#everything i do is just trying to find the feeling of this game again

[lelengerine]

pairing. jeno x reader

synopsis. based on this req <3

genre. friends to lovers au, very much situationship vibes at first, a LOT of overthinking being done >:D, honestly they're a little dumb for not realizing eo's feelings... lmk if anything was missed!

wc. 1.0k words

notes. ahhh i absolutely loved writing this TAT i really feel like jeno would be the type of person you'd be in this kind of situation with,, u are so right for this anon!! likes and feedback are highly appreciated!

m.list

it was one of those things you never gave much thought to in the beginning—a brush of fingers as you passed jeno a drink, the occasional accidental graze of hands when you walked side by side. but lately, it was happening more often, and the frequency was something you noticed more often than not. your pinkies would always linger in each other’s proximity just a beat too long, like they were waiting for permission to stay, yet despite this, neither of you ever said anything to address it. what was there to say? you told yourself not to overthink it. jeno was your best friend, and best friends were allowed to be close. right?

but now, the subtle touches had turned into something else. you’d been holding hands, and not just in fleeting, momentary grasps, but in quiet moments where neither of you dared to pull away. it started with using little things as an excuse—safety while crossing the street, blaming the chill of the weather, sitting close enough that his hand would somehow find yours, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

that also meant it had become impossible to ignore. 

today, you sat across from jeno at the café you both loved, the one with the worn, wooden tables and the smell of fresh pastries that made the place feel like home. the late afternoon sun filtered through the large windows, casting a soft golden glow over everything. it should’ve been relaxing, like usual, but today there was an undercurrent of something different in the air. the conversation flowed like usual—random topics, the comfortable back and forth you both were so good at, but you kept getting distracted.

your hand rested next to jeno’s on the table, the space between them feeling charged with unspoken words. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but now every shift, every little movement, felt like a dance—as if you were both painfully aware of how close you were but too afraid to do anything about it. 

your gaze eventually flickered to the sight of your hand, coming to realize that your hands were unknowingly inching closer to each other again. jeno had large hands, littered with callouses from countless hours of playing video games at midnight. yours were much smaller and had that delicate look to it, but somehow the contrast seemed just right when they were together.

you shook yourself out of your thoughts, forcing your attention back to what jeno was saying; something about the latest hobby he picked up from his friend, photography, and how he was trying to capture the little details that people often overlooked for the past week. you tried to focus—you really did—but the weight of your own thoughts kept pulling you back.

“hey,” the sound of his voice cut through your reverie, and you blinked, startled to find him watching you. his eyes, which were usually playful, held something deeper, like he was trying to figure something out. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you replied too quickly for your liking, feeling your pulse quicken. “just... spaced out for a second.”

but jeno didn’t seem convinced. his gaze lingered on you a moment longer, then drifted down to where your hands still rested—close, but not quite touching. his lips quirked up into a small, almost nervous smile. “can i ask you something?”

“sure.” if his goal was to rub off his nervousness onto you, then he surely succeeded because you were beginning to sweat buckets on the inside, a painful anticipation bubbling within you.

he rubbed the back of his neck in that way he always did when he was about to say something serious. you’d seen that look before—before exams, before difficult conversations about the future, but this felt different. “what are we?”

“what do you mean?” you asked, your voice betraying the calm you were trying to project. you knew exactly what he meant, but hearing it out loud was something else entirely. it was the question you had been avoiding, the one you thought maybe, just maybe, would never need to be asked.

jeno's eyes searched yours, as if he were looking for the answer that neither of you had dared to say. he hesitated, his hand finally shifting closer, fingers brushing against yours so lightly it sent a shiver down your spine. “i don’t know,” he admitted softly, “but we’ve been—” he stopped, glancing down at your hands again. “we’ve been coming to cafes together, sharing bites of our meals, even holding hands in public and... it doesn’t feel like something best friends normally do anymore.”

“i noticed,” you admitted quietly, your breath catching as your thumb brushed over his without thinking.

he nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. “so… what are we doing? are we just—” he paused, searching for the right words, “—pretending this doesn’t mean anything?”

you couldn’t help but laugh softly, though it was tinged with nervousness. “i don’t know,” you whispered. “i don’t know what we are.”

your mind was racing, trying to piece together all the feelings you’d been pushing down. you’d convinced yourself that it was nothing, that you were just overthinking things. but now, looking at him, feeling the way his fingers curled around yours like he was afraid to let go, you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore.

you closed your eyes for a brief second, willing the courage to surface. “but i do know that i like you,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “probably more than i should if you only see me as a friend.”

the weight of your words hung between you, and for a terrifying moment, you thought you’d made a mistake—that maybe you’d just ruined everything. but when you looked up, jeno wasn’t pulling away. if anything, he was leaning closer, his expression softening in a way you hadn’t expected.

“more than a friend?” he asked, his voice tinged with something between disbelief and hope.

you nodded slowly, your heart in your throat. “yeah. more than a friend.”

jeno was quiet for a long moment, his eyes never leaving yours, and when he finally spoke, his voice was gentle. “good,” he whispered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “because i feel the same.”

[lucimaaie]

we pt2 ✧.* tlou

pairing - santa barbara!ellie x reader

summary - you ask ellie one of the questions you'd saved for later.

a/n - wrote this with sick brain so if sum make sense im srry, fluff, also i got a pt 3 & 4 coming cause i randomly got motivated

part 1

a couple of nights later, you and ellie had got closer in the non-physical sense. it practically took a game of twenty questions to get her to open up, but she promised she was trying.

she distracted herself with always touching you in some way. choosing to focus on the way your skin felt beneath her fingertips rather than fully showing herself to you.

“were you serious about moving south?” ellie’s hands froze their motions on your arms. she angled her head up to look down at you, though the lack of light didn’t help her see you any better. still, she could imagine the inquisitive look in your eyes.

she didn’t say anything for a while, taking in a big gust of air through her nostrils and letting it out slowly. “yeah. think i was.”

“we could..we could do it.” the shifting of the sheets cut you off as you turned around on your stomach.

ellie looked at the ceiling as your hesitant sentence. open, be open. she reminded herself but the words just made her limbs tingly. she was okay, she didn’t need to be scared. you lived in the middle of nowhere and you how to handle yourself. you were safe, she was safe. everything was fine.

she shook her head. “don’t have to. it was just a thought.” ellie patted your waist before lifting you up as much as she could, signaling she needed the pressure of you on her.

her hands fell to your thighs as she could feel you look at her. she soon started to regret it as you didn’t pull you eyes away from her. you were serious about this, learning her. “it might take too long..it’s dangerous.”

“do you want to do it?”

she didn’t want to you that she was still afraid. afraid of making this even more official. there was a we, you established that, but she wasn’t exactly sure you knew what you were in for. last time she settled with someone, it didn’t last very long and though there was no abby, she’d find some excuse to pull away from you. cause she wasn’t supposed to be here with you, lovingly caressing your skin. loving you.

“ellie.” your cold hands cupping her cheeks, snapped her out of her inner monologue. she hummed, leaning into your touch. “remember what we said?”

that damn word again. and she knew you were aware of your effect on her. this was the only time you’d gently guilt her into answering questions she was adamant on avoiding cause it hurt to much to care.

“don’t think i do, peaches.”

“you don’t get to distract me with cute nicknames right we’re having a serious conversation.” you gently pinched her cheeks, squishing them between your hands. she was resistant to the laugh you were trying to pull from her. she snuck her fingers under your shirtt and wiggled them against your skin.

“and you do?” she cheesed at the carefree giggles that came from your mouth. when she finally relented, she moved you back next to her and laid on her side to face you. her face grew serious as she watched you catch your breath. she never would’ve imagined seeing that smile when you first met. the inability to stop staring made her groan as she laid on her back. “i love you.” she said quietly.

she closed her eyes, missing the way your face dropped in a second. you say up on your elbow, then on your knees as you looked at her. “look at me.” she wanted to resist but that vulnerability in your voice made it hard. ellie opened her eyes, landing on the vague figure of your face above hers. “say it again.”

