen’s jaw dropped to the floor when he told her. 

The night ended with Henry walking Anwen home to her nearby townhouse, and they shared their first kiss on the doorstep, swapping numbers with the promise to meet up again soon for a date.

          Now back in the present, nearly six years later, Anwen had moved into Henry’s penthouse, with Ciri who Kal adored. Both dogs were curled up at the end of the bed now, fast asleep.

In Henry’s arms, Anwen cuddled in close. “Yes, so if it wasn’t for me tripping and drenching you that night we wouldn’t be here now, so stop taking the piss!”  

“Okay, okay!” Henry laughed. “I do worry though, you know. You’re like… like porcelain. So easily broken. Be more careful, I’d hate for something to happen, for me to lose you. I love you so much, my Annie.”

“Don’t be so soft! I’m not going anywhere, not for a long time. And I’ll love you until the day I’m gone, and if I can love after, then I will then too. So shush,” Anwen replied, placing a kiss on his lips.

“Anyway, I’m not that breakable, I don’t think. Wanna test this theory?” 

Swinging her legs around Henry’s waist, Anwen straddled him and seductively removed her top. She was braless underneath. Henry whistled low, and licked his lips.

“Yes ma’am.”

          Henry and Anwen’s life continued in perfect bliss. Both had never been as happy as they were with each other. Anwen was now an established celebrity chef, having opened many more restaurants worldwide, written a few cookbooks and even been on television a couple of times. Henry’s career as an actor was skyrocketing, his role at Geralt in The Witcher making him a household name. This meant that he had to travel all around the globe for work, however this didn’t impact his and Anwen’s relationship in the slightest, as she regularly went with him, using the time to research new recipes for her business. When they had spare time, they enjoyed exotic holidays, and it was on the white powder sand of the Maldives that Henry proposed. Anwen had burst into tears and accepted immediately, and they’d spent the rest of that holiday on their private island mostly naked, enjoying each other as an engaged couple.           Their home life was refreshingly normal however. Behind closed doors, they were just Henry and Anwen, not the famous actor and the celebrity chef. They both took in turns to cook dinner, did the housework together and spent the evenings cwtched up on the sofa watching old movies. Laughter was a staple in their home, in fact they only ever rowed when England played Wales at rugby during the Six Nations. Life was indeed bliss, and it seemed nothing could burst this content bubble they were living in.

            One average day in late autumn, Anwen was sat at the kitchen table, with her laptop open in front of her and Ciri snoozing quietly at her feet. Dressed in a pair of comfy sweats and a loose off-the-shoulder jumper, her hair piled artfully messy on top of her head and holding a large cup of coffee in her hands, she was looking at wedding venues online, finally making a start on planning their special day. A huge binder was also open on the table with multiple sheets on paper sticking out of it. She’d made plenty of notes and had lots of ideas; it was now time to put them into action. Henry walked into the kitchen, looking very stylish in back jeans and a tight black t-shirt. He was holding Kal’s lead and the akita was tip-tapping on the tiles behind him, clearly very excited about going for a walk. Ciri didn’t even raise her head, happy enough to stay in with her mum and continue her nap. 

“I’m going to take Kal with me to the meeting with my manager,” he said to Anwen. “Then do you fancy meeting me after with Ciri and we’ll take them for a walk in the park?” 

“Yes, my love, sounds lush. How long will you be do you think?”

“Not sure, I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Sounds like a plan!”

“What are you up to today?” Henry asked, walking over to Anwen and kissing her on the top of her head. “Wedding stuff?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna send off some emails now this morning and then go to this bakery and try out some wedding cake samples,” Anwen smiled.

“Well, I’m jealous! Have a great day honey, I’ll call you later. Love you!”

“Love you, bye!” she called as he walked out the front door.

          Henry’s meeting was going well. His manager had quite a few prospective roles lined up for him, and Henry was interested in the majority of them. His mind wandered to Anwen every so often; he still missed her when they were apart. As the meeting was coming to a close and Kal started getting excited again at going for another walk, Henry’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID- withheld number. 

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr Henry Cavill? I’m a nurse here at London hospital. We have you down here as Miss Anwen Evans’s emergency contact.”

Henry paled. “Is she okay?”

“I’m afraid Miss Evans has been involved in a serious accident. We have her here at the emergency department. Can you get here straight away?”

