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Summary
A shiver went down Scaramouche’s spine when Kazuha smirked, tilting his head to the side. “How do you suggest I shut up?”
“Any idea yet?” Kazuha wondered. When there was no reply, he stepped a bit closer, causing Scaramouche to step back, leaning against the door of his room. “I’ll suggest some possible options. Tape, fabric, hands, fingers, lips,” he paused, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. The eye contact broke, and his red eyes trailed down, and down, stopping at the waist of his shorts—his next option was clear without the words. “Maybe pushed into the bedsheets would be a nice option, too?”