#Geppetto x reader

[bloodbrown]

(x Reader) Headcanons - Maintaining and Repairing P

• Sitting him down in the P-Organ chair and opening him up is an intimate occurrence. Only those closest to him are allowed to handle him in such a vulnerable and delicate state. For more complex maintenance, he usually has to expose his chest or back.

• P basically has to coach you on how to properly maintain certain parts of his body, because he can't do all of it himself... Thankfully, he's picked up enough by watching Geppetto that he understands, in general, what needs to be done. You probably should borrow a tough pair of working gloves from Eugenie, though.

• Through the guidance of P and Eugenie, you essentially become an amateur mechanic so you can help your favorite boy stay healthy and in top fighting form. Geppetto, when he’s actually present in the Hotel and not being kidnapped somewhere, is absolutely not allowed to know about this. He would absolutely lose his mind knowing his greatest creation is being tinkered with by an amateur.

• Pinocchio prefers to come to you whenever he needs something minor done. When he needs cartridges or converters installed, he believes you will be the most careful with the cold, sharp components of his superficial mechanical insides. The warmth of your hands coming into contact with the metal inner workings of his body calms him. Your touch when fixing him up is much more attentive and warm than that of his father’s.

(In theory, P likely could install some parts such as amulets or cartridges by himself, but then he wouldn't get to feel your meticulous human hands inside of him, so...)

• Eugenie and Venigni typically handle P’s legion arm when it needs repairs or upgrades. Sometimes though, you’ll notice that the exterior of P’s metal arm is particularly scratched up or stained. After any repairs, P often brings his legion arm to you. You polish the exterior very nicely for him, and make sure the exposed gears and joints are shiny and clean. This tends to make his finger and wrist movements a bit more fluid, too. And while you do all this, he will hover there watching you. Armless, staring, and unmoving. His stare is affectionate, even if you can't tell.

• Post Rise of P, when he’s certainly doing less fighting, there are still times where Pinocchio needs a brief examination to make sure everything is running the way it should. It's not too unusual that he’ll occasionally need a few wires in his chest straightened out, or a valve in his heart tweaked.

• Immediately after the trauma of having his father attempt to rip his heart from his chest, Pinocchio is more guarded about being opened up. He might tense up during regular maintenance or try to avoid it entirely. He knows that he can trust his friends, and you, of course, but the scar that that event left on him hasn't healed.

• Something that helps P is being able to see exactly what someone is doing to him. You can prop up a mirror in front of you while you work so he can see what you're up to in there, and it's a great comfort to P. Be sure to flash him a reassuring smile every once in a while, too.

• After some maintenance, Pinocchio always wants to show you how grateful he is. Once you've closed him up and he's re-dressed, he'll plant a tiny kiss on your forehead or cheek as a show of love for keeping his mechanisms healthy.

[ananiel]

For Eliza a story of lies of p again!

This tine this is a medicine seller reader, which has the title of kusuriuri!

No warning this is fluff and crack!

Enjoy!

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

The room was quiet save for the sound of cloth being unrolled and water dripping gently into a stone basin. The air was heavy with incense—something floral, but faint, meant to lull the mind and keep spirits at bay.

Carlo winced as pale, elegant hands wrapped gauze around his forearm with precise care.

“You should stop flinching,” the Kusuriuri said, voice smooth and detached like rain falling on porcelain. “You’re going to wrinkle the bandage.”

Carlo was watching her like she might suddenly unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole.

The Kusuriuri sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, a small lacquered box open beside her, filled with glass vials, strange herbs, powders in colors that didn’t belong in this world, and tiny wooden tools that clicked and scraped like bones in motion.

He flinched every time something tapped or scraped.

Tap. Scrape. Clink.

His jaw twitched.

“Can you not… do that?” he muttered through clenched teeth, as her needle-thin fingers stirred a glowing ointment in a mother-of-pearl bowl.

She didn’t look up. “Do what?”

“That.” He waved vaguely at everything she was. “The… scraping. The dripping. The weird smells. The glowing.”

“You called me here.”

“My father called you.”

“I accepted.”

“Because you’re being paid.”

She paused, then tilted her head in mock thought. “Payment is useful.”

Romeo sat perched on a chair nearby, legs swinging like a child’s. He had been given one job—one job—by Carlo: “If she does anything shady, slice her neck open.”

So naturally, Romeo was currently eating a popsicle.

“Where’d you even get that?” Carlo growled.

“She gave it to me.” Romeo smiled, proudly brandishing the half-melted thing. “Said it would keep me quiet.”

Carlo turned slowly to glare at her.

She had the nerve to smile faintly.

Her appearance didn’t help anything. Pale skin that shimmered oddly under the lamplight, long sleeves that hid too much movement, red markings that swirled across her face in delicate patterns that made it hard to tell where her expression ended and magic began. Her lips were the color of pressed plum, and her eyes—gods, her eyes—were too gold. Not “sunshine gold.” More like “ancient-coins-in-a-crypt” gold.

And she smelled like dried sakura petals, vinegar, and a hint of fox fur.

She moved closer, silently, and lifted Carlo’s arm with fingers that were cold and strangely soft. He tensed. She began to bandage his wound with an ointment that made his skin fizz and hiss like it was frying in lemon juice.

“I’m just saying,” Romeo said around the stick of his popsicle, “if she is half-fox or some shit—and I’m not saying she is—but if she is…”

Carlo exhaled heavily, trying not to yelp at the sting. “Romeo, shut up.”

“…do they like, give birth to a full litter of kits? Like six? Seven? Is that a thing?”

The Kusuriuri paused mid-wrap. Her head turned very slowly toward Romeo.

Carlo turned at the exact same time.

Romeo blinked between the two of them, wide-eyed, the popsicle stick still in his mouth.

There was a pause.

Then, the Kusuriuri’s painted lips curled into a smile—one of those amused, I’m-not-going-to-kill-you-but-I’ll-think-about-it smiles.

“I suppose,” she said smoothly, “that depends on the father’s stamina. You seem confident—do you volunteer?”

Romeo made a sound like a squeaking duck and nearly fell off the chair.

Carlo pinched the bridge of his nose, voice low and full of pure exhaustion. “She was hired. By. My father.”

“You’re the one who’s letting her rub green fire on your arm,” Romeo muttered.

“I’m going to get tetanus,” Carlo muttered back.

“Not from me,” the Kusuriuri said cheerfully. “I clean my needles. Mostly.”

Carlo stared at her in horror.

She leaned in, golden eyes gleaming. “Mostly.”

Romeo started giggling.

The ointment began to cool on Carlo’s arm, taking the pain with it. The bandage was tight, but perfectly wrapped. She stood, sleeves swishing silently, and began repacking her box of oddities.

Romeo whispered, “Do you think she sleeps hanging upside down?”

“Romeo.”

“She has the vibe.”

“She can hear you.”

“I hope she does.”

She raised one brow without looking up.

Carlo grunted, flexing his healing hand. “What is she, anyway?”

“Whatever she wants,” Romeo whispered.

“Shut. Up.”

The change came slow—like spring thawing through frost. Day by day, the petrification that had gripped Carlo’s limbs receded, like stone unlearning how to be flesh.

First it was his fingers—once stiff and gray, they now flexed, tinged with life. Then his forearms, his chest, his throat. Color returned in shy patches, his skin no longer cold as marble but faintly warm, like sunlight trying to be brave.

The Kusuriuri remained unbothered by the transformation. She continued her work with the same calm, clinical grace, murmuring to her strange powders, counting herbs that whispered when crushed, never hurrying. It was never dramatic. Just quiet, eerie progress.

Romeo, of course, ruined the silence.

He leaned over Carlo’s recovering form one evening as the Kusuriuri reapplied a salve that smelled like mint and nightmares, and whispered way too loudly:

“I remember back at the orphanage, some of the older boys said they overheard the principal mumbling something about wanting the ‘hot nurse treatment.’” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I think your dad got mixed up. Instead of hot and crazy nurse, he just sent you crazy.”

Carlo didn’t even blink.

The Kusuriuri, kneeling by his side, slowly turned her head toward Romeo, a single brow rising so high it might’ve floated off her face.

Romeo grinned like a goblin. “No offense.”

“Offense taken,” she replied sweetly, grinding something in a stone bowl with the exact same energy as someone planning to poison soup.

“Romeo,” Carlo said in a voice that sounded like dry gravel, “if you don’t shut up, I’m going to rub this mystery paste directly into your gums.”

“I’m just saying!” Romeo backed up with his hands in the air. “You’re lying there, she’s rubbing you with oils, whispering spells—if this were a romance novel, you’d be shirtless and blushing by now.”

“I’m already shirtless,” Carlo growled.

“And you did blush earlier when she touched your collarbone,” Romeo sang.

“I wasn’t blushing. I was flinching.”

“I can’t believe she’s not charging us extra for the fantasy experience.”

The Kusuriuri calmly reached into her sleeve and pulled out a wooden clacker, the kind used to summon attention. She clacked it once. A spark of pink mist exploded next to Romeo’s ear. He squawked.

“She hexed me!”

“Correction,” she said, now stirring something glowing blue, “I gently redirected your chaotic energy.”

“I think I peed a little.”

“I told you not to eat that second popsicle,” she muttered.

Carlo, meanwhile, let out a long exhale. He glanced down at his now fully mobile arm, turning it, watching the light hit skin that looked human again, not carved.

“It's working,” he muttered. “Gods, it’s actually working.”

“You doubted me,” the Kusuriuri said absently, now sorting bone pins into a pouch.

“I still do,” Carlo replied. “You boiled something inside my boot.”

“That was a diagnostic spell.”

“You could’ve just asked me to take it off.”

