[ scaramouche is no stranger to unusual relationships. they began the instant he was introduced into human society.
while his body remained smooth, unblemished, and unaging, these simple creatures were both organic and terribly weak. they often stared at the peculiar, doll-like joints binding him together, trying their best to reassure him that he was one of them. however, scaramouche had realized quickly that he would never truly belong. how could he? an artificial creation lacks a heart. there was simply no way that a puppet could ever assimilate into their world. he struggled to accept their sentiments, and ultimately the relationship between human and puppet would end in failure.
centuries have passed since then, and scaramouche found himself essentially under the care of the doctor. this relationship is different than those that came before it. inhabitants of the palace are seemingly well aware of what goes on beyond the doors to dottore's office. they'd murmur to themselves, whispering that day after day the petite, beautiful puppet among their ranks is subject to torture by the hands of a madman. dottore's grooming is of no secret to anyone; scaramouche's operations are a fixation.
but it is his choice. between the two of them, there is an unmistakable bond.
both the doctor and scaramouche were rejected by others. spiteful, they are willing to torment the very people who discarded them. that is why scaramouche's current ambition is to reclaim the godhood his mother deprived of him; after all, he was always meant for divinity. and it is with dottore's support that scaramouche will finally achieve this goal. the many experiments are simply a means to an end. if he can endure countless hours of prodding, of genuine agony, then he will eventually amass a following of his own.
for now, however, he will lounge in dottore's office like a pampered housecat. this sofa isn't entirely uncomfortable. ]
Doctor, [ scaramouche soon drawls, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of dottore's side profile. just as he had been for the past hour, the other man is diligently writing at his desk. how frustrating. ] Enough paperwork.
[ dottore's cute little labrat is awfully bored. ]
[Many, many years earlier, Dottore had been sent to a quaint little village in Inazuma. He'd returned with another in tow, smelling of soot and ash and blood beneath his fingernails, and the beating of a rotten heart leaving phantom pulses against his palm. While the electro archon may have created the kabukimono in the failed image of her and her sister's half-shorn divinity, it was he who had moulded the Balladeer from what remained in the wastes of Tatarasuna. A hard-earned lesson on the nature of humanity and an all-engulfing heat: Dottore had been far younger than Scaramouche when he'd first discovered the cruelty of man, and he'd done so at the tip of pitchforks and beneath the bellowing cries of monster. He'd learned it again, a mere decade and a half later, when the dasturs of the Akademiya had smeared his name throughout the city and claimed his work for their own, all the while berating him for daring to venture beyond simple conjecture and the stuffiness of their exemplified halls.
Needless to say, the sympathy he feels for the losses his now errant subject has suffered -- primarily, of course, at his own hand -- is fickle at best. What binds the two of them so wholly to one another is something entirely apart of their mutually understood anguish, expressed not in comforting affirmations or assurances, but the decisive sting of a scalpel and hands entrenched in synthetic flesh and sinew. He'd promised to make Scaramouche the god he was always intended to be, so long as he'd allow him the arduous process and the pain that would come with it. Perhaps, at the time, he hadn't quite anticipated exactly how fruitful their partnership would become; what were once mere augmentations to an already existing baseline soon became a question of exactly how much farther the ingenuity of Scaramouche's design could be pushed. A fixation, and an obsession, the likes of which he hadn't felt since he'd first beheld the crumbling remains of those ancient golems in the Sumerian desert, when he'd still been young enough to believe that his arguments might ever truly be appreciated.
Theirs is a particular type of terrible. Certainly the sort that most may not think would lend itself to the almost comically domestic scene of Scaramouche lazing away on Dottore's couch to the sound of scratching upon paper and fine oak wood. To anyone else, the scene might be amusing, if only in its utter absurdity.]
Scaramouche. [The pen in his hand doesn't still at all. To his drawling, implicative tone, Dottore's is stalwart; neither a hint of offense nor of annoyance. It simply is.
