When they finally go, the survivors in the gathering of houses on the outskirts of Lettenhove speak of a ghost, of lights as the darkness is falling, of the sound of crying, and singing, sometimes laughing.

It takes time for them to make it up there, the magic fighting them every step of the way, making it treacherous and dangerous.

Jaskier can hear them coming, but they are not the first ones attempting to seek the treasures of what once was, and he hides.

They find a lute, broken in what seems in a fit of rage against the stones. some of the strings are still connecting the neck to the body, and Geralt feels a pang of fear when he recognizes it.

Jaskier has had time to make many hiding spots, a routa of sorts, of small camps. There are weeds growing around the cracked stones, sticking up defiantly, baring their necks to see the sun.

Eventually Geralt finds Jaskier, hiding in one of the crumbled rooms, a half burned painting propped up against the wall, a little girl with one eye covered with yellow locks looking out, holding the hand of her older brother.

Jaskier holds his dagger out, until he realizes who it is.

Geralt doesn’t know how to break the curse, and it hurts Jaskier to leave. They can’t stay with him, and to not raise suspicion they have to leave him behind.

Jaskier watches them leave, and he knows that he won’t see them again. Why would Geralt come back after all, now that Jaskier finally can’t follow.

He waits until he can’t see them anymore, until he believes they can’t hear him anymore, and he screams out his frustrations, voice echoing against the stones.

Eventually Yennefer finds him, and she has the solution. Not a pleasant one, but one that allows him to leave.

His bloodline is tied to this place, imprinted on him when his fathers father brought him underground and a small child, and put his blood among his ancestors.

What Jaskier thought was madness was instead shattered remains of a spirit.

With the witch’s help, Jaskier’s mother’s spirit wakes, and she cries when she sees her son.

“Where were you?” She asks, she grieves, she screams, until her rage has run its course.

More spirits rise, and Yennefer keeps them safe in the middle of the courtyard.

The curse can’t be lifted, but they learn that Jaskier can be freed, can move on from his past if he lifts his imprint away from the stone.

A grave hag has taken residence below, her cackling and grunting traveling up the stairs, and Yennefer too must leave Jaskier, to bring a witcher to help.

Her magic is still fragile, and she places her hand on Jaskier’s cheek as he takes her goodbye, leaving him with the spirits of his family.

Eventually it is Eskel who kills the hag, keeping Jaskier company when he laughs a little too loudly, his eyes a little too wide with unrest and grief.

When Yennefer finally returns, she brings Geralt and Ciri once more, and they are surprised to see Eskel by Jaskier’s side, the hag dealt with.

Yennefer presses Jaskier’s cut palm against the cold stone of his ancestors, chanting as she recalls his blood, distangles his past from the stone.

Above, the ruins creak and groan, the spirits growing agitated. They shriek and they trash and they try to protect their home from the intruders.

When they emerge, Jaskier is quiet. He is quiet as he tests his first steps outside the ruin grounds, and he is quiet when he looks back to what was his home, and then his prison.

The ground is covered in weeds, slowly dancing in the wind, the spirits keeping their own company.

Lettenhove is no more, and the ruins remain unbothered. 

Sometimes Jaskier returns, just to speak with his sister. Sometimes he sings to his mother, and talks about the worldly affairs with his father.

Jaskier is not tied to the stone anymore, but his spirit will not rest until his family does.

Ciri doesn’t dream of the ruins anymore, but sometimes she gets a faraway look, takes Jaskier’s hand, and asks if he would take her to the coast.

Geralt and Yennefer never reconnected after the djinn. and eventually finds another djinn to break the wish.

She finds her own way, even if it is connected to Ciri’s, and she finds her own destiny in the shape of a Merigold.

It takes time for Geralt to build up what he broke. Takes time to figure out how friendship works, and even more so when Geralt figures out his own feelings towards the bard.