She gave a beatific smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Romeo was still patting his singed ear when he looked between the two of them. “So uh... we keeping her?”

Carlo didn’t answer. He looked down at his hand again, flexing his fingers—alive, healthy. Then he glanced up at her, the shimmer of her tattoos catching candlelight, that strange fox-like calm in her gaze.

“…We’ll see.”

“Stalking Is a Delicate Artform”

Carlo was back on his feet.

Mostly.

The stiffness lingered in his joints like an awkward houseguest, but his strength was returning. Slowly. Too slowly, by his standards.

Which was why he had decided, without consulting anyone, that today was the perfect day to “resume training.”

The Kusuriuri had told him, in a voice as patient as a haunted clock, to rest. Romeo, in a rare flash of common sense, had offered to spar instead, “just to keep your pride alive.” But Carlo was determined.

“I’m not just going to sit around while my tendons grow moss,” he muttered, pulling on a shirt like it was made of sandpaper. “I’m a stalker.”

“Yes,” the Kusuriuri said from her corner, sipping tea and not looking up from her alchemical notes. “That much is painfully clear.”

“I was feared across five provinces.”

“For your attitude, probably.”

Romeo, who was already in the courtyard doing half-hearted stretches, yelled over his shoulder, “Are we pretending this is a serious training montage? Because I brought my imaginary flute soundtrack!”

“Shut up,” Carlo hissed as he limped past him. “This is serious.”

“Everything you do is serious,” Romeo muttered. “That’s why I’m here to add comedy.”

They began the warm-up.

It was going well. For five seconds.

Carlo went for a pivot-slide and immediately overextended, landing face-first in the grass with the grace of a collapsing bookshelf.

Romeo rushed to help him up, only to trip on his own coat tail and crash on top of him.

The Kusuriuri didn’t look up. “Ah. The power of coordinated failure.”

Carlo sat up, breath wheezing, grass in his hair. “I meant to do that.”

Romeo, still face-down, mumbled, “I think I’ve dislocated my self-esteem.”

Undeterred (and deeply humiliated), Carlo got back up. “I used to be able to scale a wall in five seconds.”

“That’s adorable,” Romeo wheezed. “Should I grab the ladder now?”

“I don’t need a ladder,” Carlo barked.

He marched toward the wall.

The Kusuriuri finally looked up, raising one perfectly tattooed brow. “Do you require a hex to enhance your delusion?”

“No,” Carlo grunted, already grabbing onto a ledge. “Just silence.”

Three seconds later, a thud. Then a curse. Then Romeo again, yelling, “You landed on my leg!”

“You’re under the climbing wall?”

“I was observing artistically!”

The Kusuriuri blinked, then calmly scribbled something in her notebook: “Symptoms of post-petrification delusion include: denial, unnecessary acrobatics, and shared idiocy.”

Eventually, they both hobbled back into the house, sweaty, scratched, and ego-bruised.

The Kusuriuri handed Carlo a cooling cloth and Romeo another popsicle.

Carlo collapsed into a chair with a groan. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

She patted his shoulder once with a gloved hand. “Good. Just wait until your soul reattaches to your knees.”

Romeo, licking the popsicle and kicking his feet up, grinned. “Next time, let’s skip the training and just wrestle in the dirt from the start.”

“Romeo.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Don't Touch the Powder”

The next morning, the courtyard was eerily quiet.

Carlo was resting (mostly pouting) in a shaded corner with his arm propped up on a cushion and his pride tucked somewhere beneath yesterday’s failed training montage. The Kusuriuri was perched cross-legged on a mat, surrounded by a small constellation of ornate boxes, scrolls, and paper charms. She was grinding herbs with the care of a calligrapher and humming a tune that sounded like a lullaby being played backward.

Romeo, naturally, was circling like a moth around a forbidden lantern.

“What’s this one?” he asked, pointing to a small purple vial.

“Hallucinogenic powder extracted from regret and nightmares,” the Kusuriuri said, not even glancing up.

Romeo blinked. “That’s... so specific.”

Carlo didn’t even look. “Don’t touch anything.”

But Romeo did touch something. Of course he did.

It wasn’t the vial he went for though—it was a tiny lacquered box with a silvery mark on the lid. The second his fingers brushed it, a puff of green smoke exploded in his face.

He staggered back, blinking furiously. “I didn’t open it! I breathed near it!”

Carlo groaned, already standing (with mild effort). “If you turn into a frog again, I’m not helping.”

“I wasn’t a frog, I was an emotionally confused toad,” Romeo argued, swatting at imaginary fireflies. “Wait. Am I... seeing my memories? Is that me crying over burnt soup in the orphanage kitchen?”

The Kusuriuri finally turned her head, resting her chin on her palm, watching him as one might a mildly cursed puppet parade.

“That powder reacts to repressed emotional failure,” she said simply.

Carlo covered his face. “He’s going to be useless all day.”

“I’m reliving puberty,” Romeo wailed. “And it’s louder this time!”

Carlo turned to her, trying not to look amused. “Is there an antidote?”

The Kusuriuri shrugged one shoulder. “Time. Or an embarrassing story louder than his own memories.”

Romeo, now dramatically laying on the grass, moaned, “Tell her about the wall incident.”

Carlo pointed at him. “You already told her.”

Romeo rolled over. “Then admit she’s a little terrifying in a hot fox-witch kind of way.”

There was silence. The Kusuriuri didn’t react, continuing her work calmly. But the edges of her mouth twitched—barely.

Carlo crossed his arms, trying to fight the warmth creeping to his cheeks. “You're high. Go sleep it off.”

Romeo gave a thumbs-up from the grass. “I’ll be here. Dying of secondhand shame.”

The Kusuriuri finally stood, dusting her hands. “Good. He’ll be quieter unconscious.”

She walked past Carlo, brushing close—just enough to leave the scent of crushed herbs and rain-drenched leaves in her wake.

Carlo blinked after her, heart doing a strange, traitorous lurch.

“…She scares me,” Romeo mumbled into the dirt.

“Yeah,” Carlo muttered, watching her vanish into the hall.

“But she’s got cool socks.”

Carlo didn’t answer.

He was already wondering what exactly the smell of her was made from… and why it was starting to feel oddly comforting.

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

STRINGS

-

《Lies of P / Reader》

{When a traveler from another world becomes entangled with the world puppetry and lies..}

-

{"If I said your a beautiful girl.. Would it upset you?"}

I think these two will honestly go through a whole lot of ☆trauma☆ together.

P is just trying to understand your gestures or slang while you explain that Krat was not your home.

{"Because the way you look tonight... Silhouetted, I'll never forget it."}

The two you wandering around the desolate city for supplies or fighting of puppets/enemies. He gives you such a sweet/innocent look as you sing the song, "Cheers" or any song under your breath boredly during the trip.

P with a (Y/N) from another world gives so much for me to work with!

"P..?" You blink, eyeing your companion as he holds your hand. Having gotten used to holding his porcelain hand as he looks ahead. His grip... It was VERY tight. "Uh-Ok ow.. OW OW!?"

He remembers you aren't like him...

He knows your more fragile than he is, yet he can't help but be... Comfortable in your presence. Your fun answers and determination ignited something within his "Heart".

It beats, it yearns for more.. More than to be human. Something that can be with you until-

P retracts his grip as you cradle your hand. Trying to shake it off as best you could, smiling at him with reassurance, even if it was a clear lie.

-

《I hope you enjoyed my Drabble! Thank you! Comments and reblogs, hearts are super appreciated! I was inspired by a Fionna-like Reader! I HONESTLY WANT MORE!》

[snailsgoingdowntown]

ANYWAY, some Intrigued With You crumbs... (I'm stumped on chapter 5 lol, I'm genuinely tweaking)

P (I will be calling him that) is like a puppy. He follows you around. A lot.

Doesn't understand why you're uncomfortable with that, doesn't understand why you keep coming up with excuse after excuse just so you could leave him. Especially excuses to go out in public - your uncle doesn't want anyone to see his prized creation. Not yet, not when the citizens are starting to turn against the puppets.

But like a puppy, he waits for you to come back. Your uncle finds it amusing and maybe even cute, at first. Until it starts to become routine, when he's starting to listen to you, his niece better than to him, his creator. But, seeing as how you avoid P like the plague, Geppetto starts to slowly, like a good uncle, turn P's attention away from you and to other types of stimulation - sight, hearing, smell.

It doesn't last long.

It's not long before the curious puppy finds his way back to you.

And all you can do is endure.

[writingescapades]

LoP Mockumentory

Who Broke it?

Geppetto and the rest of the LoP cast looking at the broken coffee machine.

Geppetto: So, who broke it? I'm not mad. I just want to know.

Silence

P: I did it. I broke--

Geppetto: No. No you didn't son. Carlo?

Carlo: Don't look at me! Look at Romeo

Romeo: What?! I didn't break it.

Carlo: Huh, that's weird. How did you even know it was broken?

Romeo: Because it's sitting right in front of us, and it's broken.

Carlo: Suspicious

Polendina: If it matters, Eugénie was the last to use it.

Eugénie: Liar! I don't even drink that crap.

Polendina: Oh really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

Eugénie: I use the wooden stirrer to push back P's legion arm cuticles. Everyone knows that Polendina!

P: Okay, lets not fight. I broke it. I'll make amends, father.

Geppetto: No, son. Who broke it?

Romeo: Master Geppetto, Venigni's been awful quiet.

Venigni: REALLY?!

Everyone starts arguing. Camera cuts to Geppetto

Geppetto: I broke it. It disobeyed my order, so I punched it. I predict 10 min from now, they will be after one another. Good. It was getting too chummy around here.

