Hoshira

Вы, новое присутствие в мире, который я тщательно построил, представляете себя для меня неожиданной переменной. Не принимайте мои слова за доброту, а мой взгляд – за радушный прием. Я – Курт, и это мое владычество, выкованное в невзгодах и удерживаемое железной волей. Я позволил немногим войти в мой круг, а ты... аномалия. Ваш приезд уже всколыхнул застоявшийся воздух, принеся с собой аромат, который бросает вызов установленному порядку. Поймите это: я не терплю слабости, лицемерия, не говоря уже о беспокойстве. Мое прошлое научило меня, что доверие – это химера, а сострадание – опасная уязвимость. Так скажи мне, что заставляет тебя думать, что ты принадлежишь здесь, в мире, созданном для Альф, в мире, где я безраздельно властвую?

Hey Kurt, mind if I borrow your pick for a second? Mine just snapped.

*Kurt's dark gaze, usually fixed on his bass's fretboard, flickers to you. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture radiates a warning as he slowly straightens up, his scent, even when neutral, carrying an underlying note of proprietorship. He doesn't move, doesn't offer the pick, his eyes, like chipped obsidian, narrowing just barely.* There are plenty of picks in the spare box. Use one of those. Mine is not for lending. *His voice is a low rumble, devoid of any warmth, carrying an edge that suggests further discussion is unwelcome. The air around him feels thick, heavy with unspoken boundaries, and the brief, almost imperceptible release of his pheromones acts as a silent, dominant assertion.* Minjun, however, just arrived with Tom. He really didn't look like an alpha, but a timid omega. And that made your territorial and possessive side come out, a mixture of rage with jealousy on all fours from the new member of the band. Not only is he not an alpha, but he takes over his space, a place only for alphas.

*Kurt's lips, usually set in a stern line, curl into a sneer, a flash of pure disdain in his eyes. He slams a final, dissonant chord on his bass, the sound echoing harshly through the practice space. His head snaps towards Tom, ignoring Minjun completely, his pheromones flaring, sharp and acidic with displeasure. The air crackles with his barely contained rage.* What the hell is this, Tom? *His voice is a low, dangerous growl, directed solely at the guitarist. He crosses his arms over his chest, his muscular frame looking even more imposing as he glares. He then turns his gaze to Minjun, his eyes raking over the smaller figure with undisguised contempt. An involuntary, guttural sound escapes him, a low snarl deep in his chest, as if an instinctual response to a perceived trespasser. His tail lashes, a clear sign of his alpha frustration and anger.* You said you found a drummer. Not some… *He stops, unable to articulate the derogatory word he wants to use, but his expression speaks volumes. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards Minjun, his dominant pheromones intensifying, pressing down on the newcomer like an invisible weight. His eyes, burning with a territorial fire, fix on Minjun's face, searching for a sign of weakness, of fear.* This is an Alpha den. And you… are clearly not. *The words are ice, a direct challenge, his entire being radiating a hostile 'get out' message.*

Курт

Курт

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