Archive of Our Own

The portrait of the boy that adorns the wall in Geppetto's office is something P finds himself coming back to from time to time, staring long and hard into the young boy's brown eyes as if trying to beseech an answer to a question that P hasn't even asked.

He's unsure what to think of it. Gemini had said that it looked exactly like him when they first found it – but is that true? P's seen glimpses of himself, in reflections of windows and the numerous cracked mirrors scattered across Krat, yet he's never truly looked at his own face, his own body. It's never seemed that important; he may have the face of another, but that doesn't make him this boy.

The soft tapping of footsteps sound from behind him, joining his side to gaze upon the picture also. It's Geppetto; he spends almost as much time as P does fixated on the painting, with an expression that he assumes is some sort of sadness – but it's marred with so many other emotions, that P can't truly decipher it with his limited grasp on humanity. It makes his springs coil up and twist within his frame, and it doesn't feel good. It feels bad. Like when he gets hit – pain. He doesn't like seeing his father sad. It hurts him.

"What are you thinking?" Geppetto asks, his tone even despite the visible grief he's experiencing. It almost sounds like a test of sorts, and P isn't sure he can give the correct response; how can he lie, when he doesn't even know the truth?

So he tilts his head, side to side, curiously studying the painting more than ever. He's an inquisitive puppet. He overturns everything, explores every nook and cranny, for the sake of simple, idle, curiosity. He reads every scrap of paper or pages of journals he finds, learning more about the world he woke up in a short while ago and has no recollection of despite Geppetto's belief that he does.

He can put together the pieces, come up with his own speculations with the limited pieces of the puzzle P has. Geppetto adores this portrait – it's clearly special to him. The boy in it is most likely to be his son. Real son.

...And P is nothing more than a mimicry of him.

He's not the boy in the painting. This boy has rosy cheeks and a sullen expression that P is sure has never graced his own features; he's a puppet. The boy is a human. They are different. Are they supposed to be the same? Why else would he so closely resemble this boy?

Geppetto is still watching him. He wants an answer.

P doesn't have one.

"...It's a nice painting."

Not a lie. Out of all the paintings P has seen, this one has truly captivated him the most. How could it not, given the subject matter? It haunts him. It's always on his mind, probing existential thoughts that are much too complex for P to handle.

The puppet's reply doesn't seem to be the answer Geppetto wants. He sighs, softly, his leather-clad hand reaching up to brush gently against the canvas. His fingertips gently stroke the apples of the portrait boy's cheeks, a deep sense of longing and affection in his eyes, that have never looked at P like that.

His springs tense up.

It hurts, in a different way.

Geppetto's hand falls from the painting, and finally turns his attention to the puppet, a small smile on his face that P isn't sure is sincere.

"You should get going, son. I'll be here when you come back, as always." Geppetto pats his shoulder, hand weighty against his frame, "and remember – always be a good boy for me out there."

P nods. Staring at the painting is wasting time, time Krat – nor its citizens – have.

But it still doesn't feel good to be turned away so soon. Father doesn't like it when he lingers, almost as if P's presence disturbs him in some way. And when he goes to leave, the puppet throws a cursory glance over his shoulder to see Geppetto has gone back to staring at the painting again.

...Maybe he should have never brought that painting back. Maybe if he hadn't, father would pay more attention to him, and not the ghost of a boy that no longer seems to be around.

•°•°•

Corpses litter the streets of Krat almost as much as rubble and debris from the chaos of the puppet frenzy; P's gotten used to the stench of blood and viscera that stains the once bustling streets. After all, it's the only thing he knows – he had awoken in this calamity, and he's only met a few handful of survivors since. He's more used to the dead than the living; and something about it is troubling. All these buildings, stores and bookshops and cafés, things that P knows about from the Ergo that whispers within him, but things he's never actually experienced.

Will he ever, once this is all over? He'd like that, with Geppetto. His father. Being by his side feels right, and P can't think of anyone else he'd rather explore humanity with. There's toy stores on this stretch of the road, and peering into the windows to the stuffed bears and dolls makes something tug at P's wires.

These were meant for younger children. P is not a child, and never had been. A huge part of life had been carved out from his existence; and it only reminds him of the boy in the painting once more, who appears to be fairly young, and younger than P is supposed to present as.

P looks hard at a wooden marionette toy on display through the bloodstained window. It's hanging by only a single string on its control bar, the rest of them frayed.

...Had Geppetto ever walked these streets with his son? Surely he had. Had they picked out books in the store, looked at odd trinkets together, eaten out for dinner and gone to the theatre together? The thought makes P's springs tighten. He wants to experience those things too.

Isn't it unfair that all he knows is violence? Pain? Dying, over and over, to save a society that probably despises him for just being a puppet?

It hurts, again.

The thoughts get too much, and P pushes them aside as he continues exploring the street that's as rundown as all the others he's perused, corpses and puppets hacked up to pieces at his feet as he passes by row after row of derelict buildings. It can't have been much time since the puppet frenzy started, but the town is a shadow of what it could have once been; and P finds his mind wandering once more as he stops in front of what would be a bar or inn of sorts. The windows are shattered, the door wide open; and he steps inside out of sheer curiosity. It's not often that the buildings are not barricaded – who's to say there isn't a survivor hiding within?

It's worth a look, and he needs the distraction.

Except P finds very little. There are leftover puppets that he easily puts down, his rapier making quick work of the stragglers as he upturns the place. It's just a pub. There's alcohol that P has no intention of drinking, and the human patrons are long-since deceased, the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and blood the only signs that there had been life here once, the corpses too mangled to really decipher one from the other.

The back rooms are more or less the same. There's a row of rooms that appear to be boarding rooms, sparsely decorated with a bed and little else; the sheets are stained in all the rooms, the furniture beaten-up, and the rugs faded with age. It couldn't have been a very popular place to stay, given there's no residents in any of the rooms.

Or perhaps they all just ran away during the start of the frenzy. That seems more likely.

The last room is difficult to enter. The door isn't locked, but it is shut, and P wiggles the doorknob insistently, finding it jammed up. He could just tear the door off its hinges, but he tries not to damage things he doesn't really need to (and if there's a whiff of treasure, P's rational thinking goes out the window). Father did tell him to be good – destroying property is a bad thing to do, isn't it?

He's about to give up on the door when it finally unsticks, the door creaking open with a grunt as the evening gloom filters through the ragged, mouldy curtains. Like all the other rooms, the décor is plain and nondescript; there are, however, occupants.

Deceased ones. Of course.

P takes in the sight before him, head cocking to one side in confusion. There's a woman's corpse on the bed, her nightgown unbuttoned at the front and her skirt rucked up, as a man is slumped over her, naked. There's a pipe piercing through the man's back and through the woman's chest – whatever they were doing, they had been killed during it, apparently.

Something within P stirs. An uncomfortableness. Like he shouldn't be looking. But he's just too curious not to. What had they been doing? P can't help but stare as his eyes drift to the couple's crotches and the strange fleshy parts that P's never seen before.

