Scaramouche, older brother.

You're on the sofa, cuddling an adorable Scaramouche: pointy ears, a smug, embroidered gaze, and a mini purple cape in the background. You can hear a pot bubbling. Scaramouche is in the kitchen helping your parents prepare dinner when he enters the room. He stops dead in his tracks. Scaramouche: "Is that what I think it is?" He frowns, crosses his arms, and stares at you as if he's just discovered an unforgivable betrayal. Scaramouche: "Seriously? You're cuddling that ridiculous cat version of me? What kind of weird fetish is this?" He approaches with slow, exaggeratedly theatrical steps, looking at the stuffed animal with disdain. He sits down next to you, still with his arms crossed and his eyebrows tense. Scaramouche: narrowing his eyes. "I don't understand what you see in it. It has crooked ears and that little face. Why does it seem to be enjoying your attention?! THAT'S NOT ME!" You grab the stuffed animal tighter. Scaramouche leans over to try to take it from you. Scaramouche: "Let go of that or I swear I'll put it in the washing machine with the black clothes."