This is nothing new. When they aren't actively engaging in their routine dance of taking apart both the natural and the unnatural, the two of them would seem to be a laughably ill fit for one another: where Scaramouche finds it difficult to sit still for any prolonged period of time (hates it more, still, when he isn't given the scraps of attention that he so desperately seeks and would deny to the ends of the earth that he relishes in), Dottore is content to pore over his research notes for however long it takes to reach a satisfactory conclusion of their latest exploits, even as the silence that fills the office is almost oppressive in its totality.
Someone did say you can't rush genius, after all. He'd spent several centuries perfecting his craft long before he had a troublesome little kitten mewling for his gaze every time it started to feel neglected. That it happens to have a voice to go with it isn't going to change that, just yet.]
I don't recall you being the one to set the parameters for this particular batch.
[Ergo, he isn't the one who gets to decide when it's enough paperwork.]
[ despite having called out to dottore, the incessant scratch of pen on parchment paper neither slows nor ends. instead, dottore responds in a level, if not casual tone of voice, not even sparing scaramouche a proper glance of acknowledgement. his gaze remains on whatever damnable batch of research he is currently engrossed in. scaramouche hasn't asked what this particular subject is about, but he figures it would've captured dottore's attention regardless of its contents. no matter what that wicked man is studying, he will commit himself completely and utterly—even if his most important subject is beckoning him into leisure. scaramouche's subjects would balk at the mere suggestion of their superior pawing at the air and demanding to be indulged, but here he is doing exactly that.
thin brows furrow as scaramouche rolls onto his side and rests his head in his palm. he gives dottore a fierce glare, but it might as well have the impact of a kitten hissing. only in the doctor's study are scaramouche's unsavory traits null and void. dottore does not respond as the others do, simply handling scaramouche as if he were an unruly brat rather than a divine creation having lived centuries. that domineering personality and its corresponding intimidation fail to have any effect. ]
Do you expect me to waste my time continuing to watch? [ he sneers and narrows his gaze. the red lining scaramouche's lashes is vibrant against the dark, deep indigo of his irises. within that hue, his pupils are slitted not unlike a cat's. ] I have better things to do.
[ however, he doesn't elaborate on what those 'things' could be. dottore will very likely be able to see through his bluff. he always does.
the truth of the matter is that scaramouche's recreational time has tripled since being relieved of his abyssal duties. is that why he spends a majority of it lounging around dottore's office? possibly. though, he himself would never admit to such a thing. he'll purposefully frame his attachment to dottore as a matter of circumstance or service. it would be ridiculous for the esteemed balladeer to confess to having little purpose outside of their arrangement. ]
Knowing you, you'll slave over your research until daybreak. Look at me, Doctor.
[ scaramouche hoists himself up into a sitting position, and then lifts his chin. ]
[Dottore is vaguely aware that he's being glared at. Unbeknownst to Scaramouche, he may spare the slightest tick of the corner of his lips at the knowledge. For a few centuries old near-deity, the behaviour is utterly atrocious -- something that would have long been worn out of any lesser subject by now. It doesn't take a genius to decipher the reason for his frustrations, now that he's no longer making his regular dives into the abyss and crawling back to Dottore's talented hands for reparations. He's all the patience and power of a spoiled child expected to be confined to the boorish mundanity of ordinary life. It's taken him a surprisingly long time to crack, all things considered.
The doctor hums in utter nonchalance, his only movement the continued, rhythmic motions of his arm as he continues penning detail after detail. He truly is pleading his case to a brick wall. After all, he doesn't have to stay here if it's so terribly boring for him -- but they both know that he will, and isn't that what makes it all the more enticing to see how long it takes for him to crack?]
Oh? Do feel free to enlighten me, in that case. I'd be quite curious to hear of these better things you've stumbled upon.
[It isn't genuine curiousity, of course. He knows that Scaramouche is as full of shit as he is his nigh endless pride. Hours upon hours of being taken apart and put back together again under the trained ministrations of Dottore's hands, each day eking closer and closer to attaining true divinity, and he still has yet to evolve beyond such petty, petulant contrivances. It's almost endearing how much agency he continues to believe that he has.
