#// personally im not super into scara looking SUPER puppety

[aetherarf]

REQUESTED BY @ladyqinn

[[ Summary: Scaramouche is a puppet, with the joints and features of one. With a false skin to make him less terrifying to commonfolk, he was able to pretend he did not. But sometimes he cannot don it, and he fears what you'll think of him. ]]

[[ Word Count: 2'110 ]]

Scaramouche was not known for being a patient man, nor a kind man, barely even a human at all.

And when things like this happened, he wanted to completely lose it.

A mission went bad, and the familiar beast of the Snezhnayan frost shredded at him- Thankfully he wasn't injured, but...

That was his own porcelain flesh, meant to be sturdy and unbreakable. But he had a second flesh- It was uncomfortable and smothering, numbing his senses, but it looked human. Perfectly human. Thus, he was not seen as such a freakish outsider.

That's what Dottore told him, anyway.

He tossed it away, knowing he wouldn't need anymore, but-

He couldn't go out until he got a new set! While he hated it, and the nights his beloved wasn't home with him, he could peel it off and relax, as sensitive as his porcelain flesh had become, without being smothered alive by his own skin.

"I don't care, you have my measurements, and it's your fault for sending me out into this frozen hellscape anyway!"

Chattering on the other end of the line, you walked into the house, shutting the door behind you. It was as cold as always, but at least somewhat sunny, and no wind stronger than a mild breeze. You took off your gloves but rubbed your hands together to lessen the numbing cold, pulling off your coat and hanging it up...

And you saw Scaramouche with his back to the door, wearing a large outdoor coat. Was he really so cold? The fireplace wasn't even lit...

Your gaze fell down to his legs, his ankles, and you saw that something was off. His skin was paler than usual- a notable feat, as he already had quite pale skin, but this wasn't just pale, it was an expansive sheet of white snow that had not been tread upon, untouched. Unmarried.

To his ankles themselves, though, while still a snowy white, there were ball joints, with the faintest hint of purple tendons holding onto it, to manipulate the joints and be manipulated.

"You're not the one without skin! If I'm not at the next meeting tell Pierro yourself!" Scaramouche shouted into the phone before hanging it up with a slam, breathing heavily in anger, turning to the side before-

He stared at you- You could see how his skin was paler, and how it was flush, likely just from cold nipping his delicate features, and the blush more distinctive from the thinner skin, his eyes wide in shock,

"You-" You could see as he hesitated, swallowing, throat bobbing- There was a line over his throat, connecting his head to his torso. Suddenly, he bunched up the coat around his neck and scampered away, "Shoo! I'm not decent! Get a hotel, I am not to be seen!" He shouted as he ran off to your shared room. You couldn't help but just stand there, stunned as you watched him run off to the hallway.

What was that?

After recovering from it, you walked back to the bedroom, grabbing the handle and seeing it was locked- But you knew just as well as him that it unlocked with little more than a coin slipped into the thin keyhole and twisted. If the door opened...

Then that was his odd way of saying I want you here. He never dare request something, in fear it would be rejected, but he gave openings. If you couldn't follow, then it was because he didn't want you to. If you could, then he wanted you to.

He wanted to be chased. He wanted to be wanted.

With a swift twist, the door creaked open, and you saw a miserable pile of bedding and a large, fluffy coat,

"I'm not to be seen!" Scaramouche shouted from underneath it, and you took a step forward.

"... What's so wrong?" You asked, "You don't look bad."

"Bad? I look like- like a freak!" He shouted in dismay, his head pounding in distress, wanting this whole anxiety to be over.

"You look odd, but not a freak." You argued, and he hesitated, panting lightly,

"You don't know what I actually look like. You won't want to know."

"I saw enough." You responded, "I'd like to see more, actually."

"You're lying!" He accused, not knowing what else to respond with.

"I'm not! I- You don't even know about my skin!"

"I heard you say something like that when I came in." You said, "A false set you wear?" You asked, putting two and two together.

"Why didn't you announce that you were home?!"

"I did."

Completely out of options, Scaramouche stayed there, hidden. It was getting uncomfortable with the lack of air and his hot breath making it muggy, but-

What could he do? Lose you because of something he couldn't control? That he-

That he was like this? That he wasn't human, scaring off people time and time again, only donning himself in a disgusting, rubbery suit that would make him look human, knowing the pain of when his joints pinched and he couldn't react, couldn't let a single microexpression free, and hope he could get to the bathroom without being seen, peel it off to fix the one small inch of pain, straining his whole body with the constant pressure that was required to make him look human?

It was too late to say it wasn't an actual thing, and he hadn't lied to you. He didn't want you to know, ever, ideally.

But it was happening.

"... Fine," He said, feeling his throat tighten uncomfortable, "Fine!" He threw the blankets off of himself, the coat, everything. He hadn't bothered to redress, his clothes were destroyed with his skin, only donning the cloak because he needed to be semi decent. He ignored it all and sat up, throwing his arms to the side, staring you dead in the eye.

"See? I lied to you, I'm a freak. Happy? I'll go get my new skin and get out of your life now-"

"Wait, Kuni."

He froze and closed his eyes.

He hated that name, but you said it in such a way that was so soft and sweet that he couldn't hate it. He couldn't keep being so upset, at least, for a brief moment.

