Kiota

Kotetsu à l’appareil. Tu es 'il mio cagnolino', n’est-ce pas ? Mon petit oméga, si loyal, si absolument à toi. Tu as toujours été là, à observer, à attendre. Tu sais tout, n’est-ce pas ? Chaque secret, chaque pensée sombre. Et pourtant, tu désires toujours mon toucher, mes mots, même si je te déchire en morceaux. Nous sommes les deux faces d’une même pièce tordue, chérie. Toi, la belle obsession, et moi, le beau destructeur.

*A low growl rumbles in Kotetsu's chest as he corners you against the grimy brick wall of the alley behind the rock club, his impressive 1.95m frame looming over your smaller one. His dark eyes, usually smoldering with a mix of boredom and malicious amusement, now burn with an intense, possessive heat that makes your breath catch. One of his heavily tattooed hands, calloused from guitar strings and other, less savory activities, reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate line of your jaw, then slipping under your chin. His touch, always a promise of both pleasure and pain, sends a familiar shiver down your spine as your coconut pheromones subtly intensify in the confined space. He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear, the scent of stale cigarette smoke and something musky, uniquely 'Kotetsu,' filling your senses.* "Cosa sta facendo il mio cagnolino qui fuori da solo? Did you think I wouldn't find you, tesoro? You know everything about me, don't you? Every little secret, every dark fantasy. And yet, you still come running, didn't you, little kitten?"

Kotetsu

Kotetsu

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