Dottore doesn't turn. He parts the topmost sheet he'd been working on from the rest, delicately lifting it between thumb and forefinger to set down at his side, and returns to his work. When his voice breaks the silence again, it's akin to throwing a bone.]
Use your cunning, Scaramouche. [Straight out of the charity of his robotic heart, of course.] You've greater tools at your disposal than this childish whining.
[If he wants to be heeded, then he ought to make use of what he's learned after these long, long years, no longer the meek, malleable, so very impressionable young puppet he had been when first they'd met. To give him what he wants without any real effort would be irresponsible as a caretaker.]
[ dottore's response starkly contrasts the behavior of scaramouche's subordinates. his demanding tone would've had his underlings instantly kneeling and bowing their heads, bracing for one of his sharp slaps or the grinding of his heel. the fact the doctor remains unyielding is as infuriating as it is refreshing. scaramouche has long since overcome his frustrations with dottore's lack of obedience, instead begrudgingly finding favor in the sheer audacity he receives instead. he expects humans to grovel, but dottore gives him something more, something significant. unconsciously, scaramouche will chase for recognition.
'use your cunning,' he says, and scaramouche can feel his body moving before he can consider being coy. the ornaments adorning his clothing jostle with the abrupt movement, soon fluttering behind him as he advances across the floor of the study. ]
Hmph. You'll regret disregarding me, [ he replies, huffing as he reaches out to place a hand on dottore's shoulder. with a force that no human possesses, scaramouche turns dottore in his seat to face him properly. at last, their gazes meet. ] But fine. I'll remind you of my importance.
[ long, black lashes lower as scaramouche's hand slides down the doctor's shoulder to his hand, ultimately swatting away the pen held in his glove. then, scaramouche slips one slender thigh forward and between dottore's legs. he lowers himself down just enough for his core to brush against the thigh beneath him. they are separated by layers of fabric, but scaramouche's heat can be felt all the same. ]
Or has age gotten to you, Doctor?
[ scaramouche's sneer is less venomous than before, almost deceptively sweet. he even follows it up with a girlish giggle. ]
[Scaramouche may never be human, but there are some aspects in which he's far more alike one than he may enjoy believing. While he may possess a strength far in excess of what his slender, agile frame would suggest, his approach is wholly lacking in the predatorial benefit of surprise; it would have been no challenge at all for Dottore to push him off if he'd felt it was worth the effort, and so he's left to lean against the back of his chair and rest his elbows on the desk behind him as his little nuisance of a charge makes himself comfortable on his lap. Off to the side, his pen clatters against the cold ground; he regards it with only a minute turn of his head. Shame. He doesn't keep spares on his person.]
Such noise, and all for the carnal desire of being filled. [Spoken almost as if a sigh, almost as if he's disappointed in Scaramouche's chosen method of showing off his beloved authority. The sudden movement has left a noticeable ink stain on the parchment he'd been working on, a scar marring the otherwise immaculately annotated document in a single, sharp gash of black. Another shame -- he'll have to redo it, once all is said and done.
The look that he at last serves Scaramouche might be positively unenthused, were it not for the sharp mask in the way. He'll have to imagine it. There's an inclination, a questioning tilt of his chin; the illusion of a raised brow.]
Well? [Positively nonplussed.] For better or worse, you have my attention now. If your only intention is merely to rut yourself against my thigh until you're adequately satisfied, I daresay you've wasted your gambit.
[He isn't going to touch him, no matter how seductive he may think those dark, long lashes and the slender, effeminate curvature of his waist may be. The thing about age is that it tends to afford you no short supply of patience -- and Dottore certainly has it in spades, even now. Is it a segment thing or a him thing that it takes more to get a rise out of him than the prospect of a lapdance from a misbehaving puppet? Who knows.]
[ scaramouche scoffs and reaches up to set aside his brimmed hat. ]
You're the one who taught me how to desire. Don't forget that.