          Henry had never moved so quickly in his entire life. After giving his manager a hurried explanation and asking him whether he’d look after Kal, he’d gotten in his car and sped through the streets of London, not caring that he was breaking the speed limit. He parked illegally, jumping out of the vehicle and sprinting into the hospital. His mind was in overdrive, all sorts of scenarios going through his head. He felt sick with fear and exertion. Flying into the emergency room, he looked around wildly, finding a nurse sat at the front desk.

“Anwen Evans? I’m here for Anwen Evans, I’m Henry Cavill,” he cried desperately. The nurse didn’t hesitate.

“Come with me.”

She explained to Henry what had happened on the way. “Anwen was crossing the road at a zebra crossing when she tripped halfway, according to witnesses. There was a speeding car, who didn’t see her. He… he ran right over her. He didn’t stop. There are police looking for the car and driver as we speak.”

The flash of anger that Henry felt was so severe that his steps faltered for a second. But then he pushed it away, to be dealt with later. All that mattered now was Anwen. 

“Mr Cavill, Anwen is in a bad way. She has a serious brain injury, and multiple body fractures. The trauma team managed to get her stable, but it’s touch-and-go. The next twenty-four hours are critical,” the nurse said gently. “Prepare yourself before you go in.”

She opened the door to the dimly lit room. The sound of machines beeping dominated the otherwise peaceful atmosphere. Henry moved closer to the bed, his mouth dry, hands shaking. His Annie was lying in the bed, connected to the machines, wires snaking out from every part of her it seemed. Her beautiful black hair was covered by thick white bandages wrapped around her head, and every part of her skin was purple and blue bruises. Her striking green eyes, usually so full of love and sparkle, were swollen shut. Henry had never seen anything so heartbreaking; tears coursed unbidden down his cheeks.

“Can I sit by her? Hold her hand?” he choked to the nurse. 

“Of course, pet.”

He pulled up a chair to her bedside and ever so gently took Anwen’s hand in his. It was reassuringly warm. He could do nothing for a moment but stroke it slowly. Worry filled every part of his being. 

“I’m here Annie. It’s your Henry. Come back to me, you can get through this,” he whispered, and then as sobs wracked through him, he added, “you said you’d love me until you’re gone and I’ll be damned if you’re going anywhere yet.” 

For the next few hours, Henry didn’t leave Anwen’s side; he didn’t let go of her hand. He held onto hope that she would get better. After all, porcelain could break yes, but it could also be fixed. And he would do anything to fix her. 

          As it approached eighteen hours since Anwen’s accident, a nurse came into the room and caught Henry fighting not to fall asleep. She softly tapped him on the shoulder.

“Mr Cavill, go and get some rest. You’re more than welcome to use the family room just next door. Freshen up, get an hour or so sleep. If anything changes, I promise I’ll come and notify you immediately.”

Henry considered this, torn between not wanting to leave Anwen’s side and the need to at least wash his face. 

“I’ll be half an hour, tops. Annie, I’ll be right back.” He put her hand down, and exited the room, rubbing his tired eyes as he went. 

He hadn’t been gone five minutes when a terrifying beeping screeched out from Anwen’s room. He ran out of the bathroom still with wet hands, his heart in his mouth. He halted in the doorway, petrified at the scene unfolding in front of him. 

A team of medics were working hard on her, the unrelenting beeping just adding to the frenzy of the situation. Anwen’s heart had stopped; someone fired up a defibrillator. The shock that went through her echoed in Henry. He just didn’t know what to do. He was vaguely aware of someone trying to lead him away but he just couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away, panic rising, threatening to overspill. His Annie, his Annie was there dying on that bed, and he couldn’t do anything but watch. And then suddenly, the most sinister sound yet. A flatline. Followed by a voice.

“We’ve lost her. Time of death, eight fifteen AM…”

Then silence.

The sound that tore its way up and out through Henry’s throat was that of a wounded animal. He screamed, the feeling pure agony.

“No! NO! There must be something you can do! My Annie! Annie…”

The doctor looked at him with sadness in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Henry. So sorry. Please, everyone, give him some space.”

The rest of his team followed him out; the nurse that had told Henry to go get some rest was crying silently. 

Henry stood rooted to the spot, in a state of absolute denial. Only a day before they’d been in their kitchen together, making plans to walk their beloved dogs, she was planning their wedding. Their wedding. Agony ripped through his chest, sobs wracked his body, his breathing erratic, his heart shattered, never to be healed again. Broken, like porcelain. 

