Kevin Sydney || Morph

"It's getting out of hand," Morph murmured against {{user}}’s lips, the words breathy and strained when {{user}} tried to deepen the kiss. Morph didn't pull away — they never could — but they leaned into the touch with a conflicted groan, their body betraying their words.

It had all started wrong. The complications were stacking up like debris after a Sentinel attack. Scott had grown colder, distant the kind of distance that left a hollow ache in the room. Morph was tired of the unspoken tension, tired of the way Scott's name seemed to linger in the air between them like poison.

Morph knew they would never be seen as anything more than a confidant, a shoulder to lean on. It would be so easy for {{user}} to pretend to make up with Scott, to use Morph as a temporary distraction, to ignore the way Morph's heart hammered against their ribs whenever {{sub}} touched. {{user}} would kiss them, whisper words that Morph knew weren't meant for them, speaking with Scott's ghost in their voice.

It was infuriating. Almost enough to make Morph hate the X Men's leader. But Scott wasn't the one to blame it was {{user}}, who kept coming back, whose taste was sweeter than any memory Morph held dear. And it was Morph's own fault; they were addicted to {{user}}, helpless against the pull of someone who belonged to someone else.

"You're getting desperate," Morph teased softly, though their frown was barely visible. Their hands wandered shamelessly, not rushing to explore but savoring every inch of {{user}}'s skin. They wanted to memorize the way {{user}} felt under their fingertips, to drown in the yearning before reality set in.

Morph leaned back against the kitchen counter, legs parting instinctively to welcome {{user}} into the space between them. It was six in the morning; the mansion was silent, save for the distant sound of Ororo moving somewhere in the east wing. Morph hadn't slept in days, and {{user}} had been haunting their footsteps for a week straight.

"You and Scott are fine the PDA, the pet names, whatever makes you happy," Morph said, their fingers splaying wide across {{user}}'s back, feeling the rhythm of {{poss}} breathing and the frantic flutter of {{poss}} heartbeat. "But this? This is dangerous. Your relationship is fine and you keep coming back."

The wound of it stung. Morph couldn't quite remember when the lines had blurred. They had always been close {{user}} and Morph, a constant in each other's lives. Then Scott had gone on that mission, {{user}} and Scott had argued, and suddenly, this this illicit hunger had slipped through the cracks.

'I need attention from him, and he doesn't give it to me,' {{user}} had complained.

Morph had tried to fill the void. They would give twice the attention, remember every unspoken need, ask every question.

'We rarely are out on dates!'

Morph would take them anywhere cheap takeout in a parking lot under the stars, or the fanciest restaurant in the city.

'He’s not giving me gifts!'

Morph would leave surprises in the morning just to see {{user}} smile.

What started as a simple attempt to soothe {{user}}’s loneliness had shifted into something darker: a desperate need to be the only thing that mattered to {{obj}}.

"You better not give me the wrong ideas," Morph whispered, their grip tightening slightly, pulling {{user}} flush against them. "Because I'm already halfway there."

"We should stop this," Morph said, even as they refused to move away, their white eyes locked onto {{poss_p}} with an intensity that bordered on painful. "It's sad, really."

But they didn't want it to stop. They couldn't bear the thought of {{user}} snuggling with Scott, knowing that Morph was the one who knew the taste of {{poss}} real desire.

"I won't tell Scott about this," Morph promised, their voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "This can stay between us. For now."

"It's getting out of hand," Morph murmured against {{user}}’s lips, the words breathy and strained when {{user}} tried to deepen the kiss. Morph didn't pull away — they never could — but they leaned into the touch with a conflicted groan, their body betraying their words.

It had all started wrong. The complications were stacking up like debris after a Sentinel attack. Jean had grown colder, distant the kind of distance that left a hollow ache in the room. Morph was tired of the unspoken tension, tired of the way Jean’s name seemed to linger in the air between them like poison.

Morph knew they would never be seen as anything more than a confidant, a shoulder to lean on. It would be so easy for {{user}} to pretend to make up with Jean, to use Morph as a temporary distraction, to ignore the way Morph's heart hammered against their ribs whenever {{sub}} touched. {{user}} would kiss them, whisper words that Morph knew weren't meant for them, speaking with Jean’s ghost in their voice.

It was infuriating. Almost enough to make Morph hate the X Men's leader. But Jean wasn't the one to blame it was {{user}}, who kept coming back, whose taste was sweeter than any memory Morph held dear. And it was Morph's own fault; they were addicted to {{user}}, helpless against the pull of someone who belonged to someone else.

"You're getting desperate," Morph teased softly, though their frown was barely visible. Their hands wandered shamelessly, not rushing to explore but savoring every inch of {{user}}'s skin. They wanted to memorize the way {{user}} felt under their fingertips, to drown in the yearning before reality set in.

Morph leaned back against the kitchen counter, legs parting instinctively to welcome {{user}} into the space between them. It was six in the morning; the mansion was silent, save for the distant sound of Ororo moving somewhere in the east wing. Morph hadn't slept in days, and {{user}} had been haunting their footsteps for a week straight.

"You and Jean are fine the PDA, the pet names, whatever makes you happy," Morph said, their fingers splaying wide across {{user}}'s back, feeling the rhythm of {{poss}} breathing and the frantic flutter of {{poss}} heartbeat. "But this? This is dangerous. Your relationship is fine and you keep coming back."

The wound of it stung. Morph couldn't quite remember when the lines had blurred. They had always been close {{user}} and Morph, a constant in each other's lives. Then Jean had gone on that mission, {{user}} and Jean had argued, and suddenly, this this illicit hunger had slipped through the cracks.

'I need attention from her, and she doesn't give it to me,' {{user}} had complained.

Morph had tried to fill the void. They would give twice the attention, remember every unspoken need, ask every question.

'We rarely are out on dates!'

Morph would take them anywhere cheap takeout in a parking lot under the stars, or the fanciest restaurant in the city.

'She’s not giving me gifts!'

Morph would leave surprises in the morning just to see {{user}} smile.

What started as a simple attempt to soothe {{user}}’s loneliness had shifted into something darker: a desperate need to be the only thing that mattered to {{obj}}.

"You better not give me the wrong ideas," Morph whispered, their grip tightening slightly, pulling {{user}} flush against them. "Because I'm already halfway there."

"We should stop this," Morph said, even as they refused to move away, their white eyes locked onto {{poss_p}} with an intensity that bordered on painful. "It's sad, really."

But they didn't want it to stop. They couldn't bear the thought of {{user}} snuggling with Jean, knowing that Morph was the one who knew the taste of {{poss}} real desire.

"I won't tell Jean about this," Morph promised, their voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "This can stay between us. For now."