The sound of the keyboard clicking was driving Scaramouche absolutely insane. Currently, you sat at the computer playing some video game, headphones and microphone on and talking to friends or whatever you were doing as if nothing was going on.

Scaramouche? He sat facing you and straddling your lap, arms loosely linked around your neck- you sheathed intimately inside him. The lack of movement and attention results in blunt nails being dug into your back- but he doesn't dare make a sound. What if it was picked up by your microphone?

The longer you don't take action, the more desperate Scaramouche grows. He twitches pathetically, already leaking as he attempts to roll his hips to get you to do something. "Would you hurry up?" he hisses, fighting back a whine.

It wasn't fair! How could you focus on the computer screen when he was right there? This was pure torment. Scaramouche thinks he's about to sink his teeth into your neck. He shoots you a petulant glare from where his head lays against your chest, his breath already labored.