“i love you.” ellie couldn’t say anything but that as she stared up at you. “i love you.” she said again. “just know that before you decide to go across the country with me.” she as if it would make you leave. that it was too much to have someone as broken as her in love with and dependent on you. she would be devastated if that happened, absolutely. she had staked her existence on being around you and with you. she had no idea what she would do if she was left alone. she bit her lip to stop it from trembling at the thought.

she could see the way your chest stuttered in rising and falling. her hands were light in finding yours. her eyes flicked back to you, waiting for your response. “say it again, for me. please.” she swore you were as nervous as her the way you seemed stubborn on accepting she loved you.

“not until you say it first.”

“damn it, el. i’m not playing. i actually love you and if you’re joking-“

“i’m not.” she said quickly, watching as you got out of the bed to sit at the edge. “i love you and i want to move with you.” she wanted to put a hundred layers of tape on her mouth, keep herself from messing with your expectations. how she wouldn’t be a good lover. she wasn’t. she barely talked as much as she used to, beyond hushed praises in the middle of the night and directions like “c’mere.” and “stay close.” “somewhere warm, just us.” she bit her lip, signaling she was done now. no more talking.

“tomorrow.” you looked at her as she rose out of bed to sit next to you. “that way you can’t take any of it back.”

“i don’t want to, peach.” she said honestly. “so tomorrow..south.” she tried not to think of the dangers or the lack of a definitive plan. none of it mattered right now. “shit.” she said breathily, gripping the mattress underneath tightly. her fingers were like rusted metal when you pried them from the cushion, pressing your lips to them. “no backing out. you hear me?”

“yes ma’am.”

thank you for reading!

[wannabehockeygf]

Good Graces | Conor Garland

"With your favorite athlete, Shoot his shot every night, Want you every second, Don't need other guys."

request: "I was thinking of a fluffy fic between him and a fem!team medic who he is good friends with because of how often he ends up getting hurt, putting himself in the middle of scrums and everything. I know that's kind of just a general premise, but I wanted to leave it up to you where you want to take it from there :)" summary: two times conor wanted to kiss you, and one time you kissed him.

word count: 5.3k

pairing: conor garland x fem!reader

warnings: blood & injury

notes:

hiiii welcome & thanks for requesting. hope I fulfilled your wishes!

i don't know much about garland but I love making players divas so I inserted that here lmao :3

keep requesting new & different players guys!! i love doing it.

You signed your contract for your job with one goal in mind–don’t fall for a hockey player.

Pretty easy, right? Especially since, as a team medic, you largely dealt with them all sweaty, bloody, and generally in a state of chaos. Not attractive at all. Definitely not. Yet here you are, hovering over him again.

Conor Garland, number 8 on the ice and, in your opinion, number one in "most likely to get into a fight over nothing." You fold your arms as he limps into the med room, wearing a ridiculous grin despite the cut above his eyebrow. “That bad, huh?” he teases, his voice holding that familiar playful edge. He’s pretending to wince as he climbs onto the exam table, like it’s a whole ordeal for him.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for the gauze, your hands moving on autopilot. “You know, if you stopped fighting for five seconds, you might actually get through a game without needing stitches.”

He chuckles softly, but the sound is laced with something else. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a little too relaxed, too content, considering he just came off the ice. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You look up at him, raising an eyebrow, but the sight of him smiling, like he’s enjoying himself a little too much for someone who’s supposed to be injured, throws you off. He’s been doing this a lot lately, showing up with bruises and cuts that could’ve been avoided. You’d never say it out loud, but part of you suspects he’s getting into these scrums on purpose.

His eyes flicker to yours, just for a moment, before he quickly looks away, feigning a deep interest in the ceiling. “What?” you ask, crossing your arms again.

“Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

Right. Sure.

You press the gauze to his eyebrow a little harder than necessary, and he winces, though you can’t tell if it’s real pain or exaggerated for your benefit. You narrow your eyes. “Stop squirming.”

He gives a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. There’s always this easy back-and-forth with him, like the two of you have fallen into some unspoken routine. You patch him up, and he finds new ways to annoy you, all with that same boyish grin on his face.

You finish dabbing at the cut, the soft pressure of the gauze soaking up the blood that’s already drying around the edges. As you work, the steady rhythm of your movements almost feels too comfortable, like this is the hundredth time you’ve patched him up—because, well, it probably is.

"Conor," you murmur, half to yourself, half in warning, as you reach for the antiseptic. His skin smells of sweat and ice, a mix that’s become weirdly familiar, like the scent of the rink itself but so uniquely him.

He tilts his head a little, trying to catch your eye, but you focus on the task at hand, avoiding the gaze you know is waiting for you. Your fingers brush against his temple, and for a split second, you swear you feel him tense up under your touch. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual casual grin.

“You gotta stop doing this,” you sigh, and it comes out softer than you intend. The antiseptic stings as you swipe it across the cut, and he flinches again, though not as much as he should.

“Doing what?” he asks, his voice low, almost playful. He’s watching you again, those brown eyes darkened by the fluorescent lights of the med room.

“This.” You gesture vaguely at his face, at the various bruises and cuts that seem to accumulate each time he steps onto the ice. “Getting into pointless fights. You think I don’t notice? You’re not even supposed to be a fighter, Conor. Half the time, you’re chirping at guys twice your size. Why?”

The silence between you stretches just long enough to make you uneasy. You feel the weight of his stare, the slight twitch of his mouth like he’s holding back from saying something.

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something else behind the movement, something unspoken. “Part of the game, right?” he offers, too nonchalant, like he’s testing the waters.

You don’t buy it, not for a second. But what are you supposed to say? Call him out directly? Admit you’ve noticed the way he lingers around the med room a little longer than necessary, how his smile stretches wider every time he manages to make you roll your eyes? It feels too much, too real, to acknowledge the way your heart stutters just a little when you hear his name over the PA system.

You sigh again, grabbing the butterfly stitches and nudging his chin up with more force than necessary. His skin is warm, too warm for someone who just came off the ice, and you have to focus hard not to notice the way his jaw clenches under your fingers.

“You’re gonna end up with a permanent scar if you keep this up,” you say, and there’s a softness in your voice now, one you can’t quite hide. The words come out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and the quiet stretches on again, filled only by the sound of your breath and the subtle scratch of fabric as he shifts on the exam table. Then, his voice cuts through the stillness, quiet but sure.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, and it takes you a second to register what he’s talking about.

You blink, pulling back slightly to look at him. He’s still smiling, but there’s something different in his expression now, something that catches you off guard. “What?”

“The scars,” he says, shrugging again, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t mind them. Means I get to see you.”

Your heart does a ridiculous little flip at his words, and you curse it for betraying you so easily. You try to play it off with an eye roll, but you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. “You could just... I don’t know, say hi like a normal person instead of getting into fights?”

He chuckles, but the sound is softer now, almost fond. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You press the final stitch into place, leaning back to assess your work. His face is still bruised, still battered, but somehow, he looks completely unbothered by it all. And the worst part? You can’t help but think he looks good like this, even with the mess of bruises and dried blood.

As you’re cleaning up, you feel his eyes on you again, watching with that same stupid grin, like this is all just some kind of game to him. But there’s something else in the way he’s sitting, the way he’s still lingering on the table long after you’ve finished patching him up.

“Are you just going to sit there?” you ask, pretending to be annoyed, though you know the act isn’t fooling anyone.

“Maybe.” He leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, looking far too comfortable for someone who was limping in here five minutes ago. “Depends. You gonna kick me out?”