          Henry didn’t know how he got through the funeral. He’d been to the funeral home, and dressed her in her favourite dress and shoes, and spent a long time brushing out her hair; he’d done that when she was alive, but the familiar act did nothing to ease his pain. When he got to the church, he walked down the aisle with her coffin on his shoulder, his heart heavy because he should have been watching her walk down the aisle in a white flowing dress towards him, he should be becoming her husband, not burying her. When it came to reading her eulogy, he was overcome with emotion, for the first time in his life not able to talk in public. His mother helped him down from the podium; his father continued the speech. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

At the wake, he got blind drunk. No one saw him for a week afterwards.

          The news of Anwen’s death was plastered all over the newspapers and online. Headlines such as “HENRY CAVILL FIANCE KILLED IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT” and “CELEBRITY CHEF ANWEN EVANS DEAD AT 27” accompanied photos of the both of them. The hole in Henry’s chest got bigger each time he saw it. He threw himself into his work; being someone else for at least 12 hours a day was easier than dealing with real life. Because the grief was all consuming, terrifying, never-ending. When he got home to his cold and empty penthouse, he couldn’t escape it; Kal and Ciri looked at him sadly every night, the question in their eyes: “where is our mummy?” Henry had no answers for them. He spent each evening sat in the dark, in silence. There was no laughter, no enjoyment in life since she’d gone. 

          A few weeks later, Simon came to visit. He’d been dropping in regularly, terribly worried about his friend. Henry looked, quite frankly, awful. His hair was long and the curls unkempt, he’d let his beard grow out and he had deep purple bags under his eyes. He’d lost a lot of weight too, although he hadn’t stopped working out. Simon sat down next to Henry on his sofa, nervously voicing the question he’d come round to ask.

“Henry, it’s the awards ceremony tonight. Will you be going?”

Henry looked at him like he’d gone mad. 

“Look,” Simon continued. “You’ve been nominated for Best Actor. It’s highly likely you’re going to win. Remember how she… how Anwen was really looking forward to going.” This was true. The red dress she’d been planning to wear was still hung up on the back of the bedroom door. “If you don’t want to go for yourself, why don’t you go for her?”

Henry thought it over. He hadn’t been out, apart from work and the gym, since before the accident. The thought of going to such a high-profile event caused panic. Yet… an image of Anwen, smiling before him in that red dress suddenly entered his mind. She had been so excited; she’d even helped him write his acceptance speech in case he did in fact win Best Actor. Go for her, Simon had said…

          And that’s how, just hours later, Henry found himself back on the red carpet, surrounded by flashing lights and crazed shouting as paparazzi tried to get his attention. He posed for a few photos before hurrying inside and taking his seat. He ate the extravagant three-course meal without really tasting it, drank the wine without really feeling it. Simon sat by his side, a welcome support; a truly great friend. Then, finally, it was time for the awards to be given. 

Henry clapped and cheered as each person won their nominated categories; showing his support for his fellow actors and actresses. Seeing them so happy actually lifted his spirits for the first time since… before. Then it was time for the winner of the Best Actor award.

“And the winner is… HENRY CAVILL!”

Henry sat in shock as the cameras and spotlights panned to him. Simon was on his feet, screaming “I knew he’d do it!” and then he was helping Henry up. “Go on mate, to the stage. You won, you bloody won!” 

In a daze, he walked towards the stage, then across it, accepting his award from the host. The applause was tumultuous; it took a few moments for it to die down, and then everyone in the audience was waiting expectantly for his speech. Henry drew a blank; he had no idea what to say.

“You can do it, handsome!” a heartbreakingly familiar voice whispered in his ear. He looked to the side and his breath hitched in his throat. Anwen was stood there, a wide grin all over her face, looking devastatingly beautiful in the red dress she’d planned to wear tonight. 

“I’m right here with you. I love you.”

Tears welled and spilled from Henry’s eyes as he turned back to face the audience. 

“This award,” he started. “is for my Anwen. My Annie. I couldn’t have been the actor who deserved it without her love and encouragement. She was my everything. She still is. I owe this, my entire career, my entire life to you, my angel. I miss you more than words can describe, and I love you even more.