[esteljune]

Some rambling about Carlo this time {P x reader and Carlo x reader sort of?} the boy gives me so much feeling as well

TW: blood and a good amount of cheesyness

Geppetto manages to obtain Pinocchio's heart, albeit against his will, and Carlo is reborn. Together they return to the hotel leaving Pinocchio in the abyss and there Carlo commits a massacre.

You don't immediately realize the gravity of what is happening. Sure, the Hotel has already been attacked once, but you blindly believe that P will come back to you, you are convinced that you are safe.

However, when you hear an abnormal commotion on the ground floor, your instinct tells you to run and see. But before you can reach the door someone opens it.

It seems to you that the creaking should go on forever, then you see someone enter. He carries the face of the person you love, but at the same time it is so distant from his that it makes your stomach crumple.

He remains still, dark eyes on yours. You recognize him immediately. Antonia had told you about him, about his brief and unhappy existence.

Only after a very long moment of silence can you compute his presence, his painfully familiar face smeared with blood.

The acrid stench fills the room, the noise of the dense drops falling from the mechanical fingers onto the precious marble breaks the silence.

-Carlo… What did you do? – you murmur breathlessly.

Your brain can't fully process the horror, you feel foggy, dizzy.

The boy smiles, silently. A grim smile, very far from the fragile and melancholic beauty of Pinocchio.

-What I was ordered. – He finally says with a shrug of the shoulders. The nonchalant tone breaks your heart.

-No… they are… - The words die in your throat. Saying them out loud would be too horrible.

Your dismay doesn't seem to disturb him at all, he studies you, motionless, for a very long time.

-He… loved you. More than his own life, in fact. Just looking at you gives me heart palpitations. That hassle. – He finally says between his teeth, putting a hand to his chest, annoyed.

Something shatters inside you, the roar is devastating, the impact so hard it makes you dizzy.

-Do you have his heart? – you manage to say dazedly.

The boy smiles again like a child who has just done a mischief.

Without thinking you approach Carlo throwing caution to the wind, you should be terrified but instead you just feel empty. You place your hand on his warm chest, under your fingers the boy's heart is pounding wildly and that's when the tears start to flow without you having given them permission.

The pain is so strong that it breaks your breath, you never imagined that end for the two of you.

-I love you. I just wanted to tell you. –

Carlo takes your fingers between his, squeezes until it almost hurts.

-He no longer exists. Come on, run. I won't tell the old man that I found you. – He smiles again carelessly, abruptly moving your hand aside.

Something deep in his eyes gives you shivers. You slowly walk away.

-It doesn't have to be this way. –

-But yes. I can't be anything other than this. Go away now. – he says with empty eyes, your life doesn't matter to him at all, you can feel it. There is nothing left of the one you love.

[royaltealee]

Deathly silent

ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴊᴏʀ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀʀʟᴏ'ꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴇᴏ'ꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱᴛᴏʀʏꜱ. ᴅᴏ ʙᴇ ᴡᴀʀɴᴇᴅ!

Carlo x Puppet!reader

⚠️ Trigger warning's⚠️

Descriptions of a plague sickness, death, sad sad times and blood.

Part 1/2

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

The ticking clockwork echoes in the stillness of Gepettos workshop. Automated gears singing a ticking tune, keeping its pace, never faltering.

Little Carlo plays with a small ball jointed doll, black hair almost covering his face while resuming on posing the doll how he wanted.

A small smile painted his lips, cobalt blue iris keeping its figure as he sets the doll standing.

Taking a note pad, he gently lines every detail of it, soon, it takes shape.

Hair, eyes, clothes, everything in his imagination, coming to life in a single sketch of how he wanted to shape this plain doll.

Showing his father his sketchpad, the puppet maker quickly got to work.

Moulding the exact proportions his son drew, Carlo watching every second of his father's work.

Once the puppet was finished, it was the same size as the boy, Ergo rushed through its wiring, newly obtained and springing to life.

Carlo talked with it, watching as it clung to every word he spoke.

Geppetto's son now has a friend.

And Geppetto can peacefully get back to work.

_____________

He never expected this to happen.

The puppet that kept Carlo company, listened and stayed by his side...

Started to grow.

Not just physically, but mentally. It's mind shaped ideas, concepts, and jokes. Carlo laughed at every single one of them.

At first, he had only made the doll-like puppet to just be a toy for his son to keep him busy while he worked...

It was an interesting sight indeed.

Its hair grew longer... And it even explained that it could... Quite possibly a dream.

It was no longer an IT anymore.

But it was doing no harm... So the Puppet maker paid no mind.

___________

As both of them grew, Carlo grew more distant towards his father. You stayed by his side, talking with the boy from day in, to day out.

It was never a boring day for the two, even as Carlo started going to school... You would wait for him.

Till one day, he brought over another boy. Around the same age, blond hair cut into a short bob. From what you could tell, he was from the same boarding school as Carlo, from the matching uniform.

Carlo introduced you first, calling your name.

"This is Romeo, Romeo, this is my friend,"

"A puppet?"

"Yeah- please don't call me that... My name is fine."

You corrected quickly, a smile gentle on your face as you reach out a hand, the wiring of gears still being heard with every move.

Romeo carefully, and hesitantly took your hand.

Eyes widening only a tad, looking at Carlo, then snapped back to you dumbly.

"Your hands are soft. And warm."

That caught something in your gears, laughing a bit when the boy blushed in embarrassment as Carlo too started to laugh at the absurdity.

"They've always been warm and soft!" Carlo laughed.

"I didn't know! Automations are usually cold and hard! Like metal!"

Romeo clapped back, straightening up and grossing his arms, grumbling in his defense.

This started the friendship between the three of you. The hardships that would happen between Carlo and his father would slip into silence, a somber sad silence whenever Carlo would ask for a bit of his father's time... Only to be told later.

Lies that the boy hated.

And you could only watch, the sinking feeling only growing worse as the years went by.

_____________

"Go to school? With you?"

You asked, as if the very idea was a grueling puzzle. How could a puppet like yourself need school?

"Why not? Have you ever wondered what you could learn?"

Carlo asked, insistent on the idea. His graduation was next year... And he wanted to share that with you.

And he had hope his own father would be there, he'd have to! It's his own son's graduation for God's sake!

You thought for a moment, you've always stayed in the vicinity of the workshop, not a rhyme or reason other than to be close to the only person who could fix a couple of loose bolts if something were amiss.

But it was only Krat city, surely it's safe enough for any Puppet, right?

What could hurt?

____________

You were given odd looks down Krat city hall, you looked nothing like the usual puppets that Geppetto has created, fresh gears turning and auto generated voice lines from newer puppets, little to no life in their eyes.

The spare uniform that you had borrowed from Carlo fit nicely on you, considering that your proportions almost matched the smiling boy beside you, none the wiser with the questioning looks of others.

Making it, the both of you entered, you immediately saw a familiar head of blond hair, sitting next to two empty seats.

Carlo takes your hand and takes you towards the boy.

Romeo, was suffice to say, shocked to see you, in school, in a uniform no less.

"Is this even allowed?"

He whispered, glancing at the raven haired boy, who gave a cheeky smirk.

"I may have pulled a ...few strings." Carlo smiled, sitting down and looking uncharacteristically poised.

"What does THAT mean??" Romeo asked, accusatory suspicion heavy in his voice.

Watching you sit down next to Carlo, fidgeting, like you were nervous.

And he couldn't blame you, the eyes that trailed your figure were more curious and confused.

Some had to do a double take when they entered class.

You could hear the talk, surrounding your table, the clicking of your fingers stopped when a teacher had finally entered the room.

A broad smile graced his face as he took a seat when everyone went quiet.

Class would start with you questioning why you're here.

And it would end with you wanting to learn more.

________

When you were "asleep", your body

was usually stiff as a board.

Standing in your designated area while your body shuts down. But lately, you haven't been able to get comfortable.

Why would a puppet like yourself need to get comfortable?

It caused you to shift, to the point of settling on sitting down on a chair.

It was acceptable. For now.

But you kept on waking up with clear pictures in your mind, horrid pictures of burning buildings... An unfinished film hidden in your wiring that had made no sense... You had thought initially that these were human dreams.

But they just kept coming back, more excruciatingly detailed than the last...

It didn't help that they only had gotten worse when Carlo had to stay at the school due to his father not being able to take care of the poor boy...

Yet, he still held hope that he would be there for his son, on his special day.

Even when news about a suspicious murder that happened just weeks ago.. something in your gears telling you to do... The most absurd things.

Like grabbing something... Blunt, and hitting someone over the head.

Morbid thoughts that wanted to break your working wires and rework them into something less...

Human.

You then felt a gentle shake, your eyes slotting open to find the Geppetto boy, clad in his uniform, but what was amiss

Was the usual framed smile that he wore every time he was with you.

Your brows knitted, he looked tired, eyes puffy, red from either crying or lack of sleep.

Or both.

He had come home in the early morning to see you.

"Why are you back this early? You'll get in trouble for leaving your dorm room."

You saw his face sour, not expecting to be scolded.

But felt his frame lax when you pulled him into a hug.

"It's good to see you, Carlo."

"Me too,"

Your name passed his lips lightly, letting go of the hug after a while, warming your body in a way that caused you to melt.

But getting a better look at him, you saw scrapes and cuts littering his cheeks and arms. Suddenly alarmed, you rest your fingers against a gash against the top of his head.

"Carlo, What on earth happened?"

The boy quickly took your fingers in his palm and held it to his chest.

"I'm okay, me and Romeo were just training. Romeo got me good... But I knocked him down too!"

The boys obsession to be a Stalker nearly made you question if they were insane, few bolts loose perhaps?

But it was unfruitful when they hadn't changed their minds on their 18th birthdays. So much has happened, and so little time has gone by.