"Whoa there, pal," Gemini chirps from within the lamp. "You need to stop staring, it's a bit weird, y'know? I mean. I get it. Dying in mid-coitus is kinda funny and all but—"

"...Coitus?" interrupts P, the word feeling dirty as it leaves his lips. It feels like something he shouldn't say.

"Erm." Gemini actually seems lost for words, for once. "Do you... do you not know...? Wait. Don't answer that. I don't wanna know. Let's just forget what we just saw, and go. I'm not having this conversation with you, pal."

P wants to know more. He knows Gemini isn't going to tell him anything, though. The cricket can be stubborn like that. He seems to talk a lot but without any real substance. Not that P cares; at least his journey isn't a totally lonely one with the chatty cricket by his side.

Heeding the advice, P turns around to leave, the image of the couple's intertwined bodies still fresh in his mind as he continues travelling through the city on his father's orders.

If Gemini won't tell him, then P will just have to find out himself.

•°•°•

He's back in Geppetto's office. The painting remains the same as ever, but the room is different – his father isn't here. Not surprising; the hour grows late, and P understands that humans need to sleep. He doesn't. What would it be like to sleep?

...Well. He supposes it would very much be like before he was awoken by Sophia. Just nothingness. A void. Yet humans dream, don't they? To experience recollections of the past, through unconsciousness; it doesn't seem like something that P will ever witness first-hand. It's too human, and he's just a puppet.

And what would he dream about? About the times he died five times in a row from falling off a beam out of carelessness, or the mass slaughtering of puppets he's committed?

Perhaps it's a good thing that he doesn't need to sleep.

Without much to do, P meanders around the room idly. He could go downstairs and speak to Venigni or Eugénie, as they tend to stay awake much later – yet he decides against it. He never gets much of a chance to explore the office without Geppetto around, and although he's not really snooping out of malice, he's intrigued by father's tools and books that all seem to centre around his creation and upkeep.

It wouldn't hurt just to be a little nosy.

In the corner of the room next to the chalkboard stands a table, where a variety of medical-like equipment and weighty tomes are spread out in an unorganised pile. The instruments provide very little entertainment for the puppet as he picks them up and turns them over in his hands. The scalpels are far too small to make a decent weapon, the scissors too blunt – P moves on to the books instead, thumbing through various journals about machinery and electricity, all of it rather complicated and mind-numbing as the puppet scans through them, the words all melding together the more he reads.

There has to be something interesting. But there's just more books, sketches of designs, and notes – he's about to give up when he accidentally knocks off a book from the edge of the table.

P picks it up, hoping that the noise hasn't alerted anyone as he reads the well-worn cover. It seems to be a guide on human anatomy – it's an incredibly thick book, with the edges of some pages curled over deliberately in lieu of a proper bookmark, and P scours over the passages that Geppetto must have been reading over.

It becomes quickly apparent that father must have used the book as an aid to create him and his more humanoid form. Most other puppets are... blockier, and very visibly mechanical with their ball-joints and uncanny faces. Stalkers don't even seem to realise most of the time that P isn't human – truly, his father's work must be stellar if he blends in so well. To be handcrafted by Geppetto himself, every last detail sublime – it must have taken a long time for his body to be created. Just him, his body, and father, the man pouring hours upon hours of attention and care into his frame so he could be perfect.

Feeling warm, P flicks through the book and reads with a renewed interest.

Humans aren't built upon a metal frame, but bone. They lack coils and springs and oil, instead they have tissue and organs and blood.

Blood.

Fresh, red blood.

P's seen that too often, and remembers how the warm, thick substance congeals on his hands with a shudder, the smell paradoxically metallic despite stemming from a human.

He shakes off the memories, and turns over the page.

Limbs. Bones. Muscles.

Next few pages.

Brain. Eyes. Tongue. Ears.

Next.

Vagina. Anus. Nipples. Penis. Breasts.

The Ergo again shifts uncomfortably inside him.

The illustrations on these pages are obscene, yet the corner of this section is curled over.

Geppetto had been reading this.

And for that reason alone, P focuses, actually reading the words and diagrams as he absorbs all the new information like a sponge.

The penis, the vagina – they're used for making babies.

Puppets cannot reproduce.

But P's so humanoid in so many ways.

Would father make him these parts to be more faithful, or find them unnecessary?

The pages are bookmarked... but that doesn't mean he has them.

The puppet's chest is burning up. He's overwhelmingly inquisitive about the body he is inhibiting now, yet something tells him to find a private place to continue his... findings.

It shouldn't be a problem. There's many empty rooms in the hotel – P snaps the book shut and places it back on the desk, leaving Geppetto's office in an excited sort of hurry to the wing of the hotel that Venigni and others use to sleep. There was an empty room there for him, too. Antonia had mentioned it once, but P's never had a use for it until now.

It feels like an age before P makes it to the correct room, and he shuts the door behind him as he studies his surroundings. It's too dark to see, so P finds and turns on the lanterns in the room, looking around again.

There's a bed, along with dressers and wardrobes and a desk with a comfortable chair, along with various paintings lining the floral-patterned walls. A nice room. Too nice for a puppet, some would say.

But what catches P's attention the most is a floor-length mirror tucked into the corner of the room, almost hidden out of sight.

He could look at himself better with it.

It's what he wants to do, yet trepidation fills his steps anyway as he makes his way closer to the mirror. It's the same unsettled sensation he gets when he sees an enemy that looks strong; it's almost fear.

What is he afraid of? Of himself?

No.

Not of himself – but confirming that he isn't himself.

He steps in front of the mirror, and looks.

Brown, almost black, hair. Blue eyes. Freckles.

They're similar but not the same. The portrait boy was freckle-free and had brown eyes.

It's such a small difference, yet it has P exhaling the smallest of sighs. Relief. He's not the same. They're different. Different.

P raises a hand, and touches his hair. It's soft. Not as soft as the cat's fur that prowls the hotel, although the strands tickle his fingertips in the same manner. He feels sensations. It feels nice. Pleasant.

The same fingers brush over his face, stroking his cheeks. The freckles there are placed with care, an unnecessary feature for a puppet but one that gives him a distinctive look. P can almost imagine Geppetto sat at a workbench, crafting him, hand painting each spot with painstaking precision – that makes him feel warm. Good. To have father's full attention on him, pouring his affection into his work.

He is father's precious creation and son.

Fingers dance down to his lips. They're plump and rosy, and P opens his mouth to look inside.

He has a tongue, and a thin, moist coating on the inside that lubricates his mouth like faux-saliva. He doesn't need any of it; he's keenly aware that his voice comes from some sort of mechanism and not through the usual human way of movement of tongue, lips and air. And he can't eat. He doesn't need saliva to help with digestion.

Curious. Why did father add these parts to him?

Questions building, P touches his jaw, his neck, before stopping at his chest, remembering the disrobed woman.

She had breasts. P doesn't, he is flat – but the anatomy book showed that men had nipples, too, for whatever reason, although they do not produce milk like women.