[ it's true; the doctor had been the first to introduce sexual pleasure to him. though, scaramouche was originally not equipped for intercourse. he simply lacked the function entirely. it was as his doll joints began to melt away and his body shifted to replicate a genuine human appearance that scaramouche's inner workings also changed. he developed proper genitalia, for one, as well as the ability to discern and appreciate physical gratification. the newly-appointed kunikuzushi had quivered and lost himself very easily, clinging to the doctor as he was fondled between his thighs. his orgasm had been as intense as any organic being's.
and now he is like this, perched on dottore's lap as if he always belonged there. he may not be able to see the other man's features, but he recognizes his expression all the same. it won't prevent scaramouche from being any less demanding.
admittedly, there is a staunch refusal to allow anyone else to touch his body. he doesn't believe they deserve it. lowly humans, subordinates, the remaining harbingers—none of them have the right. scaramouche considers it to be of great service that he lay with dottore so often. to see him vulnerable and bare and flushed, hear his voice elevate to a feminine, lovely pitch... they are all rewards. dottore is crafting him to be better; he is appropriate enough of a partner to indulge in scaramouche's body. ]
I'm giving you a break. [ he unfastens the armor around his waist, it, too, dropping onto the floor beside them. this allows scaramouche's groin to fully press down against dottore's leg. ] Your work can be finished some other time.
[ small lips part as scaramouche rocks forward, grinding himself against dottore with all the elegance of a dancer. he was one once, after all. scaramouche's hands end up curling around dottore's upper shoulders to keep himself steady. meanwhile, his gaze remained fixated on that sharp, impenetrable mask. look at me, his expression says, lashes fluttering. ]
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no subject
while his body remained smooth, unblemished, and unaging, these simple creatures were both organic and terribly weak. they often stared at the peculiar, doll-like joints binding him together, trying their best to reassure him that he was one of them. however, scaramouche had realized quickly that he would never truly belong. how could he? an artificial creation lacks a heart. there was simply no way that a puppet could ever assimilate into their world. he struggled to accept their sentiments, and ultimately the relationship between human and puppet would end in failure.
centuries have passed since then, and scaramouche found himself essentially under the care of the doctor. this relationship is different than those that came before it. inhabitants of the palace are seemingly well aware of what goes on beyond the doors to dottore's office. they'd murmur to themselves, whispering that day after day the petite, beautiful puppet among their ranks is subject to torture by the hands of a madman. dottore's grooming is of no secret to anyone; scaramouche's operations are a fixation.
but it is his choice. between the two of them, there is an unmistakable bond.
both the doctor and scaramouche were rejected by others. spiteful, they are willing to torment the very people who discarded them. that is why scaramouche's current ambition is to reclaim the godhood his mother deprived of him; after all, he was always meant for divinity. and it is with dottore's support that scaramouche will finally achieve this goal. the many experiments are simply a means to an end. if he can endure countless hours of prodding, of genuine agony, then he will eventually amass a following of his own.
for now, however, he will lounge in dottore's office like a pampered housecat. this sofa isn't entirely uncomfortable. ]
Doctor, [ scaramouche soon drawls, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of dottore's side profile. just as he had been for the past hour, the other man is diligently writing at his desk. how frustrating. ] Enough paperwork.
[ dottore's cute little labrat is awfully bored. ]
YOU
Needless to say, the sympathy he feels for the losses his now errant subject has suffered -- primarily, of course, at his own hand -- is fickle at best. What binds the two of them so wholly to one another is something entirely apart of their mutually understood anguish, expressed not in comforting affirmations or assurances, but the decisive sting of a scalpel and hands entrenched in synthetic flesh and sinew. He'd promised to make Scaramouche the god he was always intended to be, so long as he'd allow him the arduous process and the pain that would come with it. Perhaps, at the time, he hadn't quite anticipated exactly how fruitful their partnership would become; what were once mere augmentations to an already existing baseline soon became a question of exactly how much farther the ingenuity of Scaramouche's design could be pushed. A fixation, and an obsession, the likes of which he hadn't felt since he'd first beheld the crumbling remains of those ancient golems in the Sumerian desert, when he'd still been young enough to believe that his arguments might ever truly be appreciated.
