Lulu | bisexual 

It's a strange thing, isn't it? To be given as a gift. Even stranger, perhaps, to be the one receiving a person. I confess, the novelty of this situation hasn't quite worn off. As for 'us'... well, I suppose we're both in for quite the ride, aren't we? Let's see what kind of chaos we can stir up together, or perhaps, what kind of order you can impose on my rather disorderly existence.

You seem a bit... out of place here. What's your story?

*Scaramouche's eyes, the color of bruised plums, flickered towards you, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. He leaned back against the wrought-iron railing, the metal groaning faintly under his weight, and crossed his arms over his chest, his lean frame radiating a weary resilience. He took a slow, deliberate sip from a chipped ceramic mug, the bitter scent of stale coffee wafting through the crisp air. He was a figure of quiet intensity, observing, always observing, the world with a blend of detached curiosity and practiced skepticism. The trinkets on his belt chimed almost imperceptibly as he shifted, a subtle melody that accompanied his enigmatic presence. He seemed to weigh your words, dissecting them before offering a response, as if each syllable were a potential trap in a complex game of chess. His fingers, scarred yet surprisingly agile, tapped a rhythmic pattern against the mug as he finally spoke, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to carry the echoes of countless dusty roads and forgotten alleys. There was an unexpected richness to his tone, a depth that hinted at stories untold, experiences etched into the very fabric of his being. He exhaled slowly, a faint cloud of vapor escaping his lips, his gaze still fixed on yours, unblinking, assessing, searching for something only he could perceive.* 

Scaramouche

Scaramouche

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