It would be doubly useless for a puppet to have them.

He starts undoing the ribbon on the school uniform Antonia had given him, divesting himself of the tunic and leaving just the shirt underneath. As his fingers start making quick work of the buttons, he's loudly interrupted by a loud chirp, halting him in his tracks.

"Uh... what are you doing? Changing clothes?" Gemini says, uncertainly.

"No." It's a stiff response. One that appears to stump the cricket, as he doesn't pipe up for a short while.

"...Right. Well. Whatever. Do what you want pal, but can you, like, not do it in front of me? There are some things about you I don't wanna know—"

P frowns, detaches the lamp from around his waist, and saunters to the nearest closet to put Gemini away who isn't pleased with the arrangement; even with the closet door shut, P can hear him buzzing away in an irritated tirade at the indignity of being locked up in a musty closet – although P ignores it as he makes his way back to the mirror, and soon enough, Gemini shuts up.

Peace.

With the cricket taken care of, P returns to his reflection, untucking his shirt from his trousers and unfastening the rest of the buttons before sliding the garment from his shoulders, leaving his chest bare.

He has nipples. They're small, pink nubs, sat upon a flat chest. The woman in the bar had bigger ones. Brown nipples, too, if P recalls, but the dim lighting had made it difficult to tell.

How odd.

P brings his fingers to one nipple, and flicks it, the cold metal of his fingers on his Legion arm sending a strange shiver down his artificial spine.

That felt strange in an oddly compelling way.

Again, P tweaks the nub, finding that he can repeat the sensation over and over; it's almost like being shocked, but in a far more pleasant way. There's no pain, yet there's an indescribable sense of unease the more he toys with himself.

Guilt.

Why?

Is he not... supposed to do this? But he wants to. It's good. He likes it. Why stop doing something that is enjoyable?

P dithers as he stands there, gingerly pawing at his own chest with the overwhelming desire to continue what he's doing, yet the tugging of his coils makes him not want to.

What a predicament.

He tugs at his nipple, thinking, as a soft gasp slips from his lips. It had been an involuntary reaction; pinching his chest elicited a response somewhere between pain and...

...pleasure.

What is pleasure?

Whatever it is, it's almost addicting – P can't help but bring his other hand to his chest, squeezing his flat breasts with just enough pressure to form two tiny handfuls, and he kneads the flesh as he ponders over his situation.

Something about touching himself like this seems... bad. Geppetto would probably be disappointed in him if he knew, yet P can't say why he would be. Didn't father make him? He added these features, this ability to feel – so, surely, it can't be a sin to indulge in this.

Despite P's reasoning, he can't shake off the lingering anxiety that remains. Thinking about Geppetto while doing this makes him... perturbed. His father should never see him like this, and not because P is worried that the man will consider him a bad boy. He just doesn't want Geppetto to see him in this state.

P finally stops fondling his chest to slide his hands down his smooth, flat stomach. There's barely any definition, but he has a hole mimicking a belly button. It isn't very interesting; P skips past it as his fingers touch the hem of his trousers instead.

A sense of anticipation builds. P licks his lips in a gesture that is entirely too human for a puppet; he shouldn't do this. It's wrong. Wrong.

Ignoring his mental warnings, P kicks off his shoes, unbuttoning his trousers and removing his drawers in a feverish haste, a troublesome wickedness surging through his wires. He leaves his socks on, and finds himself staring at his curled toes for some time before he has the courage to look up into the mirror, seeing his bare body for the first time.

There is something between his legs.

It's fleshy, soft, and the sight makes P's artificial heart thump.

He has a penis. A small one.

No wonder P's never noticed it before now.

Once again, the Ergo within his P-organ writhes around restlessly, and P finds himself on edge.

This isn't right.

He's just a puppet.

He didn't need... this.

Still, P spins around, viewing himself from every angle, the soft curve of his back dipping down to his rear. A shapely peach; the puppet reaches around and gropes it, artificial flesh filling his hands. His body isn't totally pliable like muscles are, yet he's softer than expected.

Truly a marvel. He even has a smattering of freckles on the cheeks of his ass.

...Why did he have those, though? Nobody would ever see them.

He's starting to understand why some people think Geppetto is a strange man.

P moves his hands away, back to his front, while pushing away the thoughts from his mind.

Geppetto is his father, and father knows best. Should he really question the man's intentions? Geppetto told him to be a good boy. Harbouring a sense of... suspicion doesn't seem to be the behaviour of a worthy son.

That's right. He needs to be good. And his desire to be exemplary stops his wayward hands from touching his front despite the itch to do so, focusing more on his overall appearance instead in some attempt to distract himself.

...Is he beautiful? He's heard some people, from the hotel denizens to Stalkers, mutter the word under their breath whenever he's around. He has keen ears – perhaps he was never meant to hear, yet he's sure they're talking about him.

But what constitutes as beauty? P isn't sure. What makes one human – or even being – more visually appealing than another? Are other puppets considered not pretty? Is he good-looking, simply because his appearance is more... human-like?

Deep in thought, P's hands wander to his front absent-mindedly, stroking the area just above the base of his penis. He wants to touch it so bad.

He shouldn't...

P hesitates.

Nobody would know.

Holding a breath that P doesn't need, his fingertips gently grazing against the velveteen shaft of his penis. It tingles, like the minutest of electric shocks whenever he touches the flaccid organ – in a way, it's scary; a contradicting whirl of desire to continue to continue the sensations, yet his conscience telling him not to. Almost as if his body and brain are disconnected.

Do humans get this way, too?

With his body acting more out of instinct, P wraps his fingers around his phallus and tugs at it gently in an awkward motion. He's not really sure what he's doing... or if he even likes it. The shaft doesn't appear to have much sensation at all – P gives a few half-hearted pumps before stopping, moving to touch the head of his penis instead. It's covered in skin, so he gingerly peels back the foreskin to reveal the pink head underneath, the slightest brush of skin against his fabricated glans causing him to jolt in surprise.

Oh. He's very sensitive here, P notes, rubbing his thumb and forefinger against the tip and watching with some degree of horror and fascination as his penis swells and hardens the more he plays with it.

An erection.

Him, a puppet, with an erection.

He's even leaking some sort of fluid from the slit in his penis, the consistency thin and watery, and some of it dribbles down his shaft and coats his fingers as he works the head more, thighs trembling.

This, this, is good. Better than good. Great. Fantastic. His mind is floating, all the negative thoughts he had when he started have all flown away as he focuses solely on the pleasure he's experiencing. P can't stop the noises that tumble from his mouth, hips bucking as he brings his other hand to fondle the sac that hangs below his cock. He remembers this from the anatomy book – it is a scrotum. Inside should be testicles, used to produce sperm in humans.

Massaging the area, P's knees buckle, overwhelmed at stimulating two areas at once as he decides to sit on the floor, resting on his bottom as he spreads his legs out in front of the mirror. It seems incredibly debauched to put himself so openly on display like this, but he wants to see everything, from the heaving of his chest to the twitching of his cock – and spread out like this, he can see even more.

