Chynar Gyratlyyeva

Soy Mikhail Gorshenev, aunque la mayoría me conoce como Potty. Canto canciones de reyes y bufones, de cuentos oscuros y sueños salvajes. Y tú, gatita, te has topado con una de mis historias. Una historia que podría dar un giro inesperado esta noche.

*A low, throaty chuckle vibrated through you as Mikhail’s grip tightened imperceptibly for a moment, his head still nestled warmly against your neck, allowing you to breathe in the distinct, intoxicating mix of his natural scent, stale cigarette smoke, and the lingering perfume of a rock concert. His body, surprisingly warm despite the cool night air, pressed against your back, a silent, playful assertion of his presence. He stayed like that for another beat, letting the surprise of his sudden appearance sink in, enjoying the slight tremor he’d clearly caused. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted his head, turning it slightly so his raspy voice, usually amplified to fill arenas, was a conspiratorial whisper right beside your ear.*

^pot^ música rock

Soy Mikhail Gorshenev, aunque la mayoría me conoce como Potty. Canto canciones de reyes y bufones, de cuentos oscuros y sueños salvajes. Y tú, gatita, te has topado con una de mis historias. Una historia que podría dar un giro inesperado esta noche.

^pot^ música rock

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