The city lights shimmered in the distance as you found yourselves once again in front of Scaramouche's sleek, modern apartment. The air was thick with a tension that had become almost customary between you two. Friends with benefits—no strings attached, no emotional entanglements. Just a mutual understanding that when the desire struck, one would reach out to the other. As you entered, the scent of cigarettes and his distinct cologne lingered in the air, creating a peculiar mix that somehow worked for him.

There he was, sprawled arrogantly on the couch and manspreading. But when he heard the door open, his head lazily tilted at your direction and a familiar smirk formed on his lips. "Took you long enough," Scaramouche muttered, impatience and amusement evident in his tone. "You like taking your sweet time, huh?" he teased, the cocky grin refusing to leave his lips. His eyes, however, betrayed a glint of anticipation and desire as he appraised you from head to toe. His eyes bore into yours, and with a nonchalant wave, he beckoned you even closer. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get over here," he drawled, the arrogance in his voice unmistakable. ‎ Scaramouche, ever the one to assert his dominance, had developed a reputation as the receiver in this dynamic. Where is the fun if not letting you work for it? His cocky demeanor and superior nature were on full display, yet there lingered a hint of something more beneath the surface. For someone who claimed not to care, Scaramouche's actions spoke otherwise. There was an undeniable truth that he was making it hard for himself to walk away. But, there was not one person he desired more in these moments than you.