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fullofmeihem · 4 days

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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.

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fullofmeihem · 10 days

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Blood runs thicker than water.

lies of p paring: pinocchio x reader word count: 1159 cw: angst :], mentions of death, blood, beyond canon-typical violence i think, rage frenzy

a/n: welcome to my first real post on this account. i've been obsessed over pinocchio from lies of p since i started the game, then i started listening to chloe ament... you can probably see where this is going. hope you enjoy.

Emotions were not as elusive as they had previously been for the man-made puppet and yet, in this moment, he couldn't identify a singular one he felt. There had been a rush of worry, fright, and terror. But now it was an invasive mess.

His skin reacted to the slight breeze that blew past him, a shiver breaking him from his frozen stance.

Still, he wished for the sight before him to be one of the lies he'd thrown around.

Approaching the scene, Pinocchio would stumble, an imperfection to his typically faultless cadence. The ground below him squelched with wet mud as he did so, a distant sound to his eerily still mind. The loudest noise to him was the rising tempo of his mechanically heart, it rang in his ears, obscuring the sounds of pattering rain and squished mud.

Before him was you, pale as your blood had drained from your face.

You were posed on your knees, arms dangling loosely by your sides as a sword held you up, struck through your chest and into the muddied ground below. Pinocchio's glass eyes trailed the blade of the sword, every few inches was an extended notch of the blade, permitting the relatively upright position you'd been laid to rest in. A wooden sign hung with rope from the hilt of the blade,

Puppet Fucker. It read.

His hurricane of emotions came to an eerie calm.

The dark-haired puppet would take the rest of the paces to you, kneeling by your lifeless form. Pulling the sign from the hilt of the blade and tossing it into the muddied ground below, Pinocchio would do a once-over of your body.

Your shirt was torn, multiple wounds bedded into your skin, signs of struggle ripped across your hands. Your blade was broken in half, a few feet from your person. Your hair was matted and stuck to your face. He watched as the rain paved its path down your skin, some pooling in your stuck-open eyes before sliding down your cheeks. If he had known any better, he'd have guessed you'd been sad.

The puppet would reach forward, silently pressing the pads of his fingers against your top eyelids, pulling them down to finally let you rest your eyes.

A breath escaped him, fogging the air between you and him.

Slowly, Pinocchio would place a hand against your back, then his other between your thighs and calves. Bringing himself to his feet, you'd rest in the bridal position he held you in just a year prior. The tone of that moment was much more pleasant to bask in.

One step at a time, Pinocchio found his way back to the hotel.

He'd kick the door open with a lack of urgency, your fate had been sealed hours before.

Trekking mud, rain water, and dead city grime onto the shiny floors of the hotel, Pinocchio would approach the central Stargazer.

The first to notice him was Sophia, gasping in horror at the large, notched blade sworn through your chest. Antonia, from the other room, would advert her gaze, a solemn expression Pinocchio couldn't read overcoming her face. Eugenie had frozen, leaving Venigni to look around the corner of the wall. Shock was quickly present in his features.

Finally, Pinocchio's eyes would leave your form, his eyes coming into contact with Sophia's, a silent plead shifting his expression. No words were needed in the exchange, a nod coming from her as soon as she saw his face.

Your funeral was small, held in the garden of the hotel. The guest list didn't expand beyond the residents of the safe space, no one of your biological family lived beyond you.

Pinocchio stayed the latest of everyone, knelt by your makeshift headstone, fingers lightly tracing the dirt before it.

The calm of the storm hadn't passed, he'd been near numb to the entirety of it all, earning him a few concerned glances from Gepetto and Sophia. He knew the two of them shared their worries behind his back whenever they could.

He had given the sword to Venigni and Eugenie to inspect, perhaps find its maker, or better yet, who wielded it.

Venigni had an answer two days later. Pinocchio hadn't moved much until given the information he desired. Slowly, and in a fashion that near scared the philanthropist, the puppet rose. His glass eyes trailed the blade Eugenie held behind Venigni. He approached. Carefully, as to not hurt the woman, Pinocchio would take the sword into his palms.

The metal made a horrifying screech as it bent, Pinocchio's Legion Arm doing the majority of the work. When the sword was rendered useless, the puppet would move forward, back into the luxury of Hotel Krat.

He was working out his lack of emotions while he moved, it wasn't a numbness like he had before he began gaining humanity.

It was a silent, simmering rage.

The atmosphere surrounding the puppet was enough to alert Sophia, she started to interject as he approached the Stargazer, but his human-like arm had already reached the glowing center piece.

In a moment he was back to the creepily empty streets of the city, a new mission on his mind.

Pinocchio tore through any puppet trying to attack him on his path, his rapier tearing their arms from their torsos, or their heads from their necks. Oil and Ergo splattered against his clothes and face, nothing the rain couldn't wash away.

Eventually, Pinocchio would kick in the door of a luxurious-looking mansion, the wooden door splintering from its hinges and loudly clattering against marble floors.

Eyes scanning the foyer was nearly enough to send him into a rage. Weapons, all custom made lined themselves against the walls, a list of names under each of them. For some, names were crossed out, for others, the names laid untouched. Though, as Pinocchio entered further into the quiet of the mansion, he'd find his eyes traveling to the central stairs at the back of the main room.

Your name, printed in bold, crossed with a red line, lay under an empty sword mount. Next to your name, under a sword mount with a plain blade, was Pinocchio's, untouched.

A few claps would pull the puppet from his stare, as a man came down the upper level of stairs.

Pinocchio's mechanical heart beat louder, obscuring the words of the man before him, his eyebrows pinching towards each other as he'd throw the sword he'd bent onto the ground between the man and himself. It scraped across the marble floors, leaving a few scratches that would never be repaired.

Whatever the man was saying, Pinocchio couldn't hear. His breathing began to pick up, a trait he'd copied from you, his heart was raising in tempo again.

The man would grab the sword labeled with Pinocchio's name.

An invitation to begin.

Pinnochio found his way back to Hotel Krat, covered in blood that the rain couldn't wash away.

hope you enjoyed my first one-shot ♡

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