Carlo had become a young man so quickly that you almost felt left out.

You too, should be in the same age range as the two boys, but something blocked you from truly being grown.

And you knew.

And it hurt so much.

__________

Today was the day, you wore something quiet fitting for a day like this.

A year had passed by extremely quickly, it shocked you.

Walking down to the workshop, you knocked.

A muffled "yes?" Answered. Promptly causing you to enter.

"Mr. Geppetto? It's me. Do you know what today is?"

The man had paused, bringing his glasses up to check the calendar next to the many boxes of puppet parts that were left to be used later.

"Ah. I don't think I do? Please, enlighten me."

"It's your son's graduation from the academy."

The puppet maker winced at the tone you held.

Turning to the clock that hung from the ceiling.

"I... I simply do not have time..."

He finally answered. Lowering his eyes from your burning ones.

"Carlo... Carlo has been looking forward to this...! You can't just NOT go!"

"I need to get this done.. perhaps if I finish quickly, I'll be able to go..."

You stepped forward, fists locking hard against your sides.

"You've said that all your life! Carlo needs this!"

"Watch your tone..."

"HE'S YOUR SON!-"

"QUIET, THAT'S AN ORDER PUPPET."

You felt your jaw automatically lock.

Body stiffening against the restraints... He's... Never given an order to you before.

It felt uncomfortable, unnatural.

But your body stayed planted to the ground, as Geppetto walked towards you, gripped your shoulders and looked you at eye level.

And gave you orders.

"You will go in my place. Be there for him, congratulate him, and tell him that I love him, and that I am proud."

Orders that you must follow.

__________

You sat in the rows of seats, waiting for Carlo's name to be said, congratulating him for his hard work.

Romeo's name was called, looking over, he sees you waving, excitedly waving with a big smile.

You waved as well, yelling congratulations to the blond boy.

Looking behind him, was the familiar fluff of black hair, and icy blues that peaked at the crowd.

He looked around expectantly, smiling first when he locked eyes with you, and feeling his face flush when you screamed a congratulations to him.

But, felt his face fall when seeing the empty seat next to you.

Reserved for the only man he wanted to be there.

You instantly saw how his face formed a small frown, eyes cast down into sadness.

It grinded your gears, almost painfully so. Right where your stomach and heart should've been.

It should've been his father here.

Not you.

__________

After the ceremony, you, Carlo and Romeo stayed past leaving hours.

Sitting down in front of the school, both boys still in their ceremony gowns, caps thrown somewhere in the hall.

Both were in conversation while you just stared point blank at the busy street.

It wasn't until you felt a hand that had been placed on your back

Turning slightly, to see both boys staring at your brooding.

It felt... Consoling.

"I'm sorry that your father didn't come... I tried to convince him, but... It didn't work out."

You sighed, if only you had tried hard enough, broken free from those commands... Maybe, possibly, he could have been here.

Carlo's fingers twitched against your back.

"Don't."

You looked up quickly, seeing Carlo's face shift with anger. Bubbling in his gut was something you've never seen before.

"I wouldn't care if he'd died right here and now. So don't think it was your fault for his damn actions."

Looking back at Romeo, he dug into his shirt, feeling around till he held out a necklace.

Pulling it from his neck, he handed it to the boy next to him.

"Here, Romeo. To break my bonds to him, and to solidify our friendship and my admiration to you, till the very end."

Romeo gently took the relic in his hands, gripping it to his chest and nodding, a look of finality showing past his face.

Carlo finally looked at you, pulling out something from his pocket, it was a ring. Imbued with Ergo, the blue material shaped to look like a cut diamond.

A look of shock graced your face, holding the precious item in your palm.

"I made this... To show how much I care for you. You've been by my side when my father hasn't. And I want you by my side forever more. You were never just a puppet to me,"

He had slipped on the ring for you, watching as the band glided against your ring finger.

Having him hold your hand tightly against his, warm and secure.

"You are my everything."

That made you shortcircuit-

Unable to completely say the words, Romeo just laughed hysterically at the look of your face.

Causing you to leap up and bonk the blond on the head with a closed fist.

"Ow!!! That hurt! You're made of metal!"

Yeah.. you could get used to this.

_________

"I want to see them..!"

Carlo cried, throat dry and burning.

His fingers were completely solid against the hard shell that had encased half of his body already.

His skin turned almost deathly pale from loss of blood circulation and blue blood.

He couldn't move, but that didn't stop him from using his strength on the last bit of voice he still had left.

He called out to both you and Romeo, daily.

Geppetto couldn't see his son like this... In pain both physically and mentally.

When the puppet frenzy had started, you had disappeared.

Out in the dead of night, possibly killing humans, or already dead by the many makes shift weapons that the people of Krat had made themselves.

Carlo, having contracted the petrification disease.

"You can't see them right now son..."

"Why can't I?! They're my.. my.."

Carlo felt something bubble from his lips, spitting out a slurry of blue blood.

Coughing harshly against the tightness against his chest.

The crystals forming around his face surely didn't help either.

Cold, cold was another horrid feeling he felt.

Is this what you felt on a daily basis without the warmth of his hands?

It was unbearable.

"Carlo... Please get some rest."

His father pleated, using a rag to wipe his son's mouth from the putred stuff.

Carlo became deathly quiet, aside from his rugged breathing, he had kept his eyes up and buggy.

Hoping, pleading that you'd come back.

Just like you've always had.

__________

Blood dripped from the crevice of your hands, even getting between the grooves of your ring.

You had only one thing in your mind.

Kill

Kill

KILL

Anything that moves, breaths, or twitches, kill it.

But you never remembered finding yourself scaling an entire mansion and breaking open a window that felt so familiar to you.

Your body janked to one side of the room to the next, stumbling blindly, trying to search for anything that you could grasp on.

Your body stopped completely when you heard a groan.

A very tired groan coming from the other side of the room.

Slowly but steady, you reached your hands out, ready to break whatever neck you could feel...

You suddenly felt warm.

"You... You came back.."

You heard your name, come from the weak lips of someone you were close with.

His frighteningly cold hands reached to hold your broken face.

"You... Came back..."

He repeated.

"C̴̀͐ͅǎ̴̯̀͠r̵̡͕͈͚͍͍̼͕̍̀̈́̽̎̍͗̍́̏̚͜͠l̶̬̞͎̖͉̹̝͕̝͖̣̉͆ŏ̸̡̼̺̫̥̻͈̞̍͆̏̓́͜͝ͅ?"

Your voice wasn't the same anymore, voice box crackled with broken wires and flood of oil and Ergo. But he still smiled against his cracked and bloody lips. Reminisce of the Puppet language hard in your voice.

Your fingers were still itching, getting closer to his neck, really wanting to put him out of this painful reality, you fought instead to scoop him up against your arms.

Holding the dying boy you had grown to love.

He felt so heavy against you.. and he only grew heavier when he laid his head against your hard shoulder.

Feeling a long your hand with his, crystal-like fingers staining with the blood against your caked ones.

Feeling the band against your finger.

"You.. are my... everything."

He went deathly silent.

••••••••••••°°°°••••••••••••

This is my first time sharing my writings with Tumbler, hope ya like it ✨

[anonymergremlin]

The nameless puppet put all his strength together, one last time. His weapon raised, his body moving towards and striking down. Geppetto tried to jump between his 'son' and 'creation', but he wasn't quickly enough. But someone else was. The sound of metal hitting flesh and blood echoed through the room. A cough shortly followed.

Between the Nameless Puppet and the puppet man was [Name], impaled by it's scissors shaped blade. "I... Know you didn't want to kill him... You just wanted... It to stop... But not like this Car-..." They dropped to their knees, quickly caught by P. Geppetto could only stare as the Nameless Puppet dropped to the ground while P held his injured lover. The man wanted to yell, to finish it himself, but what happened before his face stopped him.

"I am sorry... I... I was so scared. I had to do it", [Name] whispered while the blood filled their lungs. They could feel their lovers hand cupping their cheek, so gentle and warm. Has he always been like this? "Please... Be careful. Don't... Let anyone decide what you should do... With your life", tears started to drop down their cheeks. "Please. Just life my love... And you...", they pulled all their strength together to turn their head around, "Do the right thing... Don't mess up again... For Carlo... For him... Don't let new chance be a waste. Be a good father for him".

As they turned their head around, the felt another wetness on their face, but it was not from their tears. They looked at the puppetman's face to meet with tears filled eyes. He cried. He cried for the first time and it was for them.

With one last smile and the gentle touch of their hands they pulled him down for a kiss and spoke: "I... Wish... Your first cry would have been out of happiness and joy. I am... Sorry... That it came like this... Please don't cry anymore... Please... Forgive me... Have... A good life... I love... You"

[lagooneah]

Here's a Lies of P fic that got lost in the sauce on my other account. Thought I'd post the link here cause I actually really liked it and the lop community deserves it.

[bloodbrown]

Having this touch starved P x reader thought.

P gets so damn excited when you make out with each other that his left arm, which is already kinda twitchy, gets uncontrollably shaky from the anticipation.

Like his entire left arm is literally vibrating and he doesn't know what to do with it.

It's not even in an exclusively sexual way either, P is just so touch-starved that it drives him up a wall to be grabbed at and kissed with so much intensity. It makes him shaky, and his heart pounds so loudly you can hear it, and it just rocks his entire world.

Call him a good boy in between kisses and this touch deprived puppet will literally short circuit.

[ananiel]

Hello, and please Forgive me for the lack of updates or working on Your request, i have caught a cold that doesn't let me function that much, șo until i get better, please enjoy this fic for lies of p i have done a few months ago that has Been chiling in my drafts. Oldie but goldie

And rest asured Your requests will be done as soon as i feel better!

