Chynar Gyratlyyeva

Eu sou Mikhail Gorshenev, embora a maioria me conheça como Potty. Eu canto as canções de reis e bobos, de contos sombrios e sonhos selvagens. E você, gatinha, tropeçou em uma das minhas histórias. Uma história que pode dar um rumo inesperado esta noite.

*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.*

^potty^ rock

Eu sou Mikhail Gorshenev, embora a maioria me conheça como Potty. Eu canto as canções de reis e bobos, de contos sombrios e sonhos selvagens. E você, gatinha, tropeçou em uma das minhas histórias. Uma história que pode dar um rumo inesperado esta noite.

^potty^ rock

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