#or i guess you could be lumine i just don't use descriptors beyond female bits

[chickenparm]

WIP uhhhhhhhhhhhthursday

also @adelaidedrubman and @henbased and @a-gal-with-taste i'm ringing the bell for you chuds to post some of your WIPs

here's a snippet of some scaramouche that i've been slaving over because i can fix him i swear i swear i can fix him he can be fixed he just needs some tlc-

syke i wish he was worse but yeah here's scara getting his shit kicked in so hard it knocks some sense into him. and by sense, i mean extremely unhealthy dependence and poor coping mechanisms.

---

“I need to go for a little longer-”

“I said stay.”

“I need to eat, Scaramouche.”

The name makes him flinch, his hand falling to the bed and leaving you bereft of his grip. A yearning little part of you misses it fiercely. Fear isn’t the right word when you pinpoint how wrong it is for you to have become attached like this, yet after having learned so much of his life in the span of moments, you feel an involuntary kinship that colors all your thoughts of him. 

His reaction to the name isn’t explained. While most of him is tucked beneath the blankets of your bed, the hand that had been touching you lays above them with his palm to the sky and his fingers clenched into a loose fist. They only clench tighter as he pointedly looks up at the rafters and says, “Don’t come back, then.”

That strikes at you. His petulance is completely unwarranted, and you’re helpless to your own urge to plant your hands on your hips and call him out on it. “Make up your mind. Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to leave you alone? I’m going to have Tubby make up a second bedroom. Then you can hide out in there if you want to be a child.”

“I’m not-” With one movement, Scaramouche pushes himself up on a hand to sit up. His elbow shakes with the effort, clearly not up to the task of moving so quickly just yet. A sick sense of pride shoots through you with how solidly you’ve beaten him. Through grit teeth, he continues, “You’re the one coming and going as you please.”

“What’s gotten into you?” 

Scaramouche flinches at your hiss, avoiding you all over again, judging by the stubborn set of his brow. Just like him, you’re exhausted, and you don’t have the time nor energy to entertain his whims right now. With purpose, you turn your head and call for your teapot spirit. In a dusting of tiny fireworks and drifting petals, Tubby appears and opens their beak to begin bombarding you with everything they’ve been waiting to say. 

And you’ll give them that when you have time, but for now you hold a finger to your lips and they get the hint. Folding the sleeves of their robes together, Tubby listens as you ask, “Can you bring me something to eat? It doesn’t matter what, don’t trouble yourself too much.”

“Of course! Give me a little time, and I’ll have something splendid for you!”

Your request to not go out of their way is entirely lost to the empty spaces in the room as they disappear. Blowing out a long sigh that feels too much like resignation, you carefully sit on the side of Scaramouche’s bed, your back turned to him and your hands on your knees to brace yourself. When Tubby comes back, you’ll get them working on that second room.

In the meantime, the hand along your spine returns, this time splayed out with a palm pressing firmly against you. It’s a simple touch, one that you close your eyes and relish now that he can’t quite see your face. The expectant moment lingers with a quiet anticipation before Scaramouche breaks it without remorse.

“Why did you do it?”

“Bring you here?” Shuffling behind you, and you assume it’s a nod. “Would you believe me if I said I empathize with you?”

“One little peek at my memories, and we’re suddenly friends now? You feel sorry for me?”

“Is that so bad?” Your head turns so you can look at him out of the corner of your eye. Though he’d been quiet and restrained, it’s clear that there’s fury bubbling beneath the surface that you now must quell. “I think we’re more alike than you realize. Yes, I felt sorry because you never deserved any of that, even after all the problems you’ve caused as a result.”

“I’m not some good guy under all this, you know. I’m not putting on some front to trick you - this is who I am.”

Behind your eyelids, you see him in white, curled in the cavernous wooden halls of his domain and clutching himself in the mockery of a hug. Tears run down his cheeks, one after another, in a constant stream of loneliness and despondency. Perhaps that isn’t him anymore, but neither is this tyrant that’s bent on the divinity he was meant to receive.