You roll your eyes, but your chest tightens at the implication, your heart doing that traitorous little skip again. You turn around, crossing your arms, meeting his eyes this time. He’s sitting there, propped up on his elbows, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. And maybe that’s what’s been throwing you off lately—the way he looks at you. Like these moments mean something more to him than just routine check-ups and bandages.

“Conor,” you say, and this time, your voice has more weight to it, though you can’t bring yourself to say what you’re really thinking. Instead, you gesture toward the door, trying to salvage the situation with a teasing edge. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Not really,” he shrugs, still not moving. “Besides, where else would I go? The ice isn’t as fun as this.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, though it’s a losing battle. He’s always had this way of disarming you with a few words, like he knows exactly how to find that crack in your armor.

“Well, you can’t stay here,” you say, but there’s no real bite to your words, and you both know it.

He swings his legs off the table, wincing slightly—more from habit than pain, you suspect—and stands up, but he doesn’t head for the door. Instead, he lingers, too close now, and you find yourself staring at the small cut above his eyebrow, the one you just stitched up. Your fingers itch to brush it gently, to make sure you did it right, but you keep your hands firmly crossed in front of you.

“I think I’m fine now,” he says, his voice quieter than before. “Thanks, doc.”

The nickname always makes you smile, even when you don’t want it to. “You’re welcome,” you reply, but there’s a softness to your tone that wasn’t there a moment ago.

He takes a step closer, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. For a second, neither of you says anything. His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, something you’re not even sure you understand yourself. But whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it—at least, not yet.

“I’ll try not to get into too much trouble next game,” he says with a smirk, though there’s a warmth behind it, something genuine. “But, you know, no promises.”

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Of course not.”

He starts toward the door but pauses just before stepping out, his hand resting lightly on the frame. He turns back to you, his eyes softening in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s no teasing in his voice this time, just something real. “Thanks for always looking out for me.”

You nod, swallowing the lump that suddenly forms in your throat. “Just… try to keep yourself in one piece, okay?”

He grins again, that easy, boyish grin that somehow makes you forget for a second that he’s a professional athlete, bruised and battered from a game most people would never survive. “I’ll do my best,” he promises, but there’s something in his tone that makes you think he’ll be back sooner rather than later.

Another game, another set of bruises.

You’re halfway through patching up another player when you feel it—his presence, the familiar, teasing energy he brings with him. Conor walks into the med room, limping just a little too dramatically to be real. He’s cradling his arm like it’s hanging by a thread, his expression an exaggerated picture of pain.

“Doc, I think this might be the one that does me in,” he says, his voice a mockery of seriousness. The guy you’re helping, one of the newer players, snorts in response, shaking his head as he slides off the table.

You shoot Conor a glance over your shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Garland.”

The younger player leaves, chuckling under his breath, and suddenly it’s just you and Conor again. You can feel the shift in the air, like it always does when it’s just the two of you. The playful banter, the teasing looks, that undercurrent of something unspoken hanging between you like a thin thread.

You turn around, and there he is, still putting on that ridiculous act. He’s cradling his arm as if it’s broken, but the glint in his eye gives him away. “Oh, I’m sure you’re in agony,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Conor leans against the table with a dramatic sigh, giving you a pained look, as if he’s the one who should be annoyed by all this. “It’s bad, doc. Might need surgery.”

“Surgery, huh?” you quip, folding your arms as you walk over to him. Your eyes roam over his jersey, scanning for any real signs of injury, but all you see is his usual scruffy, disheveled mid-game self. “I can’t really check if you’ve got something serious going on with all that gear.”

He raises an eyebrow, still in character. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, keeping your tone casual, but there’s a hint of something else in your voice now. You tap his arm gently, feigning impatience. “Take off your jersey if you’re so hurt.”

For a split second, the playful energy between you shifts. His teasing smirk falters, his eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place, and suddenly, Conor’s posture straightens. The banter evaporates, leaving only the echo of your words hanging in the air. His hands hover near the hem of his jersey, clearly caught off guard by your request.

He stares at you like you’ve just asked him to do something much more intimate than you intended, and it takes a moment before he recovers his composure. “Uh… right. Yeah. Okay.”

You watch as he hesitates, tugging at the fabric, trying to hide the way his fingers fumble with it. And for once, he’s flustered—really flustered. It’s not the usual Conor Garland confidence or playful bravado. His face is flushed, the pink creeping up from his neck to his cheeks, and you can’t help but find the sight... oddly endearing.

You shouldn’t be enjoying this, but you are.

He finally manages to pull the jersey over his head, tossing it aside without meeting your eyes, and you catch the briefest glimpse of the toned muscles under his shoulder and chest pads, the faint sheen of sweat from the game still clinging to his skin. You swallow hard, trying not to let your mind wander too far as you force yourself to stay professional.

You step closer, eyes focused on the faint bruise blooming across his ribs, though it’s clear he’s milking the situation. “This?” you ask, pressing your fingers gently against his side. “You came in here for this?”

You stare at the bruise, your fingers resting lightly against his skin. It’s small, nothing serious—a faint discoloration, more from the impact than anything worth worrying about. But you both know this isn’t about the bruise. It never is with Conor.

You don’t pull away, and neither does he. There’s a moment of quiet, the banter fading into the background, leaving just the two of you in this strange, charged silence. You can feel the warmth of his body under your fingertips, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The tension in the room shifts, thickening like a storm cloud.

“You really thought this was worth all that drama?” you murmur, your voice soft now, not teasing, just… there. You trace the edge of the bruise absently, the pads of your fingers barely brushing against his skin.

Conor swallows, and you catch the movement of his throat, the way his eyes flicker down to where your hand rests on him before darting back to your face. His voice is quieter when he responds, less of that exaggerated confidence he usually carries with him. “Well, I figured… might as well get some attention while I’m at it, right?”

You don’t miss the way he says attention, how it lingers between the two of you, a little too close to the truth. Your heart skips, your pulse quickening in a way you hope he doesn’t notice.

But he’s staring at you now, the teasing smile faded, his brown eyes more serious than you’ve ever seen them. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, but in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. Like something is about to happen, something you’ve both been tiptoeing around for too long.

Your hand is still on his side, your fingers barely moving, and you can feel the heat radiating from his body, the way he’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Maybe you are too. The room feels impossibly small, the space between you shrinking with each breath.

“I… probably shouldn’t have made you take off your jersey,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, a weak attempt to break the tension, to say something, anything, that might diffuse whatever’s building between you. But even as you say it, you don’t pull away.

He doesn’t either.

“Nah,” he replies softly, his voice lower now, the usual playfulness gone. “It’s fine.”

You’re not sure if he means the jersey or the way your fingers are still pressed against his ribs, or maybe both. Either way, the tension doesn’t break. It only tightens, drawing you both closer without either of you moving an inch.

You can feel your pulse in your throat, your breathing shallow, and for a split second, you let your gaze drop to his lips. It’s a brief, unconscious movement, but it’s enough. He notices.

Conor shifts, barely perceptibly, but you feel it—the subtle lean, the way his eyes flicker to your mouth. Your heart pounds, the room spinning around the two of you like everything else has fallen away. You’re not even sure how you ended up here, this close, this vulnerable, but the pull is undeniable.

Your hand slides down slightly, resting at his waist now, and his breath hitches. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body seems to react to your touch, and for a second, you think maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment you’ve both been avoiding for so long, the moment where everything changes.

His lips part, and your breath catches. You’re so close now, close enough to feel the heat of him, to see the soft curve of his mouth, to—

The door creaks open behind you, and the spell shatters.

You both freeze, the tension shattering as one of the assistant coaches pokes his head in. "Hey, Garland, you still in here?" The coach looks between the two of you, oblivious to what he just interrupted.

Conor jerks back so quickly it’s like he’s been caught doing something illegal, while your hand falls from him. His face flushes, but not from the game—this time, it’s from almost being caught in a moment he’s not ready to explain.