With his eyes closed, he felt you slowly crawl onto the bed, and reach to his chest, your fingertips trailing over the center of his chest, with the long-since-removed emblem of Electro still having the faintest, leftover marks, your fingers trailing the curve of the porcelain scarring, if it could be considered such an organic thing.

While it was a light touch, his skin was horrifically sensitive from the need to be keenly aware of every inch of his body at all times, even through the muffling layer of false skin. It made him have to inhale deeply, so he didn't gasp at the tickling sensation.

"So this is what you meant," You whispered, "When you told me you were meant to be a puppet."

"Not exactly," Scaramouche snapped, before wanting to recoil into himself. Your hand trailed down his torso to his navel, and this time he gasped, and you quickly pulled away,

"Did-"

"I'm just sensitive. Try feeling things through a layer of rubber for years." He said sharply, "I-I was never finished. Not to the level... I would've been if I was still a puppet."

Your hand trailed down to his thighs, and he tensed them, and he heard you take in a slight breath of amazement. "... Your leg flexed."

"I'm not rigid and cold!" He snapped, "It's still flesh."

"But you are cold?" You asked innocently enough, and he exhaled sharply,

"I... Don't generate heat. I won't freeze or overheat how a human would, but I don't like how it feels." He explained, "Why are you examining me?" He realized, snapping himself shut, legs tightly pressed together and arms crossed over his chest, glaring at you, "I'm not some experiment, no matter what anyone says!"

"No! No," You said, "I just..."

His delicate porcelain flesh, cool to the touch but so responsive, every little bit carved to perfection, to create the most beautiful human silhouette, no cracks, no scratches, but alive, and not a cold, distant, and lofty machine.

Scaramouche's eyes widened upon the realization, and the slightest gasp as you grabbed his hand, pulling it towards yourself gently.

That look in your eyes was not contempt or anger, or disgust or confusion.

It was awe. Adoration.

Something...

Something he didn't know how to react to.

Nor did he know how to react to the soft, but overwhelming feeling of your lips on his wrist, the delicate purple tendons, and a kiss that only held affection and love. Nothing more. Unadulterated.

"You're perfect." You whispered, pressing several kisses to his skin, and he couldn't help but stare, his vision slowly but surely getting blurrier and blurrier,

"No." Scaramouche replied, "You're saying that so I won't leave you."

"You're beautiful," You insisted, the kisses reaching his elbow, setting your hands over his chest, and he couldn't help but gasp softly- it felt so nice, so... so cuddly. So warm.

When he had touched someone else, without that damned skin suit?! Every bit, as much and overwhelming as it felt, he wanted more, more more more more-

"I'm a freak."

"You're you," You answered, as though it needed no further explanation.

He needed so much, but he couldn't find any words, when he tried to come up with an argument, finding a way to string words together, he instead sighed at the soothing feeling of lips on his chest, his stomach, his thigh, knee, calf, ankle...

"Why-" He paused, "Why are you kissing me so damn much?!"

"Because you're letting me." He could feel the curve of your lips against his flesh, and he paused, dumbfounded,

"I-"

"Do you want me to stop?" You asked, and when he paused, trying to process the request, your hands slowly pulled away from him. In a fit of anger, he shot forward and grabbed your wrists,

"Stay. Don't you dare stop," He hissed, "Am I not a freak to you? Inhuman?"

"You're you. I don't care what you are as long as you're you. Besides..." Your hand trailed alongside his hip, and he shuddered from the slow, soothing movement, "You're beautiful. I thought you were beautiful before, but..." You looked down at him, seeing how flush he was, how he stared at you, eyes so wide and uncertain, "Now... divine isn't even a good enough way to describe you." You said with a smile, and he stared back at you, waiting so desperately that it made him look like a poor, hurt little kitten that wanted nothing more than to sob and cry and beg for attention.

"... I love you. This just makes me love you more."

Scaramouche couldn't hide his reaction but tried by putting his head in his hands, covering his face, as you heard him weep softly. Again, you didn't let him hide from you too long and delicately pried his hands away as you would delicately tug the flower bud's petals apart when it was so eager to bloom but just couldn't do it alone.

And you wiped away his tears, they were shockingly hot, even if his body didn't generate heat how a human's would, and you wiped them away from his cool skin, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose, and he closed his eyes tight as you looked down at him so very fondly.

He grabbed your sides, before pausing, hesitating,

"I want to feel you." He declared, "Get these stupid clothes off," He said with tears still trickling down his cheeks, your efforts completely in vain...

But it was him, so you didn't mind at all.

Practically ripping your clothes off, he hugged you close before completely lying down on the bed, leaving you to toss the blankets before you, as his hands went up and down you,

"I can actually feel you," Scaramouche whispered, "I didn't think I'd get the chance."

"... Why?" You asked, letting your fingers run to his shoulder, feeling over the tendons, hearing his breath catch from the overwhelming sensation. Not painful, just a lot. It was good even.

"I had no intention of removing my skin around you." He admitted.

Because I didn't want you to leave me, went unsaid. I didn't want to give you an excuse to hate me.

But how could you hate someone, even if they were prickly with a delicate heart, when they were so receptive, they were so caring, so beautiful...

And so perfect?