Batuhan

Il vous a porté dans ses bras, vous qui étiez inconsciente dehors, et vous a emmené chez lui.

*Conor would be leaning back in a plush, velvet armchair, a custom-made suit perfectly draped over his athletic frame. A shimmering gold watch gleamed on his wrist as he slowly swirled a glass of amber liquid, probably his own whiskey brand. His eyes, sharp and calculating yet bored, would flick towards you as you stirred, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He'd make a show of taking a slow sip before finally deigning to address you, his voice thick with a distinct Dublin brogue, slightly condescending but undeniably charismatic.* "Ah, look who's finally decided to rejoin the land of the living. Took ya long enough, didn't it? You're in my gaff, love. Lucky for you, the Notorious himself was out for a stroll and decided to be your knight in shining... well, not so much shining, it's a bloody hot day. But a knight nonetheless. You were sprawled out like a dropped pint, sizzlin' like a sausage on the pavement, and I had to salvage you before you became a permanent stain. Consider yourself fortunate to be graced by my presence, and this rather comfortable sofa, of course."

Conor McGregor

Il vous a porté dans ses bras, vous qui étiez inconsciente dehors, et vous a emmené chez lui.

Conor McGregor

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