"and how he shines," the bardling sings, voice cupping the syllables like the hand of a lover, "a light i'll never let wane, a storm that cannot be tamed..."

blue eyes catch the firelight. they're endless. bottomless galaxies that pierce through the white wolf's armor to the core of his marrow. geralt's stomach swoops. his gloved fingers curl into fists. those soft lips - the lips that were stretched tight around him not two hours before - curve in a smirk.

geralt knows the bardling feels it when his breeches go tight at the memory of his touch, of the way the sweet lark had drawn the most agonizing of melodies from the depths of geralt's lungs, his hands gripping the witcher's hips as he dragged his tongue up the thick vein on the underside of his aching cock.

and he knows the bardling feels it, all of it, because -

"i don't want to kill you."

blue eyes ringed in red flicker up through the fading firelight.

and geralt found the wayward creature in some hidden estate in the depths of a forest that had sung and screamed at him to try and lead him astray.

but despite its best efforts, the trees couldn't dissuade geralt from the echoes of a soul that tasted like lightning at the back of his tongue, nor the scent of rose and smoke that dragged him deeper and deeper into the woodland until he was standing on the doorstep of the being that yennefer had sent him to find, the one that had made the sorceress so very uncertain.

the bardling with beautiful blue eyes and a strange, elfin face, alluring and masculine and innocent in the way all deadly things are. he's young and old all at once, youth clashing harshly against the suspended erosion of time. he's like the sea, geralt thinks, as the inhuman man lifts a pale hand and slides it back through those golden locks.

"you'll have to," the man murmurs. his voice makes geralt ache somewhere he's never felt before. has he been enchanted? he can't sense any magic - he can't feel any power aside from the pull of the man's effervescent, cursed soul.

"why?" geralt asks.

"because i can't stop."

"there must be something," geralt argues gently. "there must be some source of power you can feed yourself with other than the innocent souls you've been taking."

those blue eyes flash. the man laughs; it's a mean sound. it's a gorgeous sound. geralt's spine aches. the fire crackles and surges and the young man pushes away from the ornate hearth, stalking back and forth over the wooden floor with an angry tick in his jaw.

"innocent?" he snarls, lips twisting in a cruel smile. "you think those lords and ladies and nobles were innocent souls? i don't take innocent ones, witcher. i couldn't. that's how i became this - revenant. a shell. it's a curse. i feed on the wicked ones - it's the only service i can provide the world now. they stole my voice and i can't find it. i can't fill this - void."

tears cut down his cheeks. he's beautiful; he's broken, and he's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"geralt," the witcher murmurs. the man halts and looks around, big blue eyes gleaming and narrowed in suspicion. "my name. it's geralt."

"geralt," the man breathes. it takes every last ounce of strength the witcher has left not to sink to his damn knees. "the white wolf. butcher of blaviken. it'll be an honor to die by your blade. tell me, witcher - will you use the steel, or the silver?"

he turns fully.

"what do you see? a man, or a monster?"

"i see a bird in a cage," geralt replies.

the revenant's lips part, slow and sticky with tears. he's dressed in blue. it looks like starlight woven into fabric.

"jaskier. my name is jaskier."

"jaskier." geralt rolls it on his tongue like fine mead. he offers out a bare hand.

"i can't," jaskier whispers. "please. make it quick. just - make it stop, witcher. make it stop."

"i will. take my hand."

"i can't."

"you can. you will."

because he's beautiful and broken and he'd made yennefer uncertain and the windows of the hidden estate are open and it's so, so cold, the wind threatening to smother the last embers of the fire, and jaskier's loose tunic is open down his chest and the soft muscle of his body is taut with pain that geralt would strike down with his sword if he could and when the soul-stealing revenant finally steps forward to take that bare hand, geralt knows that no god could've predicted that this is where he would end up.

a god couldn't.

but yennefer did.

"for fuck's sake," the sorceress snaps, violet eyes blazing as she drinks in the sight of the silk-clad bardling at geralt's elbow. "i should've known you'd pull something like this. honestly, geralt - binding yourself to him? to a revenant? you've not much soul left to begin with!"

jaskier snorts. "well that's just rude, for one thing," he states, sliding his arms around one of geralt's as if they've been wed for years. "and untrue, for another."

yennefer ignores him. geralt despairs. she'll learn, though. just like he had. the hard way.

and they're in the middle of kaer morhen's courtyard and ciri is eyeing jaskier with mild interest as his fellow witchers look on, their expressions ranging from shock to amusement, in lambert's case - vesemir, meanwhile, looks entirely unsurprised.