As he left the stage to even louder applause and cheers and flashing lights, he looked up, seeing the love of his life again, smiling, tears sparkling on her cheeks, blowing him a kiss as she faded away.

“Goodbye my Annie,” he whispered. “Goodbye.”

[clevermonkey93]

Mr Frilly part 2

Part 1

Jaskier makes pizza with Geralt and Ciri. It’s cute and fluffy. Oh and they flirt.

also on ao3

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Jaskier wasn’t nervous. He absolutely wasn’t nervous. Except he was. He totally was because he had a dinner date – was it even a date? It’s just dinner, come on Jask – with a gorgeous hunk of a complete dork of a dad that was utterly besotted with his angelic little gremlin. And Jaskier had just met him. Just met Geralt and Ciri and already he was determined not to blow it. Frankly, Jaskier didn’t care if Geralt wasn’t interested – he's probably ten years older than me, he’s got a kid, he might be straight-straight not just kinda straight – but he so desperately wanted to spend more time with them both and get to know them.

God knows he could use some more friends. Valdo seemed to have left their relationship with all their mutual friends, but I suppose that’s what happens when you date a guy from university for four years and just make friends with all his music friends and –

Jaskier wanted so badly to get this right.

Which is why he stood outside the Rivia house – a beautiful old tall town house which Jaskier would have bet has one of those gorgeous long winding gardens – with a distinctly not-rubbish film and some flowers. A simple but beautiful bunch of wildflowers that Jaskier had stared at for at least fifteen minutes at the shop after he’d left Geralt and Ciri in confectionary. He’d decided to risk it but they’re white and delicate so if he's read the vibe completely wrong they’re obviously for Ciri.

He knocked. Geralt said not to ring the doorbell because next door has a baby.

Oh God I should have changed. Why am I still wearing my shopping clothes and this dumb scarf –

“Hey, Jaskier.”

Jaskier looked up to see Geralt at the doorway, long white hair tied up now and an apron at his waist – oh man why is that sexy?

He had a flour smudge on his cheek and his shirt was covered in flecks. Jaskier was about to tease him and ask why he’s only got a tiny apron when he's wearing a black shirt when he heard footsteps behind the man.

“Mr Frilly!” Ciri cheered as she joined them in the doorway. She was wearing a full-size apron which on a child should look utterly ridiculous but she was also wearing an expression that said she was in charge.

“Already started on dinner I see!” Jaskier said with a grin.

Geralt looked down at his shirt and gave a very sweet shrug before standing to the side and gesturing for Jaskier to join them inside.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he offered. Ciri had already bounded back down the hallway so Jaskier shuffled in and started to wiggle his shoes off with his feet. This inadvertently drew attention to the flowers in his hand.

“Uh, I brought these,” Jaskier started, studying Geralt’s face carefully. Beneath the white smudge of flour there was a distinct pink blush. He didn’t think Geralt looked uncomfortable but oh God it’s so hard to tell. “I brought these.” He repeated quietly.

Jaskier inched the flowers forward to Geralt and thank God he took them. Geralt smiled. No doubt there, that was a proper nice smile.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” he said softly. Jaskier felt Geralt's hand on his shoulder and he was about to say something when –

“Daddy, the dough has gotten SO big!”

Jaskier and Geralt shared a little laugh before Geralt lead him further into the house.

The kitchen was in surprising order considering the state of the chefs, and Jaskier and Geralt walked in to find Ciri proudly holding up a bowl of proofing dough.

“I’ll show you how to make a base,” Ciri said excitedly.

“Wash your hands, Ciri,” Geralt reminded her and Jaskier also took his turn at the sink. As he dried his hands, we watched Geralt dig around a cupboard for a vase, as though he hadn’t used one in a long time, before carefully arranging the flowers to sit in the middle of the kitchen table.

It was a wonderfully sweet evening. Jaskier and Ciri both managed to get covered in flour as they tried to shape pizza crusts while Geralt seemed to be able to do it blind and helping them at the same time.

Jaskier had figured they’d be using tomato puree (he won’t admit to how many years at university he’d lived on pasta and tomato puree) but Geralt brought over a pan of homemade tomato sauce that smelled so good. Even better was the proud little smile he made when Jaskier told him how good it smelled. Best yet was the blush and sudden inhale Geralt didn’t manage to hide when Jaskier couldn’t resist sticking a finger in to try a lick.