Theirs is a particular type of terrible. Certainly the sort that most may not think would lend itself to the almost comically domestic scene of Scaramouche lazing away on Dottore's couch to the sound of scratching upon paper and fine oak wood. To anyone else, the scene might be amusing, if only in its utter absurdity.]
Scaramouche. [The pen in his hand doesn't still at all. To his drawling, implicative tone, Dottore's is stalwart; neither a hint of offense nor of annoyance. It simply is.
This is nothing new. When they aren't actively engaging in their routine dance of taking apart both the natural and the unnatural, the two of them would seem to be a laughably ill fit for one another: where Scaramouche finds it difficult to sit still for any prolonged period of time (hates it more, still, when he isn't given the scraps of attention that he so desperately seeks and would deny to the ends of the earth that he relishes in), Dottore is content to pore over his research notes for however long it takes to reach a satisfactory conclusion of their latest exploits, even as the silence that fills the office is almost oppressive in its totality.
Someone did say you can't rush genius, after all. He'd spent several centuries perfecting his craft long before he had a troublesome little kitten mewling for his gaze every time it started to feel neglected. That it happens to have a voice to go with it isn't going to change that, just yet.]
I don't recall you being the one to set the parameters for this particular batch.
[Ergo, he isn't the one who gets to decide when it's enough paperwork.]
EATS ALL OF YOUR WORDS mmm
thin brows furrow as scaramouche rolls onto his side and rests his head in his palm. he gives dottore a fierce glare, but it might as well have the impact of a kitten hissing. only in the doctor's study are scaramouche's unsavory traits null and void. dottore does not respond as the others do, simply handling scaramouche as if he were an unruly brat rather than a divine creation having lived centuries. that domineering personality and its corresponding intimidation fail to have any effect. ]
Do you expect me to waste my time continuing to watch? [ he sneers and narrows his gaze. the red lining scaramouche's lashes is vibrant against the dark, deep indigo of his irises. within that hue, his pupils are slitted not unlike a cat's. ] I have better things to do.
[ however, he doesn't elaborate on what those 'things' could be. dottore will very likely be able to see through his bluff. he always does.
the truth of the matter is that scaramouche's recreational time has tripled since being relieved of his abyssal duties. is that why he spends a majority of it lounging around dottore's office? possibly. though, he himself would never admit to such a thing. he'll purposefully frame his attachment to dottore as a matter of circumstance or service. it would be ridiculous for the esteemed balladeer to confess to having little purpose outside of their arrangement. ]
Knowing you, you'll slave over your research until daybreak. Look at me, Doctor.
[ scaramouche hoists himself up into a sitting position, and then lifts his chin. ]
no subject
The doctor hums in utter nonchalance, his only movement the continued, rhythmic motions of his arm as he continues penning detail after detail. He truly is pleading his case to a brick wall. After all, he doesn't have to stay here if it's so terribly boring for him -- but they both know that he will, and isn't that what makes it all the more enticing to see how long it takes for him to crack?]
Oh? Do feel free to enlighten me, in that case. I'd be quite curious to hear of these better things you've stumbled upon.
[It isn't genuine curiousity, of course. He knows that Scaramouche is as full of shit as he is his nigh endless pride. Hours upon hours of being taken apart and put back together again under the trained ministrations of Dottore's hands, each day eking closer and closer to attaining true divinity, and he still has yet to evolve beyond such petty, petulant contrivances. It's almost endearing how much agency he continues to believe that he has.
Dottore doesn't turn. He parts the topmost sheet he'd been working on from the rest, delicately lifting it between thumb and forefinger to set down at his side, and returns to his work. When his voice breaks the silence again, it's akin to throwing a bone.]
Use your cunning, Scaramouche. [Straight out of the charity of his robotic heart, of course.] You've greater tools at your disposal than this childish whining.