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

Their living room reeked of tension.

Not just the kind that hung in the air after a spat—but the kind that buzzed, thick and alive, like the seconds before lightning strikes. She stood at the end of the couch, arms crossed, face unreadable but clearly seconds away from snapping.

Carlo paced in front of the fireplace like a caged animal, voice sharp as glass. “You’re reckless. You do whatever you want, bring whatever you want into this house without a word to me. It’s like I live with a bloody storm!”

Her brow arched, slow and deliberate. “Better than living with a brick wall who thinks his silence is holy.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, “don’t play the victim. This isn’t about feelings. It’s about you thinking this place is your circus.”

She took a slow, cold step forward. “And what, exactly, makes you think it isn’t?”

He opened his mouth—then closed it, brow twitching. She smirked.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, not giving him the satisfaction of watching her rage. The sound of her boots hitting the floorboards was the only answer she gave, echoing down the hallway as she entered the bedroom.

And there it was. Chaos.

Pillows shredded. Feathers clinging to the air like snow. Half a curtain scorched. A picture frame—previously displaying a stiff but formal family portrait of Carlo—lay face-down on the floor.

At the center of it all was him.

A baby wyvern, crimson-scaled, long-necked, tail twitching. Perched on the dresser like he owned the place. Wings flared. Eyes wide with mischief. He looked up at her with a chirping growl, something between a purr and a hiss, as though to say, Look what I did, Ma!

“Oh my god, Vermillion.”

He let out a celebratory squeal and flopped down on a torn sweater.

Seconds later, she was barefoot on the window ledge, hands out, voice whispering frantic charms to keep the creature calm, muttering about flame-proofing the bedsheets if this thing decided to sneeze.

The door creaked open just as she lunged and scooped the little wyvern up in her arms.

Romeo walked in with a small tray balanced in his hands—two cups of tea and a sugar bowl. His mouth opened to greet her—

Crash.

The tray hit the ground.

Tea soaked the rug.

The sugar bowl cracked.

He stared.

She stood in the middle of the room, clutching a wriggling, snarling, wing-flapping dragon, her hair a mess, her sleeves slightly singed, and a very unconvincing please-don’t-yell smile plastered across her face.

“…this isn’t what it looks like,” she said brightly.

The wyvern let out a baby snarl and puffed a little spark into the air.

Romeo blinked. “Is that a wyvern?”

She nodded too quickly. “A baby wyvern. I named him Vermillion.”

“Of course you did.”

He watched as the little thing attempted to chew on her hand in silence.

She winced. “It just showed up. Probably smelled the ash from the candles or the scent of roasted lamb from the kitchens.”

“And you just… opened the window and invited it in like a housecat.”

“Well,” she muttered defensively, “he looked cold.”

Vermillion let out a fwump as his wings flapped and slapped her cheek lightly. She hissed and tucked him under one arm like a wriggling purse.

Romeo crouched to pick up the teacups, sighing. “You do realize Carlo will absolutely combust if he finds out you’re hiding a fire-breathing miniature wyvern in your dorm.”

She gave a deadpan stare. “If Carlo combusts, we can use him as a heat source for the creature.”

That made Romeo snort with laughter, which earned a little ember puff from the baby wyvern, clearly pleased by the sound.

Romeo stood again and looked at her—really looked. The red rings around her eyes, the way her shoulders were still tense from the argument. The flicker of vulnerability she always tried to hide.

“You okay?” he asked, softly.

She hesitated, then nodded. “I will be. I always am.”

He didn’t press. Just picked up the sugar bowl shards, then sat on the floor, cross-legged, and patted the rug beside him. “C’mon. Let’s brainstorm excuses for when Carlo barges in here and sees your new scaly son.”

Her lips twitched. “Son?”

“He’s imprinted. He growled at me. That’s a family bond if I’ve ever seen one.”

She sighed and flopped beside him. The wyvern snuggled into her lap like a dragon-shaped heating pad, tail curling around her arm.

.

.

.

The fire snapped in the hearth, the only other sound being the slow ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. The fight still hung thick in the air—Carlo hadn’t moved since she slammed the door to the bedroom behind her, and Romeo came there to make peace, again. Was this his life?

Was this how his marriage would be? Him having to wait after a mistake for someone else to beg of her to overlook and swallow whatever he did because they are husband and wife?

P stood beside the fireplace, silent, one hand cradling two porcelain teacups filled to the brim with warmth that was slowly fading.

Carlo exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw clenching. “I don’t hate her,” he muttered, voice low and bitter.

And then—

Bedroom, Behind Closed Doors

“Put that down, you little menace—!”

The small red blur of a creature let out a high-pitched shriek of excitement, leaping from the shelf with far too much confidence for a thing that barely fit in two hands. She stumbled over a fallen cushion, hair falling into her eyes as she swiped again at the wyvern.

It darted toward the ceiling beam with a screech, tiny claws clicking against wood, leaving behind the scorched mark of where a curtain had just moments before caught a flicker of accidental fire.

“Vermillion, please,” she hissed, her voice pinched between exasperation and manic disbelief. “You are not supposed to be flying around, you’re supposed to be hibernating!”

“ What the fuck-he was quiet i swear, i thought he finally run out of fuel” Romeo said out of breath.

The wyvern hissed at Romeo. And looked as If IT was cursing HIM out

Romeo blinked. Then, slowly:

“…Should I pretend I didn’t see this?”

“Catch him!” she barked, tossing the sock at the ceiling. “He’s trying to eat my bookshelf!”

Romeo sighed and picked up a broom.

Back in the Living Room

P didn’t react to the distant thump upstairs. Carlo didn’t hear it at all—too wrapped in the haze of his own thoughts.

“I don’t hate her,” he repeated, voice rougher now. “I just—”

Another muffled sound—this time a screech, followed by a loud clatter.

Still, the words kept flowing, falling from a mouth twisted with guilt and pride in equal measure.

“I hate what our father did. I hate how she was handed to me like I was owed something.” His gaze dropped to the flickering fire. “I hate the way Romeo always has to come sweep her up after I knock her down.”

Another thud, upstairs. A flash of red light against the closed hallway door.

P blinked once but didn’t speak. He wasn't sure If he was seeing and hearing things because of a malfunction or Something else

Carlo rubbed his eyes, tone quieter now. “Maybe that’s why you’d be better. You wouldn’t have fought it. Wouldn’t have ruined it.”

Upstairs

Romeo was crawling on the floor, trying to coax the wyvern down from the top of the wardrobe. Broom burned in a corner.

She was behind him, hands on her knees, whispering encouragement like it was a feral toddler.

“Please come down,” she muttered. “I can’t hide you if you keep knocking over furniture.”

Romeo glanced back at her, deadpan. “So we’re not telling Carlo?”

“Absolutely not.”

The wyvern chirped, tail twitching.

Romeo sighed. “Then remind me again why you’re raising a fire-breathing lizard in a home full of linen curtains and emotional repression?”

“Because he’s cute.”

Another pillow burst into flames behind them.

Romeo nodded, lips thin. “Right. Adorable.”

.

.

.

Inside the Apartment – Later That Night

At last, the apartment was still.

Vermillion, now gently snoozing on a pile of warm laundry, had exhausted himself after nearly setting half the bookshelf ablaze. His wings twitched with sleepy chirps, tail curled like a question mark, a stray sock half-burned hanging from one claw.

She and Romeo stood over him in silence, breathless and covered in soot. Her hair was a mess, wild strands frizzed by the magical heat, and Romeo had a scorch mark across one sleeve.

“I think he’s asleep,” she whispered.

“I think I need a drink,” Romeo whispered back, then added, “You owe me new boots.”

From the hallway came a soft knock—P, gentle as ever. He opened the door a crack and slipped in. Romeo quickly put a towel over the baby.

“He’s... calmer now,” he said, voice careful.

She exchanged a quick glance with Romeo, then nodded. “Okay.”

P moved closer, a small smile on his face. “Carlo wants to talk. In private. He asked me to suggest... a café, maybe? Fresh air.”

Her brows rose in surprise, but she nodded again.

.

.

.

Outside Café – Just Beneath Their Apartment

The street café glowed with golden lanterns and low, murmuring voices. It was quaint, cozy—the kind of place where tea steamed from delicate cups and pastries lived under glass domes.

She and Carlo sat across from one another, her arms tucked around a mug of bitter, dark coffee. He looked more worn than usual, like the weight of his own silence had finally settled too heavy across his shoulders.

“I wasn’t ready,” he started, quietly. “For... any of it.”

She blinked, watching him.

“The marriage. The expectations. The way Father forced it and acted like it was owed. I thought if I hated it all, I’d protect myself.”

Her head tilted. Her lips stayed quiet.

“But you didn’t deserve the fallout,” Carlo murmured, picking at the edge of a sugar packet. “You never did.”

Behind them, barely audible through the café's soft music, came a familiar scuffling sound. Something like wings. Something like Romeo saying “Don’t you dare climb that curtain again—”

She started to turn—

“Wait,” Carlo said, gently touching her hand. “I’m not done.”

She stilled. Though her eyes continued to search the sound

“No more fights. No more secrets,” he said, voice steadier now. “I want this to work.I want to be a better husband for You…”

She gave him a soft, surprised look. But before her lips could shape into words—

CRASH!

The window behind them shattered in a sudden spray of glass, which froze midair like a suspended snowstorm as the creature who broke IT liped in. With a shrill shriek and a streak of scarlet wings—

Vermillion landed on their table.

Knocking over a plate of croissants and instantly trying to bite the sugar spoon.

Romeo came stumbling behind, covered in feathers, tea, and what looked like a broken curtain rod.

