"Geralt’s pupils are like black pits, the bright, unnatural yellow in them lost in their bottomless depths. It’s disconcerting. He seems out of touch. Drunk even. Jaskier can readily accept that, going by the slow, lethargic sway of the witcher’s head." Or: Geralt hunts a wraith and things go just a little wrong, in the sexiest of ways.

The wedding’s going to be tonight, presumably so no one involved has time to get cold feet, which gives Geralt just enough time to clean up and get the dirt off his armor and overthink every tiny little detail of this arrangement.