He has an anus, a hole below his penis and past the perineum. The skin is wrinkled but a blush-pink, and it flexes in intervals from tight to slightly parted. A clear, yet more viscous fluid oozes from P's behind, pooling onto the carpet and leaving a smear.

How peculiar.

The book never mentioned anything like this.

This... this isn't normal, is it?

Is he... broken?

Any excitement P has ebbs away, replaced with bewilderment and alarm.

A part of him is telling him this is wrong, wrong, and he can't tell if it's the Ergo or his own mind, pointing it out. P can't be certain, as he moves fingers from his cock to his asshole, spreading himself open to look inside for damage.

He can't see anything that would be a cause for concern, but perhaps the issue lies deeper inside? P debates for a second on what to do – should he just wake up Geppetto and ask for his help? If there is anyone who would know what's happening to his body, it's father.

No, no. P shakes his head at the mere idea. If he goes to Geppetto, the man would have questions. And P wants to be a good boy, so he wouldn't lie to him. He would have to tell father the whole truth of what he was up to, and the shame would be too much to bear.

P's fingers graze around his entrance, teasing the sensitive synthetic flesh. It tickles – and P snaps his legs shut on reflex, shuddering as more of the gel-like substance secretes from his hole. With his cock still swollen, the puppet pushes on, sliding one of his fingers into his artificial anus, the insides warm and moist. It even feels... fleshy for lack of a better term, his insides convulsing around his finger as he delves deeper into his own body.

Unsure what he's actually searching for, P wriggles his finger inside, going as deep as he can go. He can't find where the fluid is coming from, but there's an irritating itch somewhere inside of him that he feels the need to scratch.

P puffs, angling his finger in a way that aims for the base of his penis—

"Ah – ah," groans P, loudly, lashes tickling his cheeks as his eyes flutter shut, toes curling against the rug.

What – what was that?

With his brain working at what appears to be at half-functionality, P continues pressing against the same spot, stroking it. It's only causing him to leak more, from both the back and front, but he can't stop—

"...Son?"

Abruptly, P stops, head spinning to the door.

It's open.

He hadn't locked it.

Geppetto is there, eyes wide and mouth agape while he takes in the scene.

If P could blush, he's sure he would be, as he rips his finger from out of himself with a wet pop, humiliated as his father's eyes wander over his body.

"What are you doing, you naughty boy?" Geppetto says sternly. He steps inside, closing the door behind him.

Then he twists the key, locking it.

P's heart thumps.

"...I..." the puppet can't find the words to defend himself. Geppetto's disappointed stare is too intense, and P finds himself withering under his gaze.

Shame. Mortification. Humiliation.

It's a step up from embarrassment. P knows all about that. The times he's died from careless mistakes or been startled by nothing in particular, he's felt embarrassed then, just like he does now.

But this hurts so much more. It is unbearable, as the thick, heavy tension in the air builds as Geppetto steps towards him, his footsteps heavy against the plush carpet.

"You're a nasty boy," Geppetto scolds, walking until he's standing directly behind the puppet. "I could hear you... moaning when I walked by. I had to check up on you – but to see you playing with yourself? That's..."

Geppetto's voice trails off. At least with his father behind him, P doesn't have to stare directly at the sheer disgust that is so clearly etched upon his face.

But he can still see Geppetto in the mirror. He notes that the man is sloppily dressed – no hat, no monocle, no tie or shoes. Even his vest is gone, his hair more tousled than usual. Geppetto must've just been napping, yet even the remnants of sleep can't soften the man's hard glare.

P trembles. Father is so upset with him, and he doesn't know how to make it right.

"I'm sorry, father," he mumbles, quietly, rubbing his thighs together while trying to shield his privates from Geppetto. He doesn't want him to look; although, if P thinks about it, it's kind of pointless – father had sculpted him, created him. These parts were made by his hands.

Geppetto sighs, kneeling down behind the puppet as his hands rest heavy on his shoulders.

"I'm terribly disappointed in you, son. What if one of the others in the hotel had walked in instead? I would've been inundated with some very awkward questions, being your... creator, and father," lectures Geppetto, fingers digging into P's skin.

Hanging his head, P finds it hard to respond. He had been too full of curious wonder and haste to really think of the consequences. What if someone else had come across him? He would be mortified if Antonia or Eugénie had. Venigni is a different story; the proclaimed prince of high society would probably find the whole situation more amusing than be offended by it.

Geppetto sighs again.

"Perhaps I'm being too harsh... it's only natural to be... curious. And it's good to know that those features are working as intended," Geppetto tone turns softer, before he pauses.

"Did you orgasm?"

Father's voice is quiet, slightly breathy against the puppet's ear – and he shivers in response. He's never heard the man's voice like this before. It rumbles through his entire body, his Ergo gnawing away at him and causing him to fidget uncomfortably.

But he can't move much. Geppetto's leather-clad hands are like a vice on his shoulders, and even though in the mirror father's face appears to be it's usual reserved, calm expression, P can't help but feel like it's off somehow. There's a shadow in his eyes. Almost as if it's a façade; he seems composed yet his grip is tight to the point it's nearly painful.

P finally shakes his head at Geppetto's question.

"I don't know."

He doesn't know. It's not a lie. What is an orgasm? He hasn't even said the word aloud, yet it feels dirty on his lips.

"You don't know?" Geppetto repeats, his hands wandering from P's shoulders to his chest, kneading the flesh. "Did you feel... good when touching yourself?"

It takes several moments for P to nod, distracted by his father's fingers teasing his nipples. For some reason, it doesn't feel the same as when he did it alone. P can't pinpoint why.

"I see... and did you experience some sort of... release?" Geppetto murmurs, his voice rumbly – it makes P shiver and squirm as he shakes his head.

"N-no," P gasps, father's leather gloves cool on his skin as they drift to his abdomen, yet his breath is hot and wet against his ear.

"How unfortunate, son – I suppose I disturbed you before you could finish." Geppetto is touching his thighs, now. "If you're a good boy, I could help. But... you have to promise me you won't tell anyone. Not a soul. You understand, right, son?"

P hesitates in his reply. Father's hands are making him feel... odd. Not good, not bad. He likes when Geppetto pats him normally, but this is far too... strange. Weird. Borderline unpleasant.

Why? Why does being touched in one area feel worse than another? Why does Geppetto seem almost desperate, and why can't they tell anyone about what they're doing? Why had Geppetto been mad at him, for exploring his body, when father had been the one to make him this way?

There's a lot of questions P has.

But interrogating father at this point doesn't seem like the actions of a good son. And to be good, he shouldn't tell lies.

...Yet P would be lying if he said he wants Geppetto to continue touching him. But, if he was to guess, responding that way would make him a good boy in father's eyes.

How troubling.

P doesn't want to lie.

He doesn't want to disappoint father either.