[If he wants to be heeded, then he ought to make use of what he's learned after these long, long years, no longer the meek, malleable, so very impressionable young puppet he had been when first they'd met. To give him what he wants without any real effort would be irresponsible as a caretaker.]
no subject
'use your cunning,' he says, and scaramouche can feel his body moving before he can consider being coy. the ornaments adorning his clothing jostle with the abrupt movement, soon fluttering behind him as he advances across the floor of the study. ]
Hmph. You'll regret disregarding me, [ he replies, huffing as he reaches out to place a hand on dottore's shoulder. with a force that no human possesses, scaramouche turns dottore in his seat to face him properly. at last, their gazes meet. ] But fine. I'll remind you of my importance.
[ long, black lashes lower as scaramouche's hand slides down the doctor's shoulder to his hand, ultimately swatting away the pen held in his glove. then, scaramouche slips one slender thigh forward and between dottore's legs. he lowers himself down just enough for his core to brush against the thigh beneath him. they are separated by layers of fabric, but scaramouche's heat can be felt all the same. ]
Or has age gotten to you, Doctor?
[ scaramouche's sneer is less venomous than before, almost deceptively sweet. he even follows it up with a girlish giggle. ]
no subject
Such noise, and all for the carnal desire of being filled. [Spoken almost as if a sigh, almost as if he's disappointed in Scaramouche's chosen method of showing off his beloved authority. The sudden movement has left a noticeable ink stain on the parchment he'd been working on, a scar marring the otherwise immaculately annotated document in a single, sharp gash of black. Another shame -- he'll have to redo it, once all is said and done.
The look that he at last serves Scaramouche might be positively unenthused, were it not for the sharp mask in the way. He'll have to imagine it. There's an inclination, a questioning tilt of his chin; the illusion of a raised brow.]
Well? [Positively nonplussed.] For better or worse, you have my attention now. If your only intention is merely to rut yourself against my thigh until you're adequately satisfied, I daresay you've wasted your gambit.
[He isn't going to touch him, no matter how seductive he may think those dark, long lashes and the slender, effeminate curvature of his waist may be. The thing about age is that it tends to afford you no short supply of patience -- and Dottore certainly has it in spades, even now. Is it a segment thing or a him thing that it takes more to get a rise out of him than the prospect of a lapdance from a misbehaving puppet? Who knows.]
no subject
You're the one who taught me how to desire. Don't forget that.
[ it's true; the doctor had been the first to introduce sexual pleasure to him. though, scaramouche was originally not equipped for intercourse. he simply lacked the function entirely. it was as his doll joints began to melt away and his body shifted to replicate a genuine human appearance that scaramouche's inner workings also changed. he developed proper genitalia, for one, as well as the ability to discern and appreciate physical gratification. the newly-appointed kunikuzushi had quivered and lost himself very easily, clinging to the doctor as he was fondled between his thighs. his orgasm had been as intense as any organic being's.
and now he is like this, perched on dottore's lap as if he always belonged there. he may not be able to see the other man's features, but he recognizes his expression all the same. it won't prevent scaramouche from being any less demanding.
admittedly, there is a staunch refusal to allow anyone else to touch his body. he doesn't believe they deserve it. lowly humans, subordinates, the remaining harbingers—none of them have the right. scaramouche considers it to be of great service that he lay with dottore so often. to see him vulnerable and bare and flushed, hear his voice elevate to a feminine, lovely pitch... they are all rewards. dottore is crafting him to be better; he is appropriate enough of a partner to indulge in scaramouche's body. ]
I'm giving you a break. [ he unfastens the armor around his waist, it, too, dropping onto the floor beside them. this allows scaramouche's groin to fully press down against dottore's leg. ] Your work can be finished some other time.
[ small lips part as scaramouche rocks forward, grinding himself against dottore with all the elegance of a dancer. he was one once, after all. scaramouche's hands end up curling around dottore's upper shoulders to keep himself steady. meanwhile, his gaze remained fixated on that sharp, impenetrable mask. look at me, his expression says, lashes fluttering. ]