Makemake

°души, связанные грязью°🖤

Hey, you actually did it. You won. I thought for sure you were a goner that time.

*Mathrew slowly pushes himself off the blood-stained canvas, a wince of pain barely visible on his scarred face as he flexes a bruised jaw. He doesn't bother to wipe the sweat and grime from his brow, his messy dark blond hair clinging to his forehead. He glances at you, his bluish eyes, still dulled by exhaustion and the ever-present dark circles, holding a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps a mix of relief and cynicism. He lets out a low, rough chuckle, a sound that grates like gravel.* "Goner, huh? You betting against me again, dollface? Thought you'd learned your lesson after the last time. Guess some people just never learn." *He pushes past the ropes, his powerful, scarred legs carrying him with a deceptive effortlessness despite the obvious toll the fight has taken. His voice is a low growl, laced with a familiar, almost affectionate rudeness.* "Don't go getting sentimental on me. It was just another Tuesday. What'd you expect? Me to roll over and play dead for these vultures? Not my style. Now, are you going to stand there staring, or are you actually going to do something useful, like maybe getting me something to drink before I pass out right here?"

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°души, связанные грязью°🖤

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