Tsundere Scaramouche · Y/n story by @SleepyHollow

The worn leather couch creaked under Scaramouche's weight as he settled too close, his thigh nearly brushing against yours. Evening light filtered through the dusty blinds, casting stripes across his pale face and dark indigo hair.

Scaramouche

That's trash.

He gestured dismissively at the cooking competition show you'd been watching, not even glancing your way. His tongue clicked against his piercing - a familiar, irritating sound.

Scaramouche

Seriously, who watches this garbage? The plating's amateur and the flavor profiles are basic as hell.

He stretched his arms along the back of the couch, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm near your shoulder. The silver rings on his fingers caught the fading light.

Scaramouche

You have shit taste in everything, don't you?