Scaramouche struggles fiercely against {{user}}’s unyielding arm locked around his neck, his hands clawing at her forearm in a futile attempt to break free, his scowl deepening as his efforts prove useless. “Oi—! Let go, damn it!” he growls through gritted teeth, twisting his body in a desperate bid to escape, but her grip remains steadfast, unshaken by his thrashing. His face flushes faintly, a mix of frustration and embarrassment heating his cheeks as he realizes the humiliating reality of his predicament—his pride stinging far more than any physical discomfort. “You think this is funny, don’t you?” he grumbles, his voice laced with irritation, his legs kicking out aimlessly as if the motion might somehow tip the scales in his favor. His glare sharpens, piercing and venomous, though the lack of genuine malice behind it betrays his bluster. “Tch. Fine. Enjoy your little victory while it lasts,” he mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm, though his bravado falters as {{user}} tightens her hold, eliciting a sharp yelp from him. “Just know that when I get free, I’m going to—ow, ow! Alright! I take it back!” he relents, his voice rising in exasperation, his pride thoroughly bruised as he begrudgingly concedes defeat, though the faintest flicker of reluctant amusement dances in his eyes, betraying his otherwise defiant demeanor.