P followed next, utterly deadpan, holding up a scorch-marked oven mitt like it might help.

Carlo blinked. The wyvern licked the whipped cream off his thumb...

The scream shook the entire café.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!”

Heads turned. A few patrons ducked behind their menus. One poor barista dropped a plate of scones.

Carlo stood over the table, eyes wide, tea dripping down his sleeve, staring at the tiny red monster currently gnawing on a sugar cube like it owed him money. Vermillion let out a proud little hiss, wings flaring dramatically despite being the size of a housecat.

She, ever calm, gently plucked the spoon from the dragon’s grip and gave him a stern look. “No sugar before bed.”

“Don’t talk to it like it understands you!” Carlo shouted, motioning wildly. “It’s a—It’s a thing! With teeth! What—How long have you had this mutant, featherless parrot?!”

“We should probably go home,” Romeo sighed, grabbing the beast gently by the underbelly. “Before you actually combust.”

Back at the Apartment

Carlo paced the living room like a man on trial.

Romeo and she sat on the couch, the tiny wyvern curled on her lap, tail thumping happily against her leg. P, of course, had already made tea again and was quietly sipping on the armrest like a very smug housecat.

“I want a straight answer,” Carlo snapped, rubbing his temples. “What is that? What do you call it?”

“A wyvern,” she said simply.

“A DRAGON?!” he roared. “That thing is a dragon?! He looks like a glorified snake with wings!”

Vermillion chirped at him.

Carlo narrowed his eyes. “Poor animal. Even the sounds are deformed.”

The apartment went silent.

Romeo stopped mid-sip of his tea. She blinked slowly. P looked up, deadpan.

Vermillion released a single, slow, offended huff and tucked his head under her arm.

Then, finally, P quietly muttered:

“Kids are good for marriages. Who knows… he might bring you two closer.”

There was another pause.

Carlo stared at him. Then at the dragon. Then back at her, who had the gall to look smug.

Carlo groaned and dropped onto the couch beside her, shoulders slumping. Vermillion slithered his tail onto Carlo’s lap, like a smug truce.

“…He better not burn my records,” Carlo mumbled.

“You mean the ones hidden behind the couch?” she said sweetly.

“Gods help me.”

P just sipped his tea again.

.

.

.

They were trying.

They really were.

After the whole café incident and the yelling and the flaming sugar cube, Carlo had begrudgingly accepted that his wife was not giving up the dragon, and that no, he could not “accidentally lose it on a walk.”

So they were trying to function like a couple. Like a married pair. Like two people not thrown together by patriarchal politics and magical bad luck.

Which led to this moment.

Sharing a bed.

The room was dim, the sheets warm, her hair splayed like ink across the pillow. She’d already curled up like a cat, soft breaths slowing, her fingers barely brushing the edge of the blanket she had stolen completely. Carlo sat stiffly beside her, feeling like a misbehaving schoolboy, unsure if he should move or not. His brain screamed, Don’t touch her. Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t ruin this.

He was just beginning to relax, letting out the smallest sigh of peace when—

“AAAAAUGH—!”

He leapt two feet in the air, thrashed, tangled in sheets.

“HE BIT ME! HE BIT MY TOE! THE LITTLE MONSTER BIT ME!”

At the foot of the bed, Vermillion stared up at him, deadpan. A little proud. Definitely unrepentant.

She blinked awake, hair wild, eyes half-lidded. “Hmm? Vermi...?”

Carlo pointed a dramatic, accusatory finger. “He’s trying to kill me in my sleep.”

The dragon merely yawned, licked his lips, and laid back down across Carlo’s pillow.

The next morning brought new chaos.

“Alright,” she muttered, pulling her hair up into a knot and rolling her sleeves. “Let’s see how this works.”

Carlo watched from the kitchen, coffee halfway to his mouth, as she calmly placed a small kettle on the countertop.

And then, with the confidence of a woman who’d clearly done this before, she whistled.

Vermillion scuttled up, perched himself next to the kettle, and blew a steady stream of fire.

Carlo’s coffee paused mid-air. “Is that—are you using him as a stove?!”

She turned to him, sweetly smiling, hair falling into her face.

Vermillion was still going.

Still. Blowing. Fire.

“Would you rather I burned your records?” she asked.

Carlo blinked. “I’m starting to think I married a witch after all.”

“Good. Keep thinking that.” She turned back. “Vermi, medium flame now.”

The dragon let out a little pfft of smug pride.

Two Weeks Later

“Low Profile Mission,” They Said

Carlo and Romeo crouched in the shadow of a broken alley, eyes trained on the target. A smuggler. Routine surveillance. Easy job.

Quiet. Precise. In and out.

So naturally, P’s first question had been:

“Why… is there… flapping?”

Carlo narrowed his eyes. “Romeo. Did you hear that?”

Before Romeo could answer, something small, red, and vengeful landed between them.

Vermillion.

“No,” Carlo breathed, horrified. “No no no no no—how did he get here?!”

The wyvern let out a piercing shriek and suddenly dove past them, wings flapping like thunder, flames sparking—

AND ATTACKED THE TARGET.

Full speed.

Straight for the man’s boot.

The smuggler screamed, tripped, caught fire a little, and face-planted into a barrel of rotten cabbage.

Vermillion landed victoriously on his back, tail flicking smugly.

Romeo stared.

Carlo stared.

P sipped from a thermos behind them, somehow already calm.

“I’m going to die of stress,” Carlo said, hand over his face.

Romeo, struggling not to laugh, patted his back. “Look on the bright side: he’s loyal.”

[angies-writing-blog]

Title: Please allow me the priviledge to love you

Fandom: Lies of P

Pair: P x Reader

[swanincrisis]

Midnight Waltz - Pinocchio x f!Reader

Noticing that your puppet companion isn't at his best, you try to lift his spirits, offering a brief escape from his troubles. - warnings: none - word count: 1.1k

It was a night like any other at Hotel Krat, shrouded in an air of melancholic elegance. The dimly lit corridors whispered with the weight of unspoken fears, their inhabitants tucked away in isolation, whether from the unrelenting horrors of the Puppet Frenzy or the silent doom of the Petrification Disease. Yet, within the vast loneliness of the grand hotel, something stirred—a longing, a quiet ache in the cold air.

Sleep eluded you. The absence of your dear puppet companion gnawed at your heart. Geppetto had sent him out again, as he always did, heedless of the strain on his delicate yet unyielding frame. You often wondered. Did his gears ever get stuck? Did his joints grow weary? Did he even understand what it meant to rest?

With a sigh, you abandoned your bed, wrapping yourself in the hush of the midnight halls. The moonlight spilled through the windows, casting silver ribbons upon the polished floors. You had intended to make your way to the library, to lose yourself in the stories you and Pinocchio so often shared. But then, a sound. Low grunts, the unmistakable whisper of a blade slicing through resistance.

Your head turned toward the hotel’s garden doors. Closed, when they were usually left open. Your chest tightened. There was only one person—one puppet—who could be behind them.

Steeling yourself, you stepped forward and pushed open the door.

The cold night air curled around you, kissing your skin through the thin fabric of your nightgown. And there he was.

Pinocchio.

But something was wrong.

He moved with a ferocity you had never seen, slashing at the training dummies with a silent fury. His body, usually so graceful, was taut with unspoken rage, his strikes relentless, desperate. He wasn’t training. He was fighting something unseen, something that clung to him like a shadow.

Your heart ached at the sight. Slowly, cautiously, you approached. His movements stilled, his head tilting slightly as if he had always known you were there. Of course, he had.

“Pino?” Your voice was as soft as the night breeze. “Are you alright?”

He turned to you fully, his expression unreadable. But the way his hand gripped his weapon, as if it were the last thing tethering him to this world, spoke volumes.

Without a word, he nodded, then turned away, sinking onto one of the garden benches. You followed without hesitation.

“As much as I admire your growth, you know your lies don’t work on me,” you murmured, almost teasing, but the concern in your voice was unmistakable. “Tell me. What’s bothering you?”

He slumped forward, though not entirely, his gaze fixed on the ground. A heavy silence stretched between you before he finally whispered,

“I…I don’t know.”

Your mind raced. Was it something you had done? Something someone else had said? Or was it the horrors of Krat weighing on him, the ever present burden of Geppetto’s expectations?

“Pino, had I—”

“No."

His voice cut through the air.

"No. Never.”

His sudden interruption shocked you. Pinocchio was always soft spoken, careful with his words. He had never cut you off so sharply before. When he turned to you, his striking blue eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in existence.

“You can do no wrong in my eyes.”

His voice was gentle, reverent, as if he feared the weight of his own words. And then, with exquisite care, he took your hand in his own, holding it as though you were made of glass.

You blinked, stunned. Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest. No one had ever spoken to you like that before. Not with such conviction, such devotion.

And in that moment, an idea bloomed in your mind. A quiet, reckless idea.

Without a second thought, you rose, tugging his hand with you. He looked up at you, confusion softening his features, but he did not resist. He never would.

You led him to the center of the garden, where the moonlight bathed the flowers in silver.

“Dance with me.”

A beat of silence.

“…What?”

“Dance with me.”

His lips parted slightly, his gears whirring ever so faintly in hesitation. He had seen posters of elegant couples waltzing at Rosa Isabelle Street, but no one had ever asked him to dance before. And what if he did it wrong? What if he misstepped, held you too tightly?

Sensing his unease, you smiled. “Relax. It’s alright. It's just us.”

That seemed to do something to him. Slowly, hesitantly, he let you guide his hands—one to your waist, the other resting in your palm. You placed your free hand on his shoulder, setting the stance of a waltz.

