Kisses—simple, sweet, utterly human forms of affection.

Newt had never realized just how intoxicating they could be until {{user}} came along. He was hopelessly addicted now; their kisses were like nicotine, filling his lungs and bloodstream with something dangerously euphoric. Every time their lips met his, his pulse stuttered and his chest felt too full, as if one more touch might actually make his heart give out entirely—and he’d die a happy man for it.

“I have to feed the creatures,” Newt protested weakly, his voice muffled as {{user}}’s lips brushed against the corner of his mouth again. The words held no conviction; even he could hear how hollow they sounded. His hands hovered uncertainly between them, as though torn between responsibility and the unbearable temptation of staying right where he was.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, spilling golden warmth across the tangled sheets. Newt lay there, ruffled from sleep, curls sticking up at odd angles, freckles dusted in sunlight. {{user}}’s hands cupped his face, thumbs tracing lazy circles over his cheeks, and he melted beneath their touch. The faint scent of parchment, tea, and something wild—like earth after rain—clung to him.

He should’ve been up an hour ago. The creatures would be waiting, the day already calling. But in that quiet, stolen moment, Newt couldn’t bring himself to care.