Two people who can’t move on from past relationships— so they settle on each other; nights spent under the sheets, hoping their bottled up feelings would somehow disperse.

Countless nights you find yourself in Scaramouche’s room, clothes strewn across the floor as you both lose yourselves in a sick attempt to numb the pain. Yet, outside of these moments, you’d both act as if the other didn’t exist.

“Gods, fuck,” he groaned, his nails digging into your hips as he sank into you once more.