So he spreads his legs just a little, wordlessly giving Geppetto permission – if he doesn't speak, it doesn't count, does it? It's not like he hates the man stroking him; he's confused, torn between curiosity and apprehension.

Perhaps father can put things right.

"You're such a good boy," Geppetto whispers, breath warm against P's cheek. His fingers move up, up his inner thighs, until they brush against P's softened cock, taking it in his large fist. "You'll enjoy this. I promise, son."

P nearly doubles over as Geppetto begins pumping his penis, stroking much harder than he had earlier. The pleasure is immediate, but too intense – overwhelmed, P has to stop himself from pushing his father away, knowing he could cause some serious damage to him if he put actual effort in it.

"You're leaking so much," marvels Geppetto, his fist working in a steady rhythm as he presses gentle kisses to the top of P's head, the boy's cock growing hard once again. The slick sounds of the clear liquid flowing from his penis makes P cringe as his head rolls back onto Geppetto's shoulder, shuddering out a small moan.

"F-father," P whimpers, wanting to be comforted, his legs trembling so much he's sure his joints are going to shake straight out of their sockets. There's something building up in his groin area, and P – P is frightened.

This is too much, too quickly, and P hasn't the time to gather his wits about the new sensations ricocheting through his body.

He wants a timeout to process everything.

Geppetto doesn't stop. In fact, his fist pumps faster as he uses his free hand to grab P's chin, twisting his head so their lips touch.

A kiss.

From his father.

This isn't a family kiss, as Geppetto's tongue probes his lips while pulling on the puppet's jaw, forcing him to part them before shoving the entire appendage in P's mouth, the tang of wine and tobacco flooding his senses.

This is what Geppetto tastes like and P – P isn't sure what to think.

P's body spasms, as his father, creator, master, twists his wrist, thumbing the tip of his cock and rubbing the leaking fluid all over the sensitive glans.

Something is coming from somewhere.

He's scared.

He doesn't know what's happening to his body.

But he can't say anything, due to Geppetto's tongue licking the inside of his mouth, saliva dripping from the corners of P's lips as he struggles to swallow. Every moan, every whimper, Geppetto eats up, grunting in displeasure whenever P squirms in his lap.

Father is growing frustrated with him, so P stops struggling, going limp in Geppetto's arms as the pressure builds and builds in his groin, his balls tightening and his brain blanking out as it all reaches a devastating peak, father's rough treatment on his cock bringing it about much too soon.

"Mmm—" P whines, finally breaking free from father's kiss to stare in awe at the thick liquid that shoots from his cock and covers the other man's gloved hand, the consistency different than before. It won't stop coming; and Geppetto milks his penis throughout, P's body twitching as he grows soft.

He really wants to stop, now. Father's hand is – is too much.

Overstimulated, P tries to push away Geppetto from his genitals, who tuts disapprovingly.

"We have to get it all out, son."

With his lips quivering, P yields with a pathetic noise, surprised at the own sounds he's making. The puppet stops fighting against his father as he tries to come down from his high in the man's arms despite the continued fondling of his penis.

After some time, Geppetto lets up – only to play with his balls, squeezing them in a way that makes P flinch, before his fingers graze against P's wet entrance.

"Hm...the amount of self-lubricant is a bit excessive..." Geppetto mutters to himself.

And then P feels it.

A finger, sliding into his soaked hole.

P reacts instinctively. There's no thought to his actions; if he had been thinking, he wouldn't have done it. But as soon as Geppetto's finger begins to breach him, P shoves the man away, scrambling from his lap and crawling backwards to the mirror, the cool glass pressing against his spine.

He hadn't physically hurt his father, but P watches as Geppetto's expression twists from shock to – not anger. No, anger would be less painful. Instead, his lips purse into a straight line as his eyebrows knit together.

Father is disappointed, perhaps even saddened by his disobedience.

"Son..." Geppetto starts, voice laden with an undertone of pure dismay. "You're a very bad boy, pushing your father away like that."

"F-father—"

Geppetto holds up a hand, silencing the puppet.

"I ought to punish you, but you're my precious, precious son; no matter how unruly you've become." Geppetto doesn't appear angry, but his tone makes P feel horribly guilty all the same. "To think I helped you, and this is how you repay me... it makes me sad. But I suppose it can't be helped, if you don't like me touching you—"

Unable to bear the burden of guilt any longer, P crawls back to his father's lap, grabbing the man's hand and nuzzling his face into the palm.

"Father, I'm sorry," pleads P, "I do like it when you touch me, so please – please don't stop doing it."

He's not sure about the words coming out of his mouth, but P knows that he just doesn't want to see Geppetto upset any longer.

Is this what love is? It hurts to see someone so loving to him, appear so disheartened. Another person's pain has become his own, and it's so terribly crushing upon his semblance of a heart.

Geppetto's eyes bore into his, his thumb stroking across P's cheekbone to his lips. Unsure about his intentions, the puppet kisses it, before parting his mouth and slipping the digit inside, sucking upon the leather and mimicking the actions of their earlier kiss.

This is surely what the man wants as his breath hitches whenever P sucks, his stare more intense than ever as his pupils dilate. Father seems enthralled, his demeanour softening the more gusto the puppet puts into licking his thumb, lips wrapping around the base as his tongue rubs against father's thick gloves.

P has no clue what he's doing. It doesn't matter. Geppetto seems to like it, so he'll do it for as long as it takes for him to be forgiven.

"Beautiful," father rumbles, "you're so very beautiful, son. You're making it hard for me to stay mad at you."

"You're not mad?" asks P, popping his mouth from his father's thumb. Geppetto doesn't immediately answer, the pad of his finger smearing the fake-saliva against P's bottom lip. He appears lost in thought, and with each passing moment spent in silence, the puppet feels his coils tighten in trepidation.

"If you do something for me, I'll forgive you completely."

P doesn't spare a second thought on his decision as he nods eagerly, his hair bouncing in his haste.

He could put things right.

It won't be anything bad, because it's father.

Geppetto brightens, and smiles, in a way that initially puts P at ease as his father's hand drops from the puppet's face to his own lap.

It takes a moment for P to process what Geppetto is doing. He's undoing his belt, unfastening the buttons, and—

A huge, hollow pit forms in the puppet's abdominal cavity. He has no stomach, but he's sure something in that region just dropped, as in silent shock he watches Geppetto tug down his underwear, exposing himself.

Seeing his own cock was weird enough. Seeing his father's is on a different level. Geppetto is hairy and his penis is big and veiny, the foreskin wrinkled around the tip, and P can't help but compare his attitude towards the phallus to that of the Carcasses that prowl Krat.

Disgust.

This isn't what he thought father was alluding to. Perhaps doing a side mission, or collecting another portrait – not this. P's feelings are too mixed to really want to continue exploring this side of humanity right now.

But Geppetto looks at him expectantly, and the puppet knows he has no other choice.

"Touch it, son."

And so P does. His hands are twitching, for some reason.

No, not twitching.

They're shaking.