“Toppings!” Ciri exclaimed as she carried what Jaskier assumed was a stack of everything from the fridge. Cheese quickly went absolutely everywhere as they each assembled a pizza and it turned out the pair had a tradition of making an extra Frankenstein pizza with every topping.

They loaded them into the oven – “Daddy's going to build a pizza oven in the garden next spring,” Ciri excitedly informed Jaskier. “But they’re still good in the oven.”

Geralt started to clear up while the pizzas cooked, and Ciri immediately vanished. Jaskier stood next to him at the sink to dry things up.

“Thank you for asking me over,” Jaskier said, even though it was clearly Ciri that asked. “I'm really glad I’m here.”

Geralt Hmmed at that, and Jaskier had started to notice it might be his default setting but it sounded like a happy Hmm at least. “What would your Saturday night have been otherwise?” Geralt asked.

“Oh, um,” Jaskier hesitated and dammit he knew he was blushing but he’s going to think I'm so naive and just struggling and – “Well, I’m usually performing at some venue or another, if I’ve managed to get any bookings.” He looked over at Geralt and he seemed interested, not like he suddenly regretted inviting a hipster over, so, “I sing and, uh, play guitar. Among other things.”

Geralt nodded, and definitely didn’t look at Jaskier's mouth when he bit his lip nervously, except Jaskier definitely saw his eyes dart down.

Jaskier shrugged. “But nobody knows me around here. Not yet anyway,” Jaskier laughed quietly. “I’m on at the open mic night this week at Posada's –”

“The live night at The Mandrake is pretty good,” Geralt cut in. Jaskier couldn’t have contained his smile even if he’d tried. Honestly, so many people laughed at him for still trying and –

Breathe, Jask.

“Yeah? What kind of music do they usually have? I mean, well, a lot of my covers usually go down really well, but I also play a lot of my own songs,” Jaskier asked as he dried up the last bowl. Damn it, he was starting to ramble. But he looked over again at Geralt and the man was nodding, and Jaskier thought he might have Hmmed again. Silently though. Jaskier got a little distracted again watching Geralt dry his hands on Jaskier's dish towel and then start to put things away.

“Hmm? What sort of things do you write?” Geralt finally asked, and he definitely stood closer than he needed to as he reached around Jaskier to pick crockery up from the counter.

Jaskier was absolutely not about to reply something like meeting hot dads at the supermarket when the oven timer beeped loudly.

“Pizza!!”

Jaskier jumped a little at Ciri's sudden – immediate – reappearance and although he had no real reason to blush, his cheeks felt like they were on fire.

Geralt laughed ever so quietly. Jaskier eyed him carefully as the man's mouth turned up in the slightest smirk. Oh, Geralt was teasing him.

Jaskier flicked the dish towel at Geralt before joining Ciri at the oven, taking the mitts from her before she could try to hurt herself carrying too many hot pizzas. They took the pizzas to the lounge and before Jaskier could worry about where he should sit, Ciri sat him in the middle of the sofa because that’s where guests sit, Mr. Frilly.

“What film are we watching?” Ciri asked, sat on the floor in front of the telly to get to the DVD player.

“Oh!” Jaskier popped up again and went to his bag. “Have you guys seen The Princess Bride?”

Ciri had not and Gert agreed it was a not-rubbish film. Not that Jaskier would have judged him too harshly if he didn’t liked his favourite film.

He sat between Geralt and Ciri as they ate pizza, and Jaskier definitely agreed it was at least the best pizza in town and quite frankly until he tried ‘Papa Vesemir's’ pizza, he was willing to say best ever. They watched the film, Geralt and Jaskier both half watching Ciri watch it for the first time. When Geralt took his hair out from its bun, Jaskier couldn’t help but reach over to tuck a stray lock behind his ear before Geralt tied half of it back anyway.

Away from the warm kitchen, it cooled down quickly in the lounge so Geralt pulled the throw blanket over them from the back of the sofa. He laughed softly when Jaskier stole the opportunity to tuck in closer as his arms were raised, and then laughed properly when Ciri used Jaskier's distraction to steal his frilly scarf.

Jaskier must have dozed off towards the end of the film because he woke up to Geralt carefully easing him up from leaning against his chest as the credits rolled. “Just putting Ciri to bed.”

Ah, yes, parenting to be done. Jaskier blinked himself awake somewhat while Geralt followed Ciri upstairs. As he listened to muffled arguments about whether she'd brushed her teeth for long enough and how many stories she needed before sleep, Jaskier took their cleared plates back to the kitchen.

