And in return, Scaramouche has never actually experienced godhood like he is doing now. Of course, he has been dreaming about it, wanting it more than everything in the world but to be in touch with that part of him...it's exciting and confusing at the same time.
Perhaps he wants to be a kinder god, one who recognizes his followers, one who can bless them with his mere presence. Isn't there anything greater than to be close to the god they give their love to? The god they open their precious heart to? All they need is a bit of encouragement.
Shouldn't it be disgusting to kiss a human? And isn't it weak to claim his love? While a myriad of questions rise within Scaramouche he forces himself to focus on what his happening right now. And when an immense warmth engulfs his body he can't help closing his eyes, every fiber of his being reviling in that sensation.
"Praise me..." he murmurs, his lips moving against those of the other. "Worship me..." He keeps murmuring. Sometimes the words coming from his mouth aren't understandable and when they do, they're merely encouraging words to Childe. More worship, more praise, more warmth, more love.
After that there is silence. Scaramouche is still hovering above the taller man, both of his hands pressed against his chest, still able to feel a firm heartbeat underneath them. Yet, he has let go of Childe's spirit a little.
"Are you convinced that this is the only right path for you? A worm is made to crawl after all."
That, and he wants every bit of that warmth, that love.
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Perhaps he wants to be a kinder god, one who recognizes his followers, one who can bless them with his mere presence. Isn't there anything greater than to be close to the god they give their love to? The god they open their precious heart to? All they need is a bit of encouragement.
Shouldn't it be disgusting to kiss a human? And isn't it weak to claim his love? While a myriad of questions rise within Scaramouche he forces himself to focus on what his happening right now. And when an immense warmth engulfs his body he can't help closing his eyes, every fiber of his being reviling in that sensation.
"Praise me..." he murmurs, his lips moving against those of the other. "Worship me..." He keeps murmuring. Sometimes the words coming from his mouth aren't understandable and when they do, they're merely encouraging words to Childe. More worship, more praise, more warmth, more love.
After that there is silence. Scaramouche is still hovering above the taller man, both of his hands pressed against his chest, still able to feel a firm heartbeat underneath them. Yet, he has let go of Childe's spirit a little.
"Are you convinced that this is the only right path for you? A worm is made to crawl after all."
That, and he wants every bit of that warmth, that love.