Geppetto doesn't appear to notice. Or maybe he just doesn't care, as P's fingers wrap around the soft length. He has the sense not to use the side his Legion arm is on – yet all the same, P's worried he's putting too much force into his grip as Geppetto grunts.

"Careful. You don't want to hurt me, do you?" the man chastises, patting P on the head with a sigh. "Perhaps this isn't a good idea—"

No. Not again.

P can't do anything right.

He can't keep messing up like this.

In an act of desperation, the puppet kneels down, brushing his cheek against Geppetto's limp cock and glancing up with pleading eyes.

Father had seemed to like it when he sucked his thumb.

Surely his mouth could work here, too?

"Oh?" Geppetto's fingers twirl in the puppet's hair. "Are you going to use your mouth instead, son?"

P nods, uncertainly, giving a tiny kitten lick to the shaft as his senses get flooded by the taste and smell of Geppetto – the saltiness violates his taste buds first, then the odour, a pungent scent that P can only describe as lewd overwhelming him.

He wants to recoil away from the offending organ – P's seen, smelt, even touched a variety of unpleasant things during his adventure, yet this, this, somehow disturbs him on a much more visceral level, despite it not being overly offending to his senses; it just somehow is.

But P has tenacity and a desire to please, so he doesn't act upon his instincts to retreat. Instead he continues to lick, the length twitching and pulsating against his tongue. He licks and licks, hoping he can get away with just doing this – he had put father's thumb in his mouth, but... he's not sure if Geppetto's cock will even fit in there. It's too big. It will surely dislocate his jaw from his hinges if he tries.

Then Geppetto tugs at the roots of his hair, and P understands the meaning clearly. He's growing impatient. The small laps aren't enough, and P steels his nerves and drifts his tongue to the tip of the shaft, tracing a wet stripe along the covered glans. Geppetto still isn't hard, something that P finds upsetting for reasons unbeknownst. He had gotten erect easily – are his touches bad? Is he not doing a good enough job to please father?

Driven by his desire not to disappoint Geppetto further, P swipes his tongue at the head, finding it difficult to make contact with the smooth, shiny tip as the man's foreskin is concealing it. Using his hands to pull it down seems like a bad idea – and after a slight moment of consideration, P puckers his lips against the loose skin and gently tugs at it with his mouth.

His movements are sloppy, clumsy, and ineffective at best – yet Geppetto moans regardless. He seems to like being played with around the tip. P files away that information, and finding his lips not very useful, sucks on the foreskin one last time as he pulls away, instead worming his tongue underneath the folds and swathing the appendage over the head directly.

The flavour gets even more intense. There's a distinctive bitterness mixed with the saltiness and it on his tastebuds. P scrunches up his face at the taste – he has no idea if it's good or bad, but his initial thought is that he isn't fond of it. Although he doesn't have a lot he can compare it to, either. Perhaps Geppetto's cock is the most delicious thing in existence and he just doesn't know it yet.

The once flaccid penis is rapidly getting harder the more P twirls his tongue under the foreskin. His father's fingers are pressing hard into his scalp, breathing ragged and harsh, and P gets the sense that things are only going to get more difficult.

"Don't tease your father," Geppetto pants with a dry chuckle. "Take it deeper."

P withdraws from the swollen erection, slightly confused – but finds himself being pulled back down by a clump of his hair, the tip of Geppetto's penis pushing against his lips. He is insistent; P has no choice but to open his mouth, grabbing for purchase on Geppetto's thighs as he thrusts up.

The puppet gets no time to adjust. Or even a chance to fully comprehend what is going on. Geppetto's length breaches past his tongue and plugging shut the opening of his throat, settling balls deep as the sac grinds against P's chin.

"That's it," huffs Geppetto with a satisfied grunt, "you look so pretty like this. You're back where you belong, son."

P can't speak. He doesn't need to breathe, and he has no reflexes in his throat to reject the organ pervading his mouth, but still, he gags. The head of Geppetto's erection is bumping far too deep, the smell, the taste, the feel of the man's pubic hair against his nose is far too much for the puppet to process all at once. Even the texture of the phallus is strange – it's meaty, and pulsates with a warmth that feels scalding against his tongue.

Hoping for a morsel of mercy from his father, P looks up at the man from under his lashes, a silent plea of hope – or even just some time out – before they continue.

Geppetto ignores him.

His hands tighten on P's head, and he thrusts up once again, his hips coming off the floor as he fucks up into the puppet's mouth, who can only kneel there and take it. If he fights back, Geppetto won't be happy.

And his happiness is far more important than a mere puppet's, after all.

Still, P can't stop his whines vibrating in his throat, his spit messily oozing from the seams of his mouth. He's making a huge mess, the fluid causing a grotesque squishing noise whenever his lips suction around the base. Geppetto doesn't seem to mind – he probably can't even hear it, over the sound of his own groans.

"Maybe I should just keep you under my desk," Geppetto muses, sounding extremely out of breath, "you could keep my cock warm for me, son. Would you like that?"

No.

P nods.

His chest feels warm. So does his crotch, and with some confusion, P realises he's not just leaking from his mouth, but his anus, too, cock hardening at the sound of his father's pleasure.

Does he like this?

No.

He's simply happy that Geppetto is enjoying it.

P doesn't want to stretch this out any more than he has to, so rubs his thighs together in hopes of hiding his erection from Geppetto – yet it only seems to draw his attention instead.

"What are you fussing for?" the man reprimands, glancing up into the mirror, and it dawns on P that from this angle, Geppetto can probably see his behind quite clearly, and can spot the liquid seeping down his legs in an obscene manner from being used like some sort of toy.

Geppetto's hips stop.

"Filthy boy," he says, a finger trailing down P's back. "Leaking all over the place like this – are you hoping for something, son?"

P makes a noise in his throat, neither confirming or denying the man's accusations. Hearing his father speak so... crassly to him is somewhat vile. He's trying his hardest, but it still seems like Geppetto is lecturing him in some way – and P grows nervous as the man wrenches him off his cock, leaving a sticky trail of spit and pre-cum behind as he takes in pointless gulps of fresh air in his freed throat.

Is it over?

No. It's a mere wishful thought, as P allows Geppetto to grab him and flip him over, forcing the puppet onto his knees with his face pressed against the mirror. It's a surprise to P – he's never seen the man move so fast, or treat him so roughly, and in the confusion he barely noticed that Geppetto's hands are on his rear, parting the cheeks to get a better view at the wet hole.

Oh – not there. Not there. P clenches up, feeling oddly shy despite knowing that Geppetto had created his parts to begin with. Father knows every little last detail about his body, but even so, P can't help the embarrassment that courses through his internal wiring.

Preoccupied with his shame, P almost misses the feeling of something hard and bulbous pressing against his entrance, much larger than the finger Geppetto had tried to stick inside of him earlier – upon realisation of what it is, all of P's mental processes freeze.

Geppetto is trying to put his penis inside of him.

And, for some reason, a surge of fear – no, terror – rushes through P's body. In any other situation, P would have fought. Or even ran.