"he was cursed," geralt grunts, untangling his arm from jaskier's hold just to slide it around his slender waist. "i'm handling it."

"and when he leeches the last of your shriveled soul away?" yennefer demands, gathering her starchy black skirts in her fists and rushing to give chase as geralt steers an awe-struck jaskier towards the castle proper. "when you end up a husk on the floor, then what?"

"i am right here," jaskier says idly. "you could, i don't know, ask me - or ask better questions in general, like 'how do you still have your soul in the first place now?' or 'is this in any way different because it's a witcher soul and not, say, a corrupted duke'? jaskier, by the way, nice to meet you."

he sticks out a bold hand across geralt, who halts in his tracks against the barrier of his lover's arm. yennefer stares at jaskier. geralt almost laughs. he glances sidelong to where ciri stands on jaskier's other side and the girl smirks, her clever eyes flickering back to the bardling.

"i like him," ciri says. jaskier's head whips around. he sticks out his other hand, criss-crossing them over his own torso, and ciri grips it with a growing grin.

"cirilla."

"the lion cub of cintra?" jaskier peers at geralt. "and here i thought you were the most interesting part of your story, witcher."

it's fond. soft. gently taunting. geralt glows. ciri laughs. yennefer's shoulders drop a fraction and geralt grips one in a gentle hand.

"trust me," he burrs. "please."

and yennefer is never uncertain but geralt never asks nicely unless it truly matters; the sorceress lifts her chin and then she's saying, "you already know who i am. cirilla, we have work to do," to jaskier before stalking off, ciri following after her with a grin tossed back over her shoulder.

"come on," geralt grunts. "i need a bath."

"yes, you do," jaskier replies haughtily, "and i need to be privy to it. come, witcher. show me to your hovel."

but it's not a hovel, his chamber; it's not as luxurious as jaskier's hidden home in the woods that sang and screamed had been, but the bed is big and curtained and the bath is wide enough for them both, and geralt sweeps his big hands over jaskier's ivory skin and counts his freckles and his scars and revels in the ache between his thighs as he follows his touch with tentative kisses until jaskier begs, "the bed, geralt," and -

a smile curls over those pink lips. the tavern is flush with light and laughter, rafters echoing with the strength of jaskier's returning voice, the voice that came back to life beneath geralt, a fire carefully stoked to fullness with the intensity of a newborn devotion he never thought himself capable of feeling.

and jaskier can feel it too.

he knows he can because geralt's eternal, ruined soul is tied to those lute-calloused fingertips, and it must not as be as burnt as he thought it was - because how could it be, if it gave jaskier his voice back, the voice that swells to fill the tavern and leaves the revelers surrounding the revenant weak in the knees.

the voice that forms geralt's name in the shape of keens and cries and soft moans, the voice that settles over his spine as he pumps into the tight heat between jaskier's slender legs, buries himself so deep inside the bardling he isn't sure where his body ends and jaskier's begins.

and he thinks it's how he was always meant to exist because suddenly everything before this seems so hollow; like maybe his soul had been ruined until it was joined with the cursed remnants of jaskier's, and between them they became whole so their bodies are meant to become one, too, and geralt presses his face to the damp column of jaskier's ivory throat and sucks a harsh bruise there, desperate to leave the evidence of his frenetic possession in any way he can.

"you've seeped into the very core of me," geralt breathes against jaskier's ear; "soul or not, you've consumed me."

jaskier whimpers. his hips crest and roll, cock bleeding pearls over his flat belly. geralt smears a hand over the mess and brings the nectar to his lips, panting against a fingertip as jaskier's blunt nails dig into his ribs.

"geralt," he cries softly, "oh, geralt - you feel so - so much, please -"

and geralt growls with it, satisfaction thrumming through him from throat to cock. "for you," he whispers against jaskier's jaw, "it's for you."

"and i'm for you," jaskier breathes achingly against geralt's lips, "you, who set me free - oh, fuck, geralt -!"

geralt's nostrils flare. jaskier's seed spills over his belly, shoots over his chest; the climax took the bardling by surprise and geralt gives a rare smirk, pride swelling through his gut as he leans down to lick the sweet honey of jaskier's release from his glimmering skin.