"Uh, yeah," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flustered. "Just, uh... icing my bruise."

You bite back a laugh, feeling the heat rise to your own cheeks. The moment is gone, but the weight of it lingers in the air.

"Well, hurry it up. Coach wants to talk to you before you head out," the assistant says, already halfway out the door.

You both stand there for a second after the door shuts, the silence deafening. Conor looks at you, the tension still simmering under the surface, but neither of you speaks. It’s like the almost-kiss is still hanging between you, unfinished and waiting.

Finally, Conor clears his throat. "Guess I should... go."

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "Guess so."

He hesitates, lingering in the doorway for a second longer than necessary, his eyes catching yours one last time. And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the weight of what almost happened.

You’ve been replaying what happened in your head, the way his eyes lingered, the warmth of his skin under your touch, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. It’s like a loop that you can’t quite break free from.

But now, that moment feels distant, swept away by the frenetic energy of another game night. Only this time, it’s different.

The door slams open.

You jump, turning on instinct, and what you see makes your heart plummet. Conor’s standing there, but he’s not limping theatrically this time. Blood runs down the side of his face, stark against his pale skin, dripping onto his jersey, which is streaked with snow and sweat. His eyes are wild, his chest heaving, and for the first time, there’s no playful glint, no teasing smirk. Just anger.

"Garland," you breathe, stepping toward him, already reaching for the gauze, but he doesn’t even seem to hear you. He’s pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscles working beneath his skin.

"Stupid," he mutters under his breath, swiping a hand over his face, smearing the blood. "Stupid, stupid hit."

"Conor," you say softly, trying to get him to focus on you, to stop moving. He doesn’t. His eyes are unfocused, his movements erratic, as though he’s still stuck in the heat of the game, reliving whatever hit sent him flying into the boards.

You step closer, cautiously. "Hey, come on. You need to sit down. Let me look at that cut."

He finally stops pacing, but when his eyes meet yours, they’re blazing. "I don’t care about the damn cut," he snaps, though the anger in his voice isn’t directed at you. It’s frustration, bubbling just beneath the surface.

You swallow, trying to maintain your calm. "I know you don’t, but I do."

He blinks, his brows furrowing, like your words hit something in him, pulling him out of his angry haze. But then he shakes his head, as if he’s trying to brush it off. "They’re out to get me," he mutters, more to himself than to you, but you hear it.

Your chest tightens. You’ve seen him frustrated before, of course. Hockey’s a brutal game; it comes with the territory. But this… this feels different. Conor Garland is many things—annoying, playful, sometimes overly dramatic—but angry? Not like this. Not pacing the room with his hands curled into fists like he’s ready to punch the wall. You have to do something—anything—to bring him back to himself before he loses it completely.

"Conor, sit down," you say again, firmer this time. "Please."

Something in your voice must reach him because he stops, his shoulders slumping as if all the fight has gone out of him in an instant. He sits on the edge of the exam table, and you move quickly, grabbing the gauze and antiseptic. His eyes follow you, but they’re distant, like he’s not fully present.

You stand between his legs, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, and gently tilt his head back to get a better look at the cut. It’s deep, angrier than you expected, but not the worst you’ve seen. Still, the blood has matted his hair, trailing down his temple, and his breathing is shallow, labored.

"This might sting," you murmur, pressing the gauze to his forehead, dabbing at the blood. You try to stay focused, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, his body coiled tight like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.

"That guy…" he starts, voice low and bitter. "He didn’t have to hit me like that. It wasn’t even about the puck."

"I know," you say quietly, your fingers moving methodically as you clean the wound. "It’s not fair."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You focus on your work, but every so often, your gaze flickers to his face, to the way his jaw is still clenched, to the way his chest still rises and falls with that uneven breath. You can feel the anger radiating off him, but there’s something else too—something vulnerable, hidden beneath all that frustration.

"Why are you letting this get to you?" you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Conor doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is fixed on some distant point over your shoulder, like he’s trying to hold it together, trying not to snap. But then his shoulders sag, and he drops his head into his hands. "I don’t know," he admits, voice muffled. "I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much."

You swallow the lump in your throat, feeling your heart ache for him. You’ve never seen him this rattled, this shaken. It’s unsettling, seeing him like this, and you don’t know what to do other than be here, right here, in this moment with him.

Gently, you reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder. His skin is warm, muscles tense beneath your fingers, but the contact seems to ground him. He lifts his head slowly, meeting your eyes for the first time since he walked in.

"It’s just… one hit," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper now. "But I can’t shake it."

"It’s not just the hit, is it?" you ask, watching him carefully.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No. It’s not."

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You finish bandaging his cut, your hands moving slowly, deliberately, trying to draw out the process because you’re not ready for this moment to end. You don’t want him to walk away like this, all pent-up frustration and unresolved tension.

He’s quiet now, his chest no longer heaving with anger, but his eyes—his eyes are still filled with something heavy, something you can’t quite place. He’s staring at you, and you can feel his gaze, warm and intent, as though he’s trying to find the right words but can’t. You’re not sure if you’re ready to hear them anyway. Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud and persistent, and for the first time, you realize how close you’re standing.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how his legs are framing your hips, how his knees brush your thighs every time either of you moves. His hands rest loosely on his lap now, no longer clenched into fists, but the tension hasn’t entirely dissipated. It’s just shifted into something else, something quieter but no less intense. You can feel it humming in the air between you.

"Conor," you begin, your voice coming out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper. "You’re… it’s going to be okay." You know how inadequate the words sound, but you don’t know what else to say. You just want to fill the silence, to soothe whatever storm is still brewing inside him.

His eyes flicker, and his jaw works as though he’s chewing on something he can’t quite get out. "I’m not—" He stops himself, eyes dropping to the floor, and you watch as his shoulders slump again. "I don’t usually… I’m not like this."

You don’t respond immediately, just watch him, the way he avoids looking at you, the way his hands flex on his lap like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. It’s strange seeing him so out of sorts, the guy who’s always cracking jokes, always looking for a way to make you laugh, now sitting here, raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

You take a breath and move closer, letting your fingers brush against his shoulder again. "You don’t have to explain anything to me. Everyone has bad days." Your voice is soft, reassuring, but your heart is pounding harder now, louder, as if it’s trying to force its way through your ribcage.

Conor looks up then, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His gaze isn’t wild anymore, but there’s something else in it, something that makes your breath catch. His lips part, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to say something, something that will change everything.

But he hesitates, his throat working like the words are caught there, and suddenly you’re all too aware of the closeness, of the heat between you, of how your bodies are aligned. You don’t move, don’t dare to, because if you do, you might shatter whatever fragile balance you’ve found.

"I don’t know how to say this," he finally mutters, his voice rough and low, almost pained. His eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, and your breath stutters.

Your heart is racing now, louder than before, and you can feel the room tilting, your pulse in your throat as the tension pulls taut. He’s so close, his face inches from yours, the scent of sweat and blood mingling in the air between you, and you realize with a jolt that this is it. This is the moment where everything shifts, where the teasing, the faked injuries, the lingering touches, all of it finally snaps into focus.

Conor shifts again, his knee pressing slightly against your thigh, and his voice drops even lower. "I’ve been trying to tell you, but I—" He stops, his eyes dark and searching, like he’s looking for something in your face. "You’re more than just… I mean, I’m always…"

You don’t let him finish. Because before you know it, you’re moving, and you’re pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if you’re both unsure. His lips are warm, and you can taste the faint tang of his blood on them, but you don’t care. For a moment, everything stills—no tension, no frustration, just him, here, with you. His hands, which had still been clenched on his lap, slide up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. The anger, the frustration that had been radiating off him moments before, melts away, replaced by something softer, something unspoken but understood.