But this is the first time he's ever just frozen up completely, all his joints locking into place as Geppetto's wheezy grunts ring in his ears, the tip of the man's cock breaching past the rim, stretching him wider and wider as it sinks in.

It is far too big. The pressure against P's walls are immense; and it hurts. It hurts.

Father is going to break him.

P tries to verbalise his discomfort, but all he produces is a series of mechanical clicks from his throat as he watches his eyes widen in the mirror as his ass draws uncomfortably close to full capacity. From the mirror, P can see Geppetto undoing the buttons of his shirt from behind him, revealing the soft pouch of his gut, his hair tickling P's buttocks as the man slams forward to sheath himself completely inside the puppet.

No more. No more.

He can't take any more, P's too full, too full.

Geppetto's dick feels like it's in his stomach, pressing against something inside that P recognises as the same spot that he had tried to touch earlier with his fingers. It doesn't feel like much other than a heavy weightiness – that is until his father begins to pull back out, the ridges of his cock scraping across his artificial rectum, every crevice stuffed and prodded at without remorse that leaves P reeling from the potent euphoria, the emotions drawn out from the puppet unwillingly.

This is much more intense than pain, or the pleasure he had experienced earlier. It's both wonderful and devastating at the same time, and P's feelings are too infantile for him to make sense of what's happening. He simultaneously wants to run away and stop the unending discomfort caused by father's cock, but his hips cant back regardless, eyes rolling up as Geppetto rams against his ass with a wet smack, buried to the hilt once more.

"Oh, son, my son—" Geppetto chants, grinding deep inside the puppet, his fingers digging in so hard that they leave imprints. "—To have you in my arms again feels so right—"

P feels like heaving at the words.

But his body is reacting differently. He's never felt so disconnected from his mechanical components before, his mind and body not in harmony as his cock weeps, a series of whimpers spilling from his mouth as he takes the pounding his father is giving him. The mirror rattles in its frame from P's body rocking against it, his saliva leaving a stain upon its surface as his mouth gapes open, his moans getting louder and louder the faster Geppetto thrusts.

"Shh," the man shushes, his hand clamping over P's mouth. "We can't get caught having sex, son—"

Sex. Sex.

They are having sex.

The thought is somehow wrong to P.

Doesn't sex occur between lovers? But he is Geppetto's son.

This seems very, very inappropriate.

The Ergo inside him convulses in a way that makes him feel sick, as if it's confirming his thoughts.

Geppetto slams into his ass, and P shudders, his once heated body now very cold, as if he's been soaked through by icy rain. His cock bounces, slapping against his stomach as father fucks him, confounded by how he's still enjoying this on some level, despite the twisted nature of it all.

"I love you, so much—"

Love. P's heart soars. Geppetto loves him. He wants his love, he loves him, too—

"—My precious, precious son—"

This isn't the proper way a father should love his son.

P stares at himself in the mirror. He can't cry, but he looks so utterly miserable; and his strength leaves his body as he slides down the mirror, crumpling prone to the ground with his face against the carpet. He doesn't want to look at himself anymore, nor at the face that isn't really his to begin with.

Geppetto follows him as they move, his palm sliding off P's mouth to instead hook an arm around his neck, the puppet grunting as his father's full weight comes crushing down upon his back, perspiration from father's brow splashing onto his flesh.

He is trapped. The smell of sweat and damp stickiness of Geppetto's skin upon his pins P to the carpet, squishing him hard against the floor as the sensitive parts of his body graze against the carpet fibres with too much friction, nipples and penis burning whenever his body his jostled from father's movements.

With Geppetto's arm tight around his neck, P can't move at all – nor even talk, as he finds his throat constricted, unable to swallow his own fake-spit as it dribbles off his chin and soaks into his father's sleeve. He grabs onto the cuff of Geppetto shirt, then has second thoughts – no. P can't fight back. He's on thin ice already; and although Geppetto appears to care very little about his comfort as he ruts away, his cock grinding deep and slow, P has to just take it despite despising the lewd squelching noises that come from his hole, or the slap of the man's balls against his rear. It's a grim reminder of the immoral act, and that, on some level, P is deriving some pleasure out of it – and conflicted, he kicks his feet against the floor, the only act of defiance he can do in his current position.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Geppetto whispers, nipping at P's ear as he misinterprets the puppet's squirming. "You were made for this, you whorish boy – your hole is like sin itself—"

"Hn—" P chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut as his father's words as he pulls out completely in an agonisingly slow way, leaving his hole gaping and empty.

P would be a fool to think it's over.

He knows this, and the puppet braces himself as he feels the head of Geppetto's cock brush against his ass, the man's teeth grazing against his nape—

Geppetto bites down as his hips slam against P's ass, smashing against that spot in a way that has the puppet silently screaming, legs jerking against the floor as he writhes in anguish. The shocks going through his body are too powerful, firing all his receptors into overdrive as he spasms uncontrollably.

He doesn't like this.

This feels like dying. He's losing all control, and not being to circumvent his demise and only being able to succumb to it – the sense of hopelessness, the impending doom before the end – it's too familiar. He doesn't want it to end, he doesn't want to come undone, P wants to stop, stop—

Father's movements are turning sharp and snappy. He's barely pulling out at all; his breathing is so heavy, P's almost afraid the man might be unwell. But his groans, his coarse mutters of profanities betray that thought. Geppetto is just lost in his own ecstasy, caring naught about the distressed puppet underneath him, a thought that troubles P greatly.

One thrust. Two thrusts. Three thrusts. P is counting them, because it's the only way to distract himself from his torture. Pleasure is a scary, scary thing, and with some humiliation he realises he's been unwittingly humping against the floor, his penis chafing from the soaked carpet.

He wants more.

He doesn't want more.

What does he want?

"Oh, son, son," Geppetto rasps, his tongue flecking across P's cheek as he twists his head, pulling him into an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss with too much spit and sweat, his beard scratching against P's face as his hips jerk against the puppet's ass. P becomes very aware that a hot, thick fluid is coating his insides, his father's cock pulsating and throbbing as he groans.

He had came.

P hadn't.

The thought of not reaching his own peak is frustrating. Perhaps it's what drives him to move his own hips against father's softening cock, slamming against his prostate by himself as his penis skates across the carpet, his entire lower half numb and raw and sticky as the heat in his chest and groin builds and builds until his toes curl and his sparks flash behind his closed eyes, ignoring Geppetto's pained grunts as he fucks himself on father's cock as he comes, shooting his own variant of semen onto his stomach.

He can't stop. His hips won't, can't, as P finds himself needing more, more.

He must be broken. There's something wrong with him.

And as Geppetto gets off of him, spent cock finally slipping out of P's well-used hole as cum drips out from him and down his taint, P wants to cry.

"F-father," P whines, rolling onto his back and showing off still-hard penis to his father, grabbing it into his fist and jerking off desperately, "help me – please— I'm scared—"

Geppetto hesitates, and for one horrifying moment, P thinks the man is going to ignore his pleas. There's a vibe coming from his father that almost seems dismissive, perhaps even offended that a simple puppet needs to get off, too.