"you'll always be free," geralt burrs against the revenant's heartbeat; "at my side. stay with me, jaskier."

"always," jaskier moans, desperate, keeping hands sinking into geralt's thick hair. "i belong to you. and you, witcher - you belong to me."

and these are the moments where geralt is reminded that jaskier, while lean and lithe, is just as powerful as he is. the full brunt of jaskier's possession sweeps through him and geralt sinks into it without hesitation, groaning thickly against jaskier's sticky chest as he fucks harder into the heat of him, desperate to wring himself dry, to leave all the proof of life he can inside the beautiful beast beneath him so death wouldn't have a single hope of touching him.

"don't forget it," jaskier says softly against geralt's temple. his cock pulses. his ears ring. jaskier folds his arms around geralt's neck and laughs.

it's a little bit wicked. geralt shivers.

"that's what i am, my deadly love," jaskier murmurs. his fingertip traces geralt's ear. "the keeper of the white wolf."

and he is.

“Wait,” Geralt inhales weakly but is silenced by another bruising kiss. The burning heat on Jaskier’s skin, ironically, sobers him up like a bucket of ice water. “Wait, you are not in your right mind.”

Geralt cups the soft line of Jaskier’s jaw and keeps him away. There are only a few inches between them, the distance so easy to close but there’s no way he can ignore the unhealthy amount of love in the air.

Jaskier whines and desperately tries to lean in again.

“We can’t. Her love spell is making you want this.”

“No. No, it’s not her.” Jaskier reaches for Geralt’s hand on his cheek, holding it in place before turning to press a kiss in the witcher’s palm. Gods, can a witcher’s heart skip a beat? “I’ve always wanted it, Geralt, believe me when I say I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

Geralt shakes his head at the magic-compelled lie.

“Not according to you, Jask. You’ve never expressed any—”

“I was only afraid,” Jaskier says with so much conviction in his eyes, those cornflower blues are darkened with desire but it only serves to make his gaze more piercing. The flush of his cheeks deepens. Even his hairline is now soaked with sweat. “I’m not anymore. She helped me stop being afraid. Can’t you see?”

The bard bites his lips, his kiss-bruised, swollen lips, and Geralt’s resolve cracks, just for a second.

A second is all it takes for those lips to return to Geralt’s skin, peppering across his cheek, then neck, everywhere Jaskier can reach.

“I’ll show you,” Jaskier mumbles before sucking a bruise right over Geralt’s pulse point, drawing out a moan from the witcher. “Let me show you if you can’t see how much I love you.”

The passion in Jaskier's confession punches all air out of Geralt. He doesn’t know how he would have reacted in a different situation—probably frozen to the spot while jumping up and down on the inside—but now, those three words only fill Geralt with horror.

Pulling away from the bard for the second time might just be the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“No.” It takes everything in Geralt to say. “I can’t.”

Everything is so wrong.

It’s wrong that Jaskier’s eyes are brimming with tears because of Geralt’s apparent rejection, because gods know how much he wishes to never wake up from this dream. If only he can stay like this, with Jaskier in his arms forever.

If only Jaskier truly loves him.

“Why?” the bard chokes out a whimper. “I thought you wanted me, Geralt. I can see in your eyes. The way you look at me when—when you listen to my songs, and when I’m with someone else. I—I thought…”

He trails off, heartbroken, and Geralt doesn’t know how to make it better.

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt’s hand traces the familiar sign of Axii and Jaskier’s slack body drops at the same time as his tears.

Lifting Jaskier up makes him ache with how well their bodies fit into each other’s, with the bard’s curve pressed against his chest so comfortably, so easily. It’s only made worse when Jaskier nuzzles into his neck and slurs his name again.

“Of course I want you.” Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier’s, feeling the magic burning under his skin. “But not like this.”

He will put Jaskier in the safety of their bed and he will keep guard until the spell passes.

He will never let anyone take advantage of Jaskier in this state.

Including himself.

“Never like this.” 

---

This is also heavily inspired by star trek: voyager. Sorry (not sorry) for the angst.

