Break a Horn / Fantoccio X Reader

9 / Ideas

The next day, Fantoccio and you were hard at work, scribbling down every idea that came to your heads. In the end, there were a good three choices for the plot of the play.

"I'm really liking this plot," you said as you circled the sentence with the pencil provided. Fantoccio hummed with a nod, "I see... however, I'm partial to replacing this with this," he chimed in, underlining a word and then drawing an arrow to the plot you chose.

You nodded, "that could work," you tapped the pencil on your chin as you awaited Fantoccio's addition.

"It leaves room for a grand plot twist! Ooh, this could be the one! The grande spettacolare!" Fantoccio cheered, bouncing midair in joy and clapping wildly.

When he wasn't a narcissist asshole, his antics were cute. You shook your head of the thought, you were here for business.

The two of you began piecing the characters together. There was a small cast, involving two major characters, and about three minor people.

"She must be the damsel in distress, for the drama and the thrill of the story," Fantoccio said, scribbling his pitch down onto the notepad with his tongue out in concentration.

You shook your head, "overplayed. Why not have her be an average Jane, meeting her past, young love again and having to deal with the yearning for him she still has even though they've been separated for so many years?"

"Duly noted, write it down," he responded. His eyes were blown out from the excitement of it all; finally having someone to talk to and gain inspiration from.

Once the overall plot was successfully summarized, you two took a break. You hid off in your room, gazing into the mirror as you usually did.

Of course, there was still only a stub where your horn should be. You sighed and continued staring at yourself. Honestly, you didn't look as terrible as you thought you did, but perhaps you were simply coming to terms with the situation.

When a knock came at your door, you hastily pulled away from the mirror and called for the person, most likely Fantoccio, to enter.

As expected, the sentient puppet teleported in. He held a bundle of clothing in his hands, pushing them into your chest forcefully.

"These will be your costumes for your role," he clarified, "hm... though, I do believe I've made them a bit too small for you, but no matter, you could do with losing the extra pounds."

"Thanks," you replied sarcastically.

"You're most welcome, however, I was actually insulting you," Fantoccio replied, not picking up on your sarcasm. You rolled your eyes, "figured."

"I'll be taking my leave now, don't hound me unless something serious transpires, I will be taking my brainstorming nap," he warned before once again disappearing in a flashy display of gold.

You straightened out the outfits, examining them. They were tastefully made, very fashionable. You could tell the material wasn't anything extravagant, perhaps some curtains or scrap fabrics laying around the theater.

It was mostly dresses, which you weren't against. You were always down to dress out. At your comedy shows, you preferred fancy suits over dresses, though you supposed plays would be different.

Meanwhile, Fantoccio had just teleported to his room, yawning as his feet met the floor. While he walked to his makeshift bed, he couldn't help the feeling of something stuck to his foot.

He shook wildly and growled in annoyance until he noticed it was a photograph. He leaned down and plucked it from the ground, turning it over and inspecting the contents.

He was surprised to see it was a photo of you beside another person. You were dressed up in an expensive-looking suit, smiling brightly as the person beside you looked as if they were about to explode in joy.

Somehow he sensed that you weren't actually as happy as your smile made you seem. There was a slight tension in your brows that he could spot, and you appeared to be looking slightly off to the side as if you were uncomfortable.

A pair of curled, shiny horns adorned your head, catching his attention.

He swore something was off in the photo, besides the uneasiness in your body language, but he couldn't place a finger on what it was.

No matter, he set the photograph down onto his vanity and slid onto his bed made of scrapped costumes.