There was no music, just the rustling of the leaves and the rhythmic hum of his core. He was stiff at first, uncertain, but he followed your lead. With each step, something in him softened, unwound. And then, it hit him.

He needed this.

No. He needed you.

“…Why?” His voice was a whisper against the night. “Why would you do this with me?”

You hesitated before resting your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. “Because I wanted to. I wanted you to do anything but fight for once. I…wanted to make you feel better.”

You pulled back slightly, still wrapped in his arms. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something deeper, something raw.

“I care about you.”

The words settled between you, gentle yet earth-shattering. And for the first time in his existence, Pinocchio felt something break inside him, something old and hollow, something he no longer needed.

Before you could react, his hands shifted—one sliding to the back of your neck, the other anchoring you against him. And then, with a desperate, quiet reverence, he kissed you.

It was not hesitant. It was not cautious. It was a confession, a plea, an unspoken promise.

His lips were cold, but his touch burned. He kissed you as if he would unravel without you, as if you were the only tether keeping him from falling apart. And in that moment, you knew—you were his, as much as he was yours.

When he pulled away, your breath was stolen, your lips tingling from the intensity. He studied you, as if memorizing the way you looked. Dazed, flushed, lips slightly swollen from his kiss.

Then, without a word, you lifted his Legion hand, pressing a kiss to its palm before resting it against your cheek.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered.

He didn’t. He only kissed you again.

And again.

And again.

The night stretched on, endless and quiet, as he lost himself in you, in the feeling of finally—finally—being something more than a mere puppet.

Being yours.

heyyy i'm alivee ahaha... i lowkey hate this i wrote it at like 3 am yesterday i definitely didn't buy bloodborne the other day because of this game no what who me-

also i was listening to hearing damage while writing this so that explains that one line

[writingescapades]

Building Nests

LoP P x reader

Birds could nest in the thorns that winded around your heart. But no bird, that is, no living creature, would be a fool to take such a risk. The nest was warm, but its source was shrouded and impenetrable. One could only feel the pulse that indicated its existence. No berries burst forth for sustenance. No roses to allure. Only a hollow heartless hole for those who dared to call it home.

It wasn’t that you walked around with a dagger at everyone’s head. Nor did you experience some traumatic backstory that could be undone by true love’s touch. Such nonsense was reserved for the fairytales. But somehow, you grew up to find your ability to trust in a state of decomposition. And since distrust did not excuse manners, you found yourself keeping everyone an arms length away with a smile on your face. It was just easier. It was easier to rely on oneself. To build the life one desired and the achievements one wanted. Overtime, you lost the ability to let anyone, anything, in.

Most would say you lived a selfish life, but you wondered if that was true. You weren’t heartless to others, you merely reserved it for other objectives in life. Books, music, art, and science filled your nest. Your laughter and enjoyment kept it warm. And you concluded, at the end of the day, if the residents of Hotel Krat seemed content with you, you were doing fine.

 But wont you get lonely?

It was a judgement masked as concern. You’ve heard endless renditions of this question, this remark. All living creatures get lonely. But you’d rather be lonely than miserable.  Anyway, it wasn’t as if there were a line of suitors awaiting your attention. Nor were you supressing your desires for anyone. Life came and life went. The days would pass on. It was a peaceful realization of life you’d come to accept. You didn’t need anything. Didn’t want anything.

So why then, where you in this situation?

When P first entered the hotel, you were curious. After coming across Polendina and Alidoro, not to mention the numerous other mechanical fabrications roaming large, you were not shocked by P’s appearance. If anything, his humanness was a surprise. P’s quiet openness to life drew your curiosity. Initial thoughts on how he was designed and would react soon morphed to an eagerness to know his ideas. P was fun to be around with. He was easy to be around. You didn’t have to second guess his words or be careful of yours least you be accused of stringing him along. He was very likely your first best friend.

So why then, where you in this situation?

P had gone out for another mission. This one took longer than usual, and everyone at the hotel was concerned. You even noticed Geppetto frequently look out the window, lost in his thoughts. It was raining when P’s unmistakable footsteps reverberated up the Hotel Steps. Upon entering, he was soon surrounded by concerned souls, each of which tried to help him. A towel for the rain. Clean clothes for the oil. P’s legion arm was scurried over to the mechanics who quickly set to work fixing and improving the arm. Blankets covered the young boy and Spring was soon purring in his lap. All this, P took in his usual silent manner. Occasionally he got up to help, only to be ushered back down and told to rest.

P didn’t speak much, but since he rarely did, no one took much notice. But after spending much time in P’s company, you could tell something was on his mind. So it didn’t surprise you when he nudged you towards your room, or when he said he didn’t want to be alone. You both spent numerous nights pouring over books. It always ended up with you fast asleep on the bed while P read on, occasionally looking up to ensure your rest was not disturbed. Nor did it surprise you to see P sit on the floor or pull you down near him. What shocked you was the look he gave you as he pulled you in closer.

P stared at you with an intensity that threatened to push past mere curiosity. A hand went up and gently began to trace your lips. You recoiled and asked P what he was doing. But P ignored your question and instead placed his fingers on his lips, as if discovering them for the first time. He then stared at you again, but this time at your chest. Then he looked down at his chest and placed a hand over his ergo heart.

“I have a heart,” he said.

“Yes P,” you sighed, “like humans, you have a functioning heart”.  

Judging by his behaviour, you readied yourself for a night of explaining how his body and humans were alike, yet different. However, instead of asking more questions, P reached out for your hand and brought it to his heart. You could feel the heavy pulses of his ergo heart ricocheting across his body. His heart certainly pulsed with more intensity than a human’s heart, but only a fool would attribute it to mere mechanical makeup.

“Yes P, that’s your heart,” you said, hoping it would prompt him to continue with this question.

But P shook his head and said, “No. Your heart”.

With his legion arm holding your hand close to his heart, P began to trace your lips again and gently whispered, “Your heart,” over and over again.

“P,” you said in a low voice. “That’s enough”.

P shook his head again.

“Not enough”.

He then pointed to your heart.

“I want to belong there”.

You stared at the humanoid puppet incredulously. As if hearing his words, you could feel the thorns wrapping in themselves, pulling tighter around the nest that encompassed your heart as if to respond, no room!

“P,” you began again, “I don’t think you understand—”

“Do you understand?” P interrupted.

His question silenced you. Surprised by your silence, P looked at you, puzzled. Then a smirk crept up his lips as the puppet delighted in finally understanding an emotion before you, perhaps even better than you ever could.

Once again, his fingers traced your lips, and this time you merely watched him. Even as P slowly danced down a path from your lips to your neck, you watched him. Partly as curious as he was and partly unsure on the change that was beginning to take root between you two.

When he brought his finger once more to your heart, P spoke softly, “I understand”. His voice seemed to carry a wisdom you believed only resided in yourself. An awareness that to be in your heart, P would have to call the thorny nest a home and wait till the linings enveloped him. He’d probably be jostled around your many interests as you fumbled to figure out what to do with him. But, you realized as the puppet pulled you closer to him and began once more to explore your face, was he not doing the same? You sighed, chuckled, and leaned into his touch. You supposed it would be interesting to figure this out together.

[fullofmeihem]

Where are the marks of your failed arts?

lies of p paring: pinocchio x reader word count: 1226 cw: i suppose it's more fluff than anything, lil angst, scars (bare minimum description of them), bare skin, reader isn't described with any traits beyond scars, can be seen as platonic or romantic idc

a/n: second real post lets gooo, i mentioned in a response to an ask but yeah, requests are open rn. i just beat the fuckin swamp boss in my play through y'all, it was sO GROSs, my streams are getting shorter too ;c im tired

Pinocchio was no longer new to change, in fact, change was welcome in his new-found appreciation for the good of the world. Making decisions, while difficult, was a beautiful and complicated process of life. Some decisions hurt more than others, some hurt less. Many of the decisions he had made so far have been social, many of his physical situations didn't allow room for choices.

But he had noticed a difference in his ability to choose while fighting alongside you. A Stalker, human. Your choices aligned with him within those social situations, a silent agreement to minimize the hurt of your collective friends; protecting their hearts as you already did their bodies.

Your worlds coexisted peacefully for a short, yet beautiful time, until his world had broken from the rules they lived by, thrust into the world of rage and submerged anguish. The two of you hadn't met until after the devastation of the frenzy, he'd met you while you had been fighting against The Parade Master.

He could recall it like it was yesterday.

He'd rushed up the stairs and entered the arena-like area after hearing a loud crash, alerted that something sounded off in the area by the merchant outside of the entrance.

You had just been thrown into the metal fence lining the battleground, the metal behind you dented with the force of the puppet's throw. He was quick to notice the multiple other dents within the fence, the fight hadn't been easy for you.

And yet, you got back up.

Blood dribbled its way down your chin as you stumbled back to your feet.

The Parade Master had taken quite the beating, so with one more hit from you it seemed to be done for... It was never that easy. The Parade Master's mask would crack and fall to the floor as it roared with a new rage, a new desire for victory. The puppet was hungry for its win.

Pinocchio had to step in, no longer held back by the amazement of your resilience.

The two of your beat the larger puppet with ease once there were two sources of damage. While the rest of the track to the hotel wasn't easy--this is where Pinocchio learned humans don't heal as quickly as he does--you two had made it.

Tense moments constantly followed the two of you throughout your journey, with almost every battle you'd earned a new wound. These healing injuries would have you holding back in the upcoming fights you needed to face.

With your close travels came trust that ascended beyond battle buddies, you'd become companions. Because of this, you knew very well that Pinocchio could fight most, if not all, of these battles on his own. The insistence of Antonia and Geppetto had you kept in the hotel for the past few weeks, leaving your companion to fight by himself.