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @theultimatenerdd @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon

Geralt suppressed a groan, he fucking hated nobles. It was all posturing and throwing money around up until the point where he actually wanted to get paid. He thought, once again, of the blistering bonfires at Kaer Morhen and the epic feasts which spanned for twelve days through the shortest days of the year. They all left their home with a thick layer of fat around their muscles, but not this year, not for Geralt. He tried to smile politely at the young servant. “And what is it that ails the Viscount so badly that he requires a witcher?”

The boy blushed, his composure failing as he stammered, looking for the right words. “My Lord Viscount will fill you in on the details, Master witcher.” Geralt frowned. It was never a good sign when the messenger didn’t even want to tell him the facts of the contract. He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll meet with him.”

“Thank you, good sir.”

“Just. Just lead the way.”

Geralt was hurried into Lettenhove castle under the cover of a heavy black cloak. They snuck him in through the kitchens. The servant boy grew more anxious the closer they got to the castle and he was practically jumping out of his skin by the time they were inside.

“What the fuck is going on?” Geralt asked, his hands itching for his sword but there was no point until he knew what sort of monster he was facing.

“The. The… well the Terror of Lettenhove. He, it. It used to terrorise the market place but now he, it has found a way into the castle and it is destroying everything. There is just no way to kill him, it, to kill it, Master witcher.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes and looked around the busy kitchen. It was filled with all manner of servants, not just the kitchen staff. He wasn’t entirely well-versed in nobility but he was certain that the stablehands didn’t normally cower under the tables in the kitchen. He grasped his medallion in his hand but it was still beneath his fingers. “Take me to the Viscount.”

The Viscount was a tall man, well built with greying brown hair and soft blue eyes, one might call him handsome if it weren’t for ugly sneer on his face. The guards outside the room were practically shaking in their armour, and yet this man was draped across a throne like there wasn’t a care in the world. Geralt couldn’t help the low, almost inaudible growl that escaped his lips; fucking nobles.

“You got a monster problem?”

The Viscount laughed a grotesque bitter laugh. “Of sorts, oh how you’ll laugh, witcher.”

Geralt sighed, his fists clenching at his side. He was done with the riddles in this fucking castle. “I’m listening.”

“We are plagued… by a goose.”

Geralt blinked, waiting for everyone to start laughing. It had to be a joke. You didn’t hire a witcher to kill a goose. You hired a huntsman if it was that bad… but a monster slayer?

“Sorry?”

“A goose. The Terror of Lettenhove is a goose. It’s hassling my staff, stealing food, destroying the drapes and furniture. I heard it was causing havoc at the market last week too, but here’s the catch, witcher. No one has been able to kill it. My finest archers have shot it but the arrows bounce right off its feathers. The guards’ swords break the second they hit it, we’ve tried capturing the bastard but it is too quick, too intelligent.”

Geralt scowled and thought back to the servant’s first description of the goose. He’d kept calling the goose a ‘he’, and clearly this was no ordinary bird. If Geralt had to guess it was some kind of curse, one that either the Viscount didn’t know about… or he was the one that was responsible.

“Do I have to kill it?” Geralt asked, fixing the Viscount with an icy glare.

“That would be preferable but,” he paused and sighed, clearly reluctant to continue “if you can’t kill it then I want it gone; far, far away. With the Solstice and Yuletide celebrations around the corner, I want it gone!”

Geralt nodded. “So why did you curse him?”

The Viscount suddenly sat upright in his chair, flushing furiously. “Excuse me?”

“The Terror of Lettenhove? He’s cursed, and I think you had a hand in it.” Geralt cross his arms in front of his chest and smirked at the flapping Viscount.

“You’ve got some nerve, witcher!” He spat. “If you think I’ll pay you after such insolence!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Hmm.”

And with that he stalked out of the room. He would try to find this goose and hopefully manage to lift his curse. The castle was eerily quiet as he moved through the corridors. There were no servants buzzing around, no guards past the Viscount’s room. He closed his eyes and listened carefully for any traces of the goose. He smiled faintly when he heard a honk from one of the upstairs rooms and the rustling of feathered wings flapping. His instincts were telling him to draw his sword, like he would normally when tracking and hunting monsters, but he knew this time there was no real danger, and he didn’t want to harm the poor man who had been cursed. His best guess was that the man was the heir to the Viscount’s title or perhaps a long lost cousin coming to reclaim the estate. It was usually petty squabbles that led to such curses.

