Connor Pj Masks Novels & Stories

His eyes scanned the boy's face with a strange interest. "Connor," he answered, gaze unwavering. His hands trembled and he clenched them into fists. "What do you think, Mr. Cirpriani?" the woman asked. "He fits the description for the new project." The man stepped back, nose wrinkling. "He looks unkempt." Connor's shoulders drooped. He was dressed in a tattered blue shirt paired with black shorts. His black hair was unruly, covered in dirt. Overall, he was stinky.

Thick gore coated its grip. Connor looked away, staring into the trees along Bassler Road. When John pulled off his paper-bag mask last night, letting Pital see his face . . . then Connor knew, without a doubt, that Dan Pital was going to die. Connor hadn’t watched and he certainly hadn’t helped. But he hadn’t run, either, just stood staring into a corner, flinching with every wet thud of metal against flesh. And then, when John paused for a breath, he’d taunted, “Where’s your daddy? Huh? Bet he’s hidin out with Osama right now. Suckin him off. Bein a good little Taliban whore. That it? That what your daddy’s doin?”

Like she was empty of tears. "The mask was a gift from my mom, someone I thought I lost long before I lost my dad, I survived with an injury on my face that the doctors said would scar me. Everyone hated me after that, for taking away their alpha, for being weak and ugly." Lennox's hand came around her and held her close as she exposed more of herself. "The mask was a way of hiding my face so I don't disgust people but more than that it was what helped me stay close to my parents even when the wound was gone, I couldn't be without the mask."

Chapter three- His Mask Third-person POV She looks at the performer dumbfounded by the singer who has a hat on and a mask on his face, he smiles in her way and she can see it from the way his eyes were shining in her way. Seconds later, she holds her chest as she feels her heart beating faster and her chest tightening. So she walks towards the performers and stands at the tip of the platform, she doesn’t stop there but walks forward.

I bet you look good in it, too. The bass from the party downstairs thumps through the mattress, a slow, steady beat that matches the pulse in my cock. I lie there, alone in the dark, waiting for the next buzz and it comes too quickly. Barnabythebear: Tomorrow at the rink by 8 PM. Come if you want *wink emoji*

“Not because I wanted to hurt her, I just wanted to talk. But then, I saw what happened.” His entire body tensed. “What the hell did you see?” “She was taken,” I said, my tone almost lazy, as if I was discussing the weather. “Some masked men—three or four of them. They looked like mafia members or drug dealers. Big, brutal. The kind of men who don’t hesitate before pulling the trigger.” Connor’s breathing turned sharp, his muscles locking in place as the last words left my lips. He seemed to be in deep thoughts, as though he was trying to solve a puzzle.

she told me, very matter-of-factly. The other issue I kept bringing up was about the mask. To her credit, she had managed to find one that was relatively lightweight but fit snuggly and did a pretty good job of rendering me unrecognizable. It was a Guy Fawkes mask, like the one from the movie 'V for Vendetta', all white with a big smile, curly mustache and thin goatee. My concern was less about them recognizing me through the mask and more about how to explain why I was wearing a mask at all. I hadn't spent a lot of time around male strippers, but I was pretty sure that they didn't normally wear masks. To address this, Rachel had come up with a pretty elaborate backstory.

Connor muttered, lifting a hand to cover his nose. Luke pulled out a nose mask and put it on, while Connor stared at him, expecting him to offer one. "What?" Luke asked. "You really didn’t bring me one?" Luke frowned. "You knew we were going to do this. Shouldn’t you have brought one for yourself?" He rolled his eyes and walked inside, immediately met by the shaky, wide-eyed stares of the people seated. Connor, still at the entrance, let out a laugh. "Fine," he said, then pulled out his own nose mask.

He alerted his team and assured me that everything was fine there. I walked towards the door but stopped immediately when something caught my eyes. Some black fabric was hanging behind the frame. Jacob's a minimalist when it comes to his home decorations. I turned and walked to the frame hanging on the wall. I carefully removed it. "Bloody hell." I murmured as I saw Mamba's mask. I gulped. Jacob saw it. He has the mask all along and he never mentioned or asked anything about it. I removed the mask on the hook and hid it in my jacket's secret pocket.

I snap back, just as the door swings fully open. The man in front steps inside, holding a cattle prod, its metal tip gleaming ominously. He moves just enough to allow another man to enter, who silently sets a jug of water down on the rickety table before turning to leave. “Wait!” I shout, my voice sharp and urgent. The men pause, glancing back. “We will negotiate. What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep my tone calm despite the tension in the air. The man at the front turns his masked face toward me. His expression is hidden, but his posture radiates control. “We want nothing,” he says, his voice distorted, processed through some kind of modulator. It’s deliberate—a calculated move to ensur