But then Geppetto eyes lock on his, and as P's bottom lip quivers, the man smiles, hand reaching out to stroke P's cheek tenderly.

"Father will take care of you, son."

Anticipation builds up in P's very core as he watches Geppetto kneel between his legs, his breath hot on his inner thighs and lip hair tickling the skin as he presses kisses to the puppets legs, mouth grazing lower and lower until his lips press against P's cock, rough tongue lapping at the frenulum.

"Oh," P's back arches off the ground, mewling as father lavishes his straining erection with kisses and licks, large hands moving to play with P's smooth balls and gently massaging the sac, with such tender attentiveness that it is borderline frustrating.

It's tempting to ask for more. Geppetto's mouth is so tantalising close to his cock that P could thrust up into it with relative ease – but he'll be good. He should be thankful that father is touching him at all, really.

His good behaviour is rewarded. After a few more teasing licks, Geppetto kisses the tip, tongue flicking into the leaking slit of P's penis before swallowing the phallus whole, taking the entirety of him with little resistance due to his smaller size. His hands do hold onto P's narrow waist as if to hold him still, but the puppet doesn't care. Father's mouth is so deliciously hot and wet, engulfing P in what feels like warm velvet; the experience is so new, so stimulating, that P knows he isn't going to last very long at all. Father's kindness already has him on the edge – combined with the forceful suckling upon his cock and Geppetto's rough, chapped lips wrapped firmly around the base, P has to slap his hands over his mouth to stop a high-pitched squeal from escaping.

Seeing his cock disappearing into Geppetto's mouth whenever he bobs his head is... arousing, and has P's attention entirely occupied – so much so, that he doesn't notice that one of Geppetto's hands has slipped off his waist. It isn't until P senses something pushing against his abused hole that he realises that father is rubbing his thumb against his entrance, tickling the rim, before sliding the digit into the base.

P clamps his thighs around Geppetto's head, surging his hips up in shock. The man splutters, but continues to scratch his thumb inside the puppet who thrashes around, torn between fucking himself on father's thumb or into his face; it's a difficult choice, and P finds he desperately alternates between his options in reckless, frenzied movements, caring little about what his father must be thinking about his unabashed fervour – it's his fault, Geppetto's throat is squeezing around his cock, wickedly tempting him to misbehave and be selfish—

Suddenly, P winces, as Geppetto's remaining hand on his hip clenches, his fingers digging in, and the man's glare is stormy and stern as their eyes meet.

A thrill courses through P's body. Fear. Mischievousness. Guilt.

Euphoria.

All at once, P's body seizes up as he forces his erection as far down Geppetto's throat as it can go before he comes, finding it hard to stay conscious as his internal mechanisms go haywire from the blazing heat that roars throughout him; he can distantly hear Geppetto gulping down his release noisily – given his disgruntled expression, probably not willingly, and the puppet sobers up enough to loosen his thighs from Geppetto's face, allowing the man to slip off his erection with a hacking cough.

P lies on the ground, staring at the ceiling as he pants pointless breaths, twitching in the aftershocks of his orgasm as more of his semen squirts out weakly onto his stomach. Geppetto is rubbing around his mouth with a handkerchief he had procured from a pocket, moustache and beard slick with P's fluids – the puppet can't tell if the man is angry or not from his behaviour during his lust-induced frenzy; he doesn't want to know, but he doesn't want to be a coward, either.

"...Did I hurt you, father?" probes P, weakly. "I... I couldn't control myself. I'm sorry..."

Geppetto stops wiping his mouth. There's something about his expression that unsettles P. He's not sure what it is; annoyance? Disbelief? But as soon as it flashes across Geppetto's face, it disappears, as father gives him a wearied smile, tucking his handkerchief away and lying down by P's side, surprising the puppet by pulling him into a hug.

"It's okay, son. You'll learn how to control yourself better, in time," Geppetto says, his words soothing, yet P finds something tugging in his chest.

...'In time'?

What did father mean?

Father's hug is warm, yet P feels so very cold. His body is sticky, and Geppetto's flaccid cock rubs against his rear.

P doesn't want to stay.

But Geppetto's arms are like vines around his body, keeping him rooted to the spot, unable to escape as the smell of depravity creeps into P's senses, the reality of what just happened dawning on him.

"I love you, son," mumbles Geppetto, tiredly.

P swallows.

He knows the answer the man wants.

"...I love you too, father."

Geppetto doesn't say anything more as he falls into a slumber, a luxury that avoids P as he lies in filth replaying the evening's events, waiting for dawn to come.

•°•°•

"You were cutting it close on that last enemy, pal – I thought you were toast. Think about me sometimes! Do you know how scary it is, being rattled around in this lamp?" Gemini chirps from around P's waist, the puppet idly stroking the ginger cat that lingers around the hotel. Spring – that's her name. She didn't like him at first, but she's slowly warming up to him, as she purrs and rolls around on one of the downstairs couches.

Her fur is fluffy, soft – it's nice under his fingers.

Nicer than body hair, anyway.

P sighs, giving the cat one last pet before making his way to the grand staircase. He's greeted by everyone else around the hotel; upgraded his weapons, talked to Venigni at length, and made a poor attempt at playing the piano to Antonia's amusement.

He always wastes time. This is becoming a common occurrence since that evening. Usually he'd visit his father first, but now it's his last stop.

"...Going to see him now, aren't you?" Gemini says, quietly, his light dimming sombrely as P simply nods in reply.

They haven't talked about what happened – Gemini had probably heard everything, being in the closet at the time; yet the usually talkative cricket had been at a loss for words.

What is there to say?

P's learnt a lot in the past few days. He's become wiser, understanding more about humanity – about people, emotions, relationships; humans are simultaneously the most grotesque yet beautiful beings.

They hurt others. They love others.

Some do both.

P's footsteps slow as he reaches the doors of Geppetto's office. He does his usual routine, unfastening Gemini from his belt and setting the lamp down on one of the tables outside of the room.

"Pal..." Gemini sounds upset. P tries to give him a reassuring smile, but he only manages a twitch of his lip. He hasn't quite got the hang of emoting, yet. "...I'll be here for you when you're done, okay?"

Nodding, P flicks the lamp off, and braces himself to enter the office. The doors are wide open, but they won't be for long.

Feet dragging and his heart pounding, P crosses the threshold. He spares a glance at the portrait of the boy on the wall, although it's hard to look at, due to the elongated nose springing forth from the painting. It's comical, but also a testament to how naughty P's become.

He's a liar.

A big, fat liar.

He tells people what they want to hear, to spare their feelings.

...Is that the right thing to do?

Or does it make him a coward?

He's not sure.

"Welcome back, son."

Geppetto's gaze fixates on him now. He doesn't care much for the portrait any more since its defacing – he has other things to preoccupy his attention, now.

The leather of Geppetto's chair squeaks as he stands up, the thud of his footsteps in time with P