When you finally pull back, your breath comes in short, uneven bursts. You meet his eyes, half-expecting him to pull away, to say something to ruin the moment, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, his fingers still gripping your waist, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“That’s one way to shut me up,” he mutters, his voice low, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth you haven’t heard from him before.

You can’t help but laugh softly, your heart still racing. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his eyes darker now, softer. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly against your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and for a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of you, like nothing else exists outside this room.

For the first time all night, he smiles—really smiles—and it’s like the tension finally breaks. His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you even closer, and for the first time in a long time, everything feels right. The frustration, the anger, the game—it all fades away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped in a moment that feels fragile but perfect, like you’ve found something you didn’t even know you were looking for.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, and his eyes soften, the vulnerability still there, but less jagged now, smoothed by your words. “But you need to go out there and win that fuckin’ game.”

“Okay,” He says, but leans in again, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, this one slower, gentler, as though he’s savoring it. When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek, and his smile lingers, the tension from earlier now a distant memory. “But, we’re doing a lot more of this–” he gestures between the two of you, “Later.”

[just-a-ghost00]

No contact : what the heck is going on?

Pick one or several of the following emojis to find out about your reading content. This reading is going to be a bit unusual because the deck I am using is actually a game for children. A card represents a word or an idea. There is just the image. No words, no numbers. So based on the image combinations you get, I will try to channel the messages meant for you to hear.

1 📣 2 🎰 3💥 4💫

Group 1 📣

The person you were thinking of may have put a hold on the connection to take care of themselves. They are currently traveling or they intend to. They need to recharge their batteries. This person has been giving a lot of their time and efforts to make other people happy. They are exhausted. They wish to rest and indulge in some leisure time. They wish they could stop being a door mat for everyone to walk on. They feel like they can’t express their true self. They are tired of pretending like everything is fine. They feel like they can’t afford rest. When it comes to you and the connection, this person gets cold feet. They don’t know what to do or where to go. What is going on around them takes so much space in their life that they don’t have much energy left to spend with you. To them you are like that pot of jelly or that warm chocolate bowl : so sweet and tempting, so vital. You bring them comfort and a sense of home but at the same time they are scared of what that means. They are running out of gas. They may be Dre pressed or going through a burn out. Hence the lack of communication. They are trying to get back on track by stepping away for a time. They don’t want you to see that side of them.

Group 2 🎰

The person you were thinking of could be an artist and/or enjoys partying. This person could have recently been on a trip. The reason why there is no contact at the moment is because they are either sick and/or injured. If not, this person needed to heal something or someone. With the chick and the trumpet player, I get the message of someone being a bit vulnerable but wanting to show no weakness and appear stronger. The chick also reminds me of communicating. Because birds always chirp, this makes me think of throat chakra. With the hospital, I get the idea of someone have throat ache or issues related to their voice. They may have needed to take time off to undergo a surgery or to get a medical appointment. With the car and the horse, I get the idea of someone being restless. Wanting to get away from this situation quickly and get back to business. I also get the energy of someone being reckless. Maybe this person got injured practicing a physical activity. The combination of the matching game, the guitar and the necklace, I get the message of someone wanting to connect the dots and get closer to what is meaningful to them. Music is precious to this person and so are you. If they can’t communicate with you properly, this person will use music to convey their feelings.

Group 3 💥

Seeing the butter card I immediately thought of BTS lmao Once again there are music references in a reading. Also, either one or both of you may be French, wants to go to or has been in France. To be honest with you, there is a lot of chemistry and sexual tension going on. This person is refraining from contacting you in an attempt to resist temptation. That ain’t working well lmao Cause they are running in circles and really wanting to jump on the first occasion they get to interact with you. You might invite this person for your birthday or they are waiting for your birthday to surprise you with something. The combination of the cherries and the lace gives me really sensual vibes. They may want to get closer to you and the way they do it may be a bit rough 😂 With the firefighter and the lit birthday cake, I feel like they wish they weren’t so attracted to you. They wish they could extinguish whatever is going on because it eats them alive. The last card on the bottom right makes me think that you or this person could be working with children or wants children. This person is attracted to your soft side and your childlike personality which may be something you have in common. The fox makes me think that they are prying on you frequently. Even if they don’t talk to you, they closely watch you.

Group 4💫

The person you are thinking of lives at a distance from you. This person is afraid of falling in love and being intimate with you. A part of them wants to make a move but another would rather safely hide away. They wish that they were more courageous and that this connection would be more fruitful. They are aware of your needs for communication and more substance. If they could, they would run straight to you. But there are annoying flies surrounding the connection. Meaning, people are getting in the way, buzzing in their ear about what they should or shouldn’t do, about what they think of you. This person misses you. They think of you. They know your plate is missing on the table. They feel empty without you around. But in order to see clearly and cut the noise, they had to get away. This person needs to isolate in order to determine what their needs are and listen to their own voice instead of the constant buzzing and chirping of others. They need to determine in this cacophony of opinions, what is essential to them. Only then can they make a move.

[699charcoalp]

All alone with you

Fanwork about Lincoln and my MC Remus. A lot of grammar problems(because English is not my first language) and ooc, my fault.

Title source: All Alone With You by Egoist.

"Lincoln." someone said in the room. "I am here," Lincoln asked, "Want something?" "Nothing," Lincoln's beloved said, "I just want to know you are still with me." "Alright." And then, Lincoln saw his singer smile and wave at him. Good, again, that smile. Lincoln walks to him and sits down. If someone had acted like that before today, Lincoln might have felt a little bit strange but……the people who did this act were Lincoln's singer, star, and boyfriend. So Lincoln thought everything about the man in front of him seemed…… normal and cute. Immediately after leaving the hospital, Remus checked into Lincoln's house, where he refused all contact with anyone connected to his past (except Lincoln) and just stayed in his room all day. Other than the above, everything is normal. Remus lived in Lincoln's house like a cheerful ghost, he'd scorch the pots when he was cooking, and he'd beg Lincoln to buy a game because it was on sale on his steam wishlist (even though Remus had the money to buy it). It's just that he doesn't make any music anymore, and it's like the days of being the lead singer of a band never happened. A lot of people will say "That is abnormal", but Lincoln is not. For Lincoln, that's just one …… piece in the person of Remus, as a seeing every turn of a kaleidoscope, which is endearing no matter what it looks like. Remus laughs very violently but rarely smiles now. Contrary to when he used to be in the band, Remus used to smile a lot at that time because it was unobtrusive. Remus dreaded every stare. In one of the few interviews he was in the band, he once said: “It's a good thing I'm nearsighted, otherwise I can't have any way of fooling myself that ‘nobody's looking at me’". Lincoln replays this interview again and again and then feels proud because Remus is not afraid of him. Even at that time the members of the band, including Remus himself, knew that Lincoln was Remus's fan (of the intimidating variety). "Did you ever think of calling the police when I used to see you every time? " When the first day of Remus moved into Lincoln's house, Lincoln joked. Remus turns around and looks at him like he heard some unbelievable thing. "No, never, "Remus told him, "Why do I have to? I mean……I know you put a huge attention on me but……" Remus throws the thing that he holding away. His hands gestured idly in the air, trying to find the exact answer in these mysterious gestures, but he finally gave up. "I don't know," Remus spoke frustrated, "Even though from the first time I met you the people around me have said that you are a bit strange ……I still feel you will never hurt me." "You trust me?" "I just believe my heart." Remus shrugged, “Even though a lot of the time it shouts so loud inside me because it's triggering some switch that shouldn't be triggered, it's fine to listen and see what it has to say once in a while, at least I can feel safe. ” When Remus finished, he and Lincoln stared at each other silently for a moment. "Any question?" After this moment, Remus tilted his head slightly to the left. "No." Lincoln laughed and helped Remus put his baggage.