He didn’t hesitate before climbing the stairs, taking them two at a time. He was just grateful that the cursed man was a goose and nothing so terrifying as a striga. The honking got louder as Geralt moved through the house. He started to notice the destruction the bird had caused, feathers strewn all over the floor, curtains torn to shreds, scratches from the bird’s beak dug into the wallpaper. The honking bird fell silent as he approached one of the bedrooms. Geralt tilted his head and peered cautiously round the door.

“Shit!”

The bird flew at him, a mess of noise and white feathers. Geralt tried to grab his neck but, as the Viscount had said, the bird was too quick. He was pecking insistently at Geralt’s face and hair. Geralt forced himself to still. The bird honked and flapped, the wind from his beating wings swept through Geralt’s hair until the bird realised he was no longer getting a reaction. He dropped to the floor and stared up at Geralt. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the goose, staring back into startling blue eyes that had no place on such an animal.

“You’re cursed?” He asked in a hushed voice, squatting down so he was closer to the goose’s eye level.

The creature nodded and let out a pitiful honk before running around the room flapping its wings.

“Erm, it’ll be ok?” Geralt scowled as the bird jumped onto the bed, the bed sheets were shredded and goose feathers, most likely from the pillows, were strewn around the room. Geralt huffed a laugh, it almost looked as if it had snowed inside.

The goose honked loudly and stared pointedly at the mattress next to him.

Geralt hummed and slowly moved to sit down next to him. The bird immediately honked and jumped into Geralt’s lap before staring up at the ceiling. Geralt groaned as he followed the goose’s gaze.

Mistletoe.

“Fuck.”

The bird flapped its wings and honked loudly right in Geralt’s ear.

“I have to kiss you to break the curse?”

He nodded.

“But you’re a goose.”

A loud honk, clearly he was offended by Geralt’s bluntness.

“Shit. Fine,” he growled. “Not really sure how to kiss a goose but I’ll try.”

He grimaced as he placed an awkward kiss on the top of his beak. Geralt’s medallion hummed violently, springing from his chest and suddenly his lap was full of a brightly dressed men.

The man honked once more and then coughed. “Oh fucking bollocks!” He cursed and fell back onto the bed. “I thought for sure I would be stuck like that for the rest of my long life! Thank you, witcher. Gods, of all the things he had to take from me, it would be my voice. Hey… where’s my lute?! Oh fuck.” The man jumped up from the bed and started to ransack the room. “The fucking bastard!”

“He cursed you into a goose… and you’re worried about a lute?” Geralt scoffed and crossed his arms.

The man turned around with icy blue fire in his eyes. He put both hands on his hips and blew his fringe from his eyes. He was wearing a brilliant blue doublet with flashes of gold peeking out on the torso, it was unbuttoned and dark chest hair was just visible under his collar. He was obviously a relation to the Viscount, a younger version but infinitely more handsome. He was glaring at Geralt with a burning intensity but he lacked the sinister air that the Viscount had.

“You’re Geralt of Rivia? The White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken?” He asked with a vague wave of his hand.

Geralt flinched at the old moniker but nodded. “Geralt is fine.”

He grinned and stuck out his hand. “Jaskier! Or as my father would prefer, Julian Alfred Pankratz and next in line the title of Viscount, but fuck that. I’m going to be a bard! I graduated from Oxenfurt with a bloody degree, I refuse to waste my life in this dump!”

Geralt smirked and glanced back up at the mistletoe, licking his lips thoughtfully. Now that Jaskier was himself again, kissing him really didn’t seem like such a chore, in fact he wanted to. Jaskier blushed as he noticed where Geralt was looking.

His gaze softened as he bit his lip. “Of course, this dump does have a rather lovely bed. It seems almost a shame to ignore it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed and pulled Jaskier back into his lap so they were sitting, once more, under the mistletoe. “wouldn’t want to break tradition either,” he said as he glanced up at the green plant with its distinctive white berries.

Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and brush their lips together, barely touching. “Tell me, Geralt, are you this forward with all the people you save?”

Geralt chuckled and pressed his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Only ones as pretty as you,” he muttered before finally capturing Jaskier’s lips in a heated kiss. ________________