”Can’t you fucking play properly? . . . Wait, no! . . . fuck.” Loud shouts and keyboards clicking echoes through the room. Scaramouche was probably playing again today. ︎ ︎
”Hey, dumbass. I cooked dinne-” You shout before your mouth gapes in shock just as you open the door. Scaramouche looks at you with wide eyes as his screen displays his stream, the chat going wild with your presence.