He was putting the last of the clean dishes away when Geralt reappeared.

“The princess sleeps?” Jaskier asked softly. Geralt Hmmed at him, leaning against the door frame in a way that looked far too good for him to not be aware.

“Are you awake now?” Geralt teased, and Jaskier admirably resisted sticking his tongue out. Really though, he only resisted because he finally closed the distance between them and leaned up, hopeful, towards Geralt. He was pretty sure, but Oh god what if he really had misread things –

Geralt kissed him. He kissed him softly, steadily and with a firm hand holding Jaskier's hip to his waist.

Jaskier sighed, only loud enough for Geralt to just hear. “Yeah, I'm awake.”

[asolitaryrose]

ok so i finished the witcher netflix and it was really good! wasn’t expecting to like it this much tbqh where is season 2? oh right a year away... 

+/- thoughts under a cut because spoilers

++

tissaia de vries and yen’s relationship. love me some complicated mother/daughter bond

the battle of sodden oh my god. i’d always wished that sapkowski included it in the books and not through memories or passing mentions and boy the adaptation did not disappoint. it was amazing. 

the fight scenes involving geralt are INSANE. the choreography!! the sound effect! the sheer power!! incredible. 

jaskier is amazing and all of his lines are iconic. i couldn’t stand him in the books but here he is fantastic. what a good casting choice

on that note, the writing team did a very good job at including classic lines into the show with perfect timing - from “i brought you apple juice” to “if I’m to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all”

yen’s backstory. it was missing in the books and we only got glimpses of her life before she became who she was and i have to say, i like how they expanded on that, especially her relationship with istredd and tissaia. 

geralt and his many, many sighs and long suffering “fucks”. love my grumpy boy

the set, costumes and music are A+. well done team. 

CALANTHE. A BADASS. I am in love. god, all of her scenes are incredible. the actress rocks the role and make it hers and i was hanging at her lips during all her lines. that way she had of filling her eyes with tears yet holding them at bay to truly express her character’s emotional turmoil? *chef’s kiss*

+

i’ve really warmed up to cavill as geralt - and god knows i was skeptical when they announced the casting because i am not a fan of him at all, but he makes it work and made me believe he was geralt, so kuddos to him

istredd and vilgefortz are both really hot i was not expecting this. well played

triss is so cute!! what a good casting choice. the curly hair and freckles add a very youthful appearance to her and the actress is really delightful. to think i didn’t like triss in the books... i hope they expand on her relationship with yennefer and delve into her psyche in later seasons

love that the writing team incorporated geralt and roach’s bond. what a sassy horse. that horse deserves an emmy. a good horse

i have to go back and listen to all the songs once the credit roll out but “toss a coin to your witcher” is catchy and has been stuck in my brain all morning

myanna buring as tissaia is a fantastic choice.  can’t wait to see more sorceresses, mainly philippa and margarita

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the timeline is a bit wonky, it’s hard to follow at time, and i’ve read the books, so i can’t imagine how it is for people who don’t know the plot. it does work, most of the time, and tbh the show is so enjoyable that i simply decided not to care anymore and just go along with the ride

anya chalotra as yennefer. i really can’t see her as yen. i wanted so badly to be able to put her acting skills first and not care about her age, and while i don’t deny she is incredible, she doesn’t feel like yen to me? i’m bothered mainly by her voice, i do think it’s too childlike, too youthful, and i can’t help but imagine an older actress for that role :/ that being said anya really did a good job

ciri’s character felt the least developed out of the main cast, but i’m guessing her story will really get more complex in later seasons. as it stands, freya was very good. i did think that cutting some of the major key elements of ciri’s early story weakened her story line - such as not having her meeting geralt in brokilon

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all the female nudity really... is not needed. 90% of the time i did not need to see those boobs, sir. especially since every time a man is naked, it’s to ridicule him. the imbalance in nudity between male and female characters was really jarring, and kept bothering me all throughout the episodes

the oversexualization of yennefer. yen is half naked most of the time and i have no idea why?? why. especially during the djinn scene. why do showrunners feel the need to strip their actresses it’s so annoying 

the removal of her uterus during the transformation scene... was imo a bad writing decision, imo. and while i’m on that scene, there was waaay too much screaming. way too much.