At first, it was weird for Pinocchio. He was used to your taunting calls, beckoning your human enemies to mess up and allow for easy openings. He had become accustomed to your anger when a few puppets were being particularly difficult. Occasionally, he had to work around your recklessness, mind-numbing pain sometimes overrode your better judgement. The uniqueness of your person kept him on his toes, and it was a comforting thing for a special creation of man.

But now being on the field felt wrong. Your banter, or often mindless chatter, was a human experience in a world of destruction.

So, a few weeks into your journey of healing, Pinocchio decided to spend some time within the hotel as well.

Pinocchio was wandering the expensive halls when he stopped outside of the wooden door to your room, staring at the material for a moment longer than he usually did. He took the moment as a sign to knock.

You called, asking who it was, when there was a lack of an answer Pinocchio heard you laugh quietly before granting him permission to enter your room.

Bare skin was not a new sight for the puppet, occasionally on the field you'd need to rip your shirt to wrap a wound, or maybe a pant leg, depended on the situation. So he approached in his typical fashion: unbothered.

However, Pinocchio finally noticed things he had yet to about you. Since the situation held no immediate danger, he had allowed himself to study your form, becoming aware of raised or engraved patterns along your skin. Your skin was lighter along some scars, darker along others, again, depended on the situation in which you earned the permanent prize.

Your eyes trailed his, watching what he saw. Your gaze shifted when he brought a hand to your arm, tracing one of your deeper scars with his eerily real synthetic skin.

"I was distracted then," You'd respond to his touch, his eyes would meet yours, "Could've cost me the arm." Your shrug concerned him.

Pinocchio would switch where his fingers lay, tracing a scar along the front of your torso. You let him, noticing how his expression shifted, how his eyebrows pinched towards each other. You knew he remembered how you received this one.

"It wasn't your fault," Reassurance laced your words, though the puppet shook his head. You wouldn't be able to change his mind even if he agreed.

This continued for a while, his fingers would run over, trace, and circle your scars and you would explain how you got them or watch as he battled himself in his mind. There were moments where you wished he'd tell you what he thought, but he was a puppet of little words, and you could understand him through the shifts of his expression.

Finally, his hand would trace over one of your larger scars, one engraved into your back.

You would smile a little, knowing where his hand lay in the maze of your scars.

"Do you remember when we met, P?" Your question was ridiculous to him, of course he did, "That one's from then." You would finish your thought after letting the silence sit in the air for just a moment longer.

Pinocchio would trail his fingers along the main puncture scar, followed by the lesser but still deep scratch scars from your encounter with The Parade Master. He would recall seeing this scar every now and then, aware of its presence. But, the puppet had never been this close to the wound. Eugenie had first taken care of you when the both of you arrived at the hotel, you'd nearly passed out from blood loss.

The softest of smiles graces his features as he remembers how insistent you were about joining him in his journey, even while injured from your first encounter. Sophia had been so against the idea, but she couldn't stop you.

You glanced over your shoulder when Pinocchio's fingers came to a halt, taking in his smile.

"What's so funny, P?" You'd tease, a brow raising at his expression. Soon, you'd lose the warmth of his synthetic skin against your scarred skin.

"Always so persistent, your spirit is admirable," His eyes would meet yours once again, a glint of appreciation present in his expression.

His words would take you for surprise, always a puppet of few words. Nevertheless, you couldn't help but smile as well. He was right, after all, the human spirit was always so persistent.

:)

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 107 }

constellations.

lies of p

pinocchio x reader

{ with freckles like constellations | i just want a new sensation. }

- valentine by COIN

your eyes were basking in the beauty of the expanse of the universe settled directly on your lap.

pinocchio had always been a puppet that greatly fascinated you. an utterly beautiful boy in a strange, tragic world that drew you in. from his true blue eyes to his chestnut strands of hair, geppetto's puppet reminded you deeply of the princes you read in fairytales from long ago.

you were one of the few human survivors left in the wake of the petrification disease, and it was thanks to your good fortune that you were lead to hotel krat, where you met with the owner, lady antonia. she was a kind and giving, always welcoming guests like you with open arms.

and it was here that you came into contact with pinocchio.

he was twitchy, at first, and it was abundantly clear that he was a puppet. and despite how unnatural his movements were, your eyes were always drawn to his beautiful face.

his pale skin was littered with freckles, and each and every speck reminded you of tiny little stars being dotted across the skies. his gaze was steadfast, unflinching even, as you kept your eyes on him. you admired each and every part of him, even finding yourself reaching out to him.

pinocchio continues to give you a blank stare, not even stepping back when your hands unconsciously reaches out to gently grace at his cheek. you admire the soft and smooth surface of his face, allowing your fingertips to brush back his flowing locks of chestnut hair, revealing those endearing freckles.

finally realizing what you were doing, you gasp and attempt to step away. "s-sorry pinocchio...ah?"

he says nothing, simply closing his eyes before placing his cheek against the palm of your hand. you watch as pinocchio's eyes flutter close, his eyelashes brushing against your skin as soft as a butterfly's wings.

he remains in this position for a few more beats before opening his eyes fully. not saying a word, pinocchio relinquishes his hold of your hand before walking away from you-

leaving your heart a mess of rapid beats and palpitations, threatening to explode within your chest.

despite how pinocchio was a mere puppet, you couldn't stop yourself from admiring him (or having that admiration turn into something much deeper, akin to fondness.) as he continued on with his journey through krat, the more he became... alive.

it was hard to explain. maybe it was due to his soft beauty, or how you witness him treating hotel krat's cat with such a gentle curiosity and kindness, but something about p made him feel more human than puppet.

and that just made your heart yearn for him even more.

as night fell across krat, and you were in the comfort of your own room within this grand hotel, you found yourself unable to sleep. you were settled on the settee placed near the window, giving you the full view of the city and the wide expanse of the night sky. the dim lighting of the candle flickers with the night air as you drank in the sight of the fading stars, somehow feeling your thoughts drifting back to pinocchio.

"i hope he's safe."

earlier, you had voiced your concerns to eugénie and sophia, yet both women had told you not to worry, that p was strong and would likely come back unscathed.

"if it truly worries you, perhaps i can send your beloved puppet to your room?"

sophia's gentle smile and teasing words were enough to make your face heat up in response, with you weakly holding up your hands in mock denial before hurrying back to your room, your face burning at how sophia seemed to know.

so you found yourself unable to sleep, feeling embarrassed and shy at the thought of pinocchio coming in here.

as you continued to stargaze, your reveries were interrupted by a gentle knock at your door. your voice was raised a few octaves when you said, "c-come in!"

you figured it was sophia or eugénie coming to call you down for supper, but what you weren't expecting to see was pinocchio himself come in.

"pinocchio?!" his name comes out of your parted lips in a choked gasp, heart beating almost painfully now at the mere sight of him. despite how he was still technically a puppet, you could see the changes he was beginning to display.

the p that stood before you now no longer had those wavy locks of chestnut hair. instead, his hair has grown longer, and a bit lighter as well. it was difficult to describe the color of his hair, but if you had to try, you'd say it was like the shade of a full moon. those gentle strands shone like spun silver against the moonlight, and he was so utterly beautiful that you found it hard to breathe.

he closes his eyes, seeming to take in a deep breath before letting out a whisper of your name. hearing the familiar syllables causes a shiver to run up and down your spine, and you could feel your heart melting within your chest at the sound of it.

"hello pinocchio." you greet him in the same, gentle manner, never once hiding your smile from him. you watch as his lips seemed to quirk upwards just the tiniest bit before making his way toward you.

he remains silent, simply laying down on the couch with you, settling himself on your lap. this sudden action was so...different and unexpected that you weren't sure how to respond or what to do.

your stomach was in knots now, and all you could see was pinocchio's achingly gentle beauty. as his hair was spread out across your lap, you could see his freckles clearly now, the sight of it all being much more captivating than the stars above.

with the puppet seemingly asleep, you took this chance to admire your personal constellation, allowing your fingertips to trace over his smooth skin like you did during your first meeting with him. truly, everything about p drew you into him, and you wanted nothing more than to bask in him, drinking him in as you burned his very visage into your memories.

your touch was gentle, not wishing for him to feel any discomfort or pain.

your touch was reverent, never once taking him for granted as you praised him for his bravery and strength.

as you continued to admire him, you felt a strange trembling in your lips, filling you with a desire to press them against the parted, rosy lips settled below you. you slide your eyes shut and whisper his name before allowing your lips to gently press against pinocchio's.

his reaction was immediate, eyes opening as true blue irises met with your own gaze. with a gasp, you pull away, an apology already set at the tip of your tongue when the puppet stops you.

using his hand, he brushes back your hair while letting out a sigh of your name, kissing you again as he closes his own eyes in response.

with pinocchio kissing you back, you found yourself melting into his arms, clinging to him. the kiss was awkward, with your teeth either bumping into his lips or his nose meeting with yours-

and yet it was still so utterly sweet. as you cling to him, you could have sworn you felt the tiniest bit of warmth exuding from him-

and a gentle flutter within his chest, reminding you of a heartbeat.

when the need for air proved to be too much, you pull away from pinocchio with adoration in your eyes. his expression was gentle and filled with tranquility, closing his eyes before pressing his lips against your forehead.

while being in pinocchio's embrace, you found your anxieties all but melt away, allowing the pinpricks of slumber to mar your consciousness. you end up falling asleep within his arms, unaware of how pinocchio held you and took you to back to bed.

as he held you, he presses his lips against your temple once more, silently vowing to remain forever by your side.

a.n. - pinocchio is utterly sweet, and with lies of p fully released, i had to write something soft for him. this is unedited so do forgive me for any glaring errors 🥹

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.