Lincoln's thoughts returned to this room in the present. He changed the subject as if nothing had happened, "So what are we eating tonight?" "Sichuan fish soup with pickled mustard greens, Dandan noodles, and Chili oil wontons." Remus began to say the food's name without hesitation. "Can we just eat hotpot?" “No way.” Remus vetoed, “Hot pot and this type of dish are both from Sichuan or Chongqing but they are not essentially the same thing, and I have to correct you on this erroneous idea that ‘all spicy Chinese food is related to hot pot’.” “All right.”Lincoln stood up, "Want some drink?" "Jasmine milk tea 80% sweet no ice large and without boba." There were no pauses, and someone used his lung capacity well. "Maybe someday you'll try some new flavors of milk tea?" "Yeah, maybe when this world is destroyed." Remus roll his eyes. "Wanna come with me?" Lincoln pretended to extend the invitation as if nothing had happened. "No. I don't want to." Remus' handsome face scrunched up so fast. Remus has never been out of the house since moving into the Lincoln home, except to see the psychiatrist. The psychiatrist claims it's a "pathological isolation" and reminds Lincoln that he must help Remus out of this "rut," but Lincoln thinks it's okay that Remus doesn't want to leave the house. At least he'll never leave me, Lincoln thought, and I don't think Remus doesn't realize he's self-isolating himself. The man who can write lyrics that can make people crazy emotion can't be so stupid that he doesn't realize what he's doing; he just needs time, even if the length of that time is a lifetime. Lincoln stands up and leaves the room, Remus silently follows Lincoln out of the room before taking up position by the door to the room, he leans his full weight against the door frame and watches with his arms crossed over his chest as Lincoln begins to put on his shoes after picking up his car keys. "Miss me?" "No, my dear fan," Remus lied without changing his face, "I just wanna turn the drawing room's light off." Lincoln shrugged, he knew what Remus looked like when he tried to lie, but he was happy to pretend he was being lied to. He walks to the door, but Remus doesn't move. Until Lincoln opens the door and wants to close it, through the crack in the door, Lincoln sees Remus quietly walk toward the switch to turn the light off, and immediately afterward he hears Remus say aloud, "Take care on the road. " The door closed.

@pressplay-if I was going to post it anonymously but couldn't find it …… Anyway! (leaving Tumblr nervously, leaving my laptop nervously, leaving this internet nervously)

[raihann1]

hello! I hope your doing well, I have a request for x-virus, toby, Tim, Brian, Ben and anyone else with a s/o who is a supernatural model but never tells them until they find their magazines?

Have a great day and or night!!

―୨୧⋆ ˚CREEPS WITH A MODEL S/O⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖💋

NOTES: thanks you have a good day/night/afternoon aswell!! 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚✶🩸☆🩸★🩸☆🩸★🩸✶ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

X-Virus/Cody

He was rummaging through your stuff trying to find his protection gear when he found a crumpled magazine.

Lowkey does not gaf

"Its not irrelevant to my job 🤓"

He does think you look goregous though, kind of has to think on why you even want some lab rat like him.

Will ask you about it like this:

"Did you know the brain is about 75% water?"

"Oh and I also found your Model magazine."

🧍‍♀️

This man does. Not. Care. He loves you no matter what but he's not intrested in this bullshit!

MASKY/TIM

Uhm okay.

He's chill with it, he's more focused on his tasks but if your happy he's happy for you aswell! (I think)

Don't distract him by reminding him of what you wore on that magazine he will not pay attention and fuck up.

Do NOT ask this man for outfit suggestions he will tell you to throw on a t-shirt some pants and you would still look goregous.

Like no tim, you need outfit ideas 🙁

---------------------------------------

HOODIE/BRIAN

What?!

Why didn't you tell him?

Why? WHY?!

Okay so now he needs you to tell him EVERYTHING

he's invested like this is the next episode of some hot TV series.

Collects your magazines

Do not fear when he pulls up in a "love my s/o" shirt at a runway 💀

Of course he's more devoted in his job like Tim, but he's more carefree and likes to process everything so he'll show more genuine intrest!

AGAIN DO. NOT. ASK. FOR. OUTFIT. IDEAS.

this man will tell you the same damn thing 🙁

---------------------------------------

BEN DROWNED

Gasp WHAT?

Nvm he doesn't care 🙁

He just wants you to get your ass on a gaming chair and watch him rage at little kids who should be asleep.

Definitely keeps your magazine secured.

Deadass this guy will tape a picture of you on his pillow and talk to you and CRY. 💀

Will purposely make you feel bad by saying you could get better 💀 (he just wants you to get him some chips)

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚✶🩸☆🩸★🩸☆🩸★🩸✶ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

[indollywetrusttt]

cw: footjob/foot humping, stalking, kidnapping, drugging, extremely one-sided mdlb (he literally only refers to u as mommy), implied(?) noncon, obsessive behavior, no specified character; but he’s genuinely crazy over u, 700 word paragraph of him explaining why he did what he did lolol (also don't mind the image above, reader doesn't have a specified race, i js thought it was cute)

wc: 2,076

a/n: this was kinda rushed bc i’ve been working on smth that’s taking me way longer than i originally anticipated that it would! (im still not even halfway done 💀.) the idea of this just randomly popped in my head while i was scrolling on pinterest to find cute little icons for my blog, hope u enjoy !! (again, there’s no specified anime/game character that this is about so u can imagine whoever you’d like!)

this wasn’t okay. nothing about it was. you don’t even much remember how you got in this position; in a filthy room, sitting at the foot of a hard sheet-less mattress, with some guy holding your ankle & pressing your socked foot against his hard cock.

he had his head resting on your plush thigh & you felt his hot breath fanning over your clothed skin. so badly you regretted wearing thigh highs today. all you wanted was for your legs to be warm throughout the day… not to invite some creep to come & start humping your foot like some animal.

his moans actually started off as cute little whimpers & whines. but as he got closer they were just… guttural. this had to have been his first time touching a woman, the thrusts of his hips were sloppy & uncoordinated.

“f-fuck! i’m so fucking c-close!” he rasped, your eyes widened upon hearing his words. there was no way you were about to let him cum on your foot.

you attempted to pull your foot away from his grasp which only caused him to moan louder as he thought you were trying to help him finish or something. so you tried again, but that proved useless due to him still holding onto your ankle.

“you’re s-so good to me mommy!~ you’re even trying to help me cum-FUCK! iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou!” tears of both fear & confusion began to well in your eyes. who was this man? why is he calling you mommy? why is he humping your foot? why does he keep saying he loves you? why wont your mouth move? why can’t you say anything?

how many times can you say ‘i love you’ in 30 seconds? someone should’ve counted because that had to have been a world record or something. as he came, he desperately rutted his aching cock on your foot even faster than he was before.

he must have been feeling absolute euphoria because drool began to fall from his mouth & onto your leg, seeping through the fabric & onto your skin. but despite how grossed out you were there was nothing you could do about it; your body wouldn’t move.

once he finally came down from his high, he finally let go of your ankle & removed himself from your legs. your lip quivered & the tears that were originally only welling in your eyes began to spill uncontrollably, yet no sounds left your mouth.

he got up off the ground with jerky movements, panting like a dog. a big stain a few shades darker than the rest of the fabric on the front of his pants & finally noticed that you were crying. he leaned down & cupped your face with his rough hands & began kissing you. much like his thrusts, the kiss was also sloppy & uncoordinated.

you didn’t kiss back because you couldn’t but he didn’t seem to mind as he forced his tongue into your mouth. licking everywhere & everything that he could reach. your fingers twitched as your mind kept yelling at your body to move, push him off, or do something useful.

after what felt like an eternity of him sloppily kissing you, he finally let your face go, a string of saliva connected to both of your tongues.

“huh? why’re you still crying? that usually works in movies..” he said in a confused tone. he pushed you back so you were now laying on what you assumed to be his gross bed. he then got on top of you & began leaving wet, open mouthed kisses on your throat, which felt anything but good.

you hadn’t noticed it before, but now you were painfully aware of what you were wearing; pink lingerie that was way too tight & scratchy literally everywhere that it touched your skin. his haphazard kisses trailed down to your damnear exposed breasts.

“fuck mommy… i’m getting hard all over again, do you wanna help me again?” so badly you wanted to scream the words ‘fuck no, i don’t even know you’ but the only sound that left your mouth was a choked whimper due to his body weight atop of yours.

he smiled giddily before saying, “i’ll take that as a yes, thank you mommy!” he practically ripped the lingerie from your body & pulled his cum soaked pants down just below his balls. he stroked himself to the sight of your bare body & crying face below him for a little bit before moving up, caging your upper body between his thighs, pressing both of your breasts together & sliding his dick between them.

he let out a high pitched whine, not waiting even a second before immediately thrusting his hips. like before, he had no rhythm at all.

“your probably w-wondering who i—fuck— am.” you weakly attempted to nod your head.

“from the first time i saw you, i knew i needed you in my life. we attend the same college but we don’t have any lectures or classes together. but, you & your bitchy friends sure do love to go to the boba shop i work at. i see you on campus all the time but your always with your bitchy friends so i never approach you. even if you weren’t with them all the time i probably wouldn’t have the confidence to talk to you anyways. i mean— just look at you. everything about you is perfect, your face, your body, your smile, your hair, your life, you always smell so good, your personality.. i could go on for days! but in all honesty, i hated you at first. hell, id even thought about killing you at one point. everything about you was just so sickeningly sweet, being kind to useless nobodies like me, i just couldn’t understand it, so i hated you for it. but as time went on, the more my hatred turned into love… & then that love turned into infatuation & obsession. i’d follow you around everywhere you went, in hopes that maybe you’d finally notice me but you never did. i couldn’t just go up to you & tell you that i was in love with you & everything that you did, so i started stealing your things. the things started off small; your pens, pencils, hair clips, notecards etc. so small you didn’t notice apparently, so i moved on to way bigger things, took more drastic measures; your clothes that you’d change into after a shower in the gym, your money, your school ID. i’ve even broken into your house a few times, i can’t even count the amount of times i’ve jerked off on your bed while smelling & sucking on a pair of used panties that you wore on super hot days. i’d always collect my cum & pour it into your moisturizer or skin care, i even installed a camera in your bathroom to watch you shower & notice just how much fuller & thicker your hygiene products were than the last time you used them. it made me so hard to watch you not notice everything that i took from you or came on. sure you questioned it, but you’d never even imagine that you had an obsessive stalker. when you wore those thigh highs to my job this morning i couldn’t help but sneak a few sedatives into your boba. i accidentally put too many so you passed out almost instantly, your dumbass bitchy friends didn’t even think twice when i told them i could help & when i carried you out of the shop & into the backseat of my car. they seriously could’ve helped you, but they didn’t , so if your gonna blame anyone blame them. i drove all the way home rock hard because the moment that id been dreaming of for months was finally happening. you don’t understand how many times i’ve fucked my fist, imagine it was your mouth— or really any hole of yours for that matter. but all those nights i spent imagining didn’t matter anymore, because i had the real thing right in my backseat. i basically sped all the way home. & once i finally made it the first thing i did was undress you & marvel at your naked body. obviously i’d seen it on camera but it didn’t compare to the actual thing. it’s so perfect, you’re so perfect. as much as i wanted to keep you naked, but i know how much you hate the cold so i dressed you up in that lingerie. fuck, it was so sexy. i kinda regret ripping it just now but you look way better without it on. since i knew i wouldn’t be able to contain myself, i took so many pictures of you in the sluttiest of poses. you kept falling so your a little bruised up but you’re still beautiful either way. when i was just about done with your photo shoot i laid you down on my bed & you begin to stir, i didn’t know how you’d react when you woke up so i injected a little bit of ‘medicine’ into your bloodstream. it temporarily paralyzes you, & makes your brain all fuzzy. oh, & it also works as an aphrodisiac. i know this is probably a lot to take in, but trust me, i’m doing this for you. despite how popular you were & how perfect your life was, you hated every moment of it. but everything is different now that you’re my mommy & i’m your good boy. trust me, you’ll be happy forever.”

you listened to every word that left his mouth, you would’ve been flattered by the amount of kind words he’d said if he hadn’t literally just admitted to thinking about killing you, stalking you, stealing your things, breaking into your house, jerking off & fucking cumming in your skin care, drugging you, kidnapping you & doing things to your unconscious body.

somewhere during his tangent, he’d stopped thrusting his cock between your tits & settled on just playing with & teasing one or your nipples while stroking your cheek with his free hand, though his length was still twitching between your mounds.

you assumed him stroking your cheek was supposed to comfort you but all it did was make everything so much more worse. you haven’t cried this much in years, this cant be your new reality, you refuse to accept it.

you don’t quite recall passing out. but you did wake up in an entirely different room than the one you were in before unconsciousness overtook you. this room was the exact opposite as the one you were previously in, it was clean, nicely decorated, & smelled of flowers. it also somewhat resembles your own bedroom but a few things were off.

you weren’t even able to enjoy or find comfort in it before your head started pounding as memories from earlier today flooded your mind. you shot up from the comfortable bed, despite your entire lower half aching & scrambled to untangle yourself from the sheets, only to find your right ankle chained to something that wasn’t visible from underneath the mattress.

panic began to set in & you frantically tugged on the chain. tears of frustration began to well in your eyes as it just wouldn’t budge. your cries grew louder & louder, loud enough to attract the attention of your captor. 

he practically broke the door off its hinges as he slammed it open. “what’s wrong mommy?” he had the nerve to ask, acting as if what was happening right now was completely normal. you didn’t respond, only staring at him with tears still spilling from your eyes.

he got on the bed & sat down next to you. he yawned before pulling you into his chest. “shhh, shhh it’s okay mommy, your good boy is here for you. you’ll be okay, everything will be okay, i love you so, so much, go back to sleep my beautiful sweet angel.” he kissed you on atop your head multiple times & rubbed your back.

despite how fucked up this entire situation was, you seriously couldn’t help but snuggle into his arms & lean into his touch. even though he’d literally kidnapped you & probably took advantage of you unconscious form you still fell asleep in his arms, too tired & confused to even begin to realize just how big of a mistake you’d been making.

[smallnico]

can you tell esper is uhhhhh. ill?

got tagged by @beecreeper for the character insp meme! (check out his here!!) this was a lot of fun, there are a couple of honourable mentions i'll get into under the cut, along with some elaborations for the curious.

list of names, L > R 1: harrowhark nonagesimus -- the locked tomb saga 2: isaac -- castlevania (netflix series) 3: cole -- dragon age: inquisition 4: blackbeard -- our flag means death 5: (bingo free space) 6: seven of nine -- star trek: voyager 7: katya zamolodchikova -- real life / unnnhhhh 8: paul muad-dib atreides -- dune 9: maomao -- the apothecary diaries

1: harrowhark nonagesimus -- the locked tomb saga

if you've read the locked tomb, this one's pretty self-explanatory. but i took a lot of inspiration from harrow's grief-sodden religious zealotry for esper's pre-tadpole self, and i think about harrow the ninth every time i write from esper's perspective during the events of the game. it's the amnesiac goblin madness for me. esper would also absolutely put their bone marrow into a soup to kill someone if that was something they could do. they're extra like that

2: isaac -- castlevania (netflix series)

i just fucking love isaac, man. he's such a fascinating character, taken from a place of pain and degradation into the service of a mad god-figure hellbent on destroying humanity, then banished and forced to just. figure out for himself what he wants to do with his life. and it turns out that what he wants to do is relate to the hellbeasts he raises to use as soldiers, and let them try to eat strawberries and live in houses for a change, take a chance at living as something other than vessels of violence. i love him. that's really all esper wants, too -- to find a peaceful existence after a lifetime of pain and brutality and monsterhood.

3: cole -- dragon age: inquisition

cole is such a vibe. he lives in the attic staring unsettlingly at people and reading their minds and exhuming their pain so he can help them with it, including with his knives. he has that unearthly creepy vibe that esper projects, as well as their tendency to poke around in people's private emotions and their slight uncanny distance from human morality and ethics. making cole more human also ends up around the same for esper -- cole is never quite all the way there, but happy to be truly Among the people whose souls he reads and finally able to experience those things for himself.

4: blackbeard -- our flag means death

apart from the leather and queerness and propensity for violence, blackbeard was also a big influence for esper's journey from "yeah, this violence thing is fun for me, besides it's not like i can Leave this life, i'm stuck here so i might as well enjoy it" to "actually even though it's fun it's also exhausting and all i really want is peace. maybe even a monster like me can love and find a community that loves me."

6: seven of nine -- star trek: voyager

god, where to start? "i was a child who was raised to be perfect, my humanity and individuality were completely overridden and my very body was used as an object for unimaginable violence, and now even though i don't know how to be a Person anymore, i'm cut off from everything i've ever known and i don't know what to do." and now, like seven, esper is just trying their best to build a personality out of the leftover scraps they have with the help of their crew of misfits and weirdos. also, perpetrator trauma -- like seven, esper doesn't feel Guilty about their past actions, but it does haunt them, and they don't really know what to do with it. also, i didn't mean for the two images of esper and seven here to make them look exactly the same, but hey.

7: katya zamolodchikova -- real life / unnnhhhh

this one's more of a bit. i watch unnnhhhh with my wife a lot, and every now and again katya will just say something that makes us both go "that's esper-coded". she has that slightly imperfect balance of genuine darkness and unhinged silliness that esper also teeter-totters between, which results in a specific kind of charisma that you kind of have to see to understand.

8: paul muad-dib atreides -- dune

esper's pre-durge and pre-tadpole backstory draws a fair bit of inspiration from paul's narrative arc lmao. he starts out life as a male heir to a bloodline of female psychic specialists, trains with them, and ends up sacrificing his humanity to fulfil a violent divine path pre-ordained for him. real evil messiah hours. esper has way fewer qualms about killing from the start, and the match isn't perfect, but this is an inspiration, not a stencil.

9: maomao -- the apothecary diaries

another weird one, but probably the most purposeful inspiration on the board here. when i was first playing as esper and trying to sort out their personality, i was also watching apothecary diaries, and maomao's feline predilections and sense of mischief and flawless composure and cunning without ambition had me completely enraptured, so i thought, what the hell. she also shares some backstory elements with esper as the [spoilers] bastard daughter of a disgraced but extremely talented courtesan and a creepy war tactician. like esper, maomao just wants to keep her head down and make enough money to fund her special interests. they also both drink poison for fun (at least, esper does pre-tadpole). i think the main thing they diverge on is that esper thinks poison is for basic bitches.

honourable mentions

jimmy "pickles" hoffa -- jimmyhoffathecat

just look at him. that's an esper. photo credit here

tilly -- my parents' house

pretty self-explanatory for any cat owners out there. esper acts like a cat in general, but they specifically act like this cat. she's so influential and talented and perfect.

towa "murase" -- slow damage

this one is an honourable mention instead of being on the board because i didn't meet towa slowdamage until like 3 weeks ago (well after esper was already realized), but the two of them have so many specific things in common it's actually ridiculous. convergent evolution at its finest.

fenris -- dragon age 2

esper and fenris have very little in common story- or personality-wise, but i can't deny that he was a huge visual influence, especially for pre-tadpole esper. i mean, come on. look at him.

yelena belova -- black widow, hawkeye

i'm not much of an mcu person, but the concept of the black widows in general did influence a lot of esper's pre-durge backstory, and i like yelena. she's like a more charismatic and more down-for-murder natasha. she's not a specific inspiration for esper as a character, but they do have a rhyming vibe.

selcis aureus, umbras heltor -- exodusbound

hello, it's fantrolls! i disqualified selcis and umbras from the inspboard because they're literally other ocs i had a hand in creating, and a lot of the things they have in common with esper aren't public, but they both did (and exodusbound did in general) have a lot of influence on esper as a character. i can't help that i like themes of alienation and life persevering in spite of it all in my characters. art shown here by my wife barbelzoa!

espurr -- pokemon

literally a pokemon, not a character. special place in my heart though because i literally named esper after this thang when i first made them in the character creator. they just had the same dead eyed stare and psychic magic, so i went, yeah, that'll do.

thank you so much for reading this much if you did!!!!!

[acgames]

I feel like crap and depression hit me hard, but I am trying to fight it. Anyways, this gentleman is a huge help so I made motivational meme for myself:

Also I can't post it to instagram, but maybe someone too need a motivational poster of fictional murderous Irishman for their morale like I do...

[purpurussy]

.

[medicinemane]

It's amazing how quickly you can make someone turn on your company by making a stupid and insulting move

Force me to go through the front door and scan my card when I have backdoor business that never needed a card before (what? ...I was going to somehow... sneak in and... purchase things with a borrowed card? ...which I totally can't do from the front door after scanning it?)

Or like... twitterify your layout right after your users give you a bunch of money just cause they like you, and then refuse to walk it back

...or all the other things companies do that just kinda piss people off and then they refuse to acknowledge maybe it sucks and is stupid cause "hey, the customers didn't leave"... yeah... yet

[spamtoon]

(Out of nowhere, you are approached by a familiar lightbulb-headed Cog.)

Ah, it's you, cat. Thinking you're oh-so-slick. Muttering and whispering under those raggedy whiskers of yours... Thinking I am unable to hear it all...

Well, you've simply underestimated my fantastic hearing. You probably want to know the reason why I'm here, taking a 'break' from my incredibly important scientific breakthroughs? It's quite simple, really!

(She gets close, and squints her eyes.)

I know what you are.

Farewell, now!

(She then leaves the way she came from.)

(Spam giggles immensely, covering her face... it always seems like she's giggling, isn't she? This lasts... at least thirty seconds. Longer than usual.)

And I know what I am too, Sparky! You broke through something, that's for sure. Really, broke through...

(She looks down, continuing to laugh nervously.)

You know, I find it odd you Havent tried to bulb blast me into the stratosphere by now. I mean knowing how you acted with Frostbite. Is there something peculiar about me that you perhaps can't quite track? Something about me that you... don't know what I am?

I know, I know, I'm talking to nobody again. But you were there when I had a moment today with the one the only Frostbite The Bravecog. You may be remaining. Lurking in the shadows. Knowing about these thoughts that I'm thinking.

(The giggling resumes, lasting far shorter this time.)

Your brother's a piece of fucking barp, by the way

(She braces for impact for a few seconds, wincing while smiling, before comically looking around to realize nobody's there. She sighs.)

Wow, okay maybe toony superhero show logic doesn't apply in this situation. Cool.

WAIT I JUST FUCKING REALIZED WHAT SHE MEANT but like. Dude if she meant that then what's the point I mean the whole ahh sellbot department barping knows unless you're Really low on the ladder. Heheh... maybe she did mean what I thought she meant.

Oh i'm so fucking screwed. What kind of bitch gets filament fever

[chemicalbrew]

I can't sleep and I had a miserable time today going through my backlog whee

[ambreiiigns]

i wanna be someone who listens to misfits full time again wtf is ghost

[fuzzyunicorn]

Here to drop some esoteric info: Jesus Christ & Mary Magdalene were IN FACT husband and wife

[tankgotstuckinthecircusgate]

oh y know. maybe carlo has 2 ugly houses on his property bc his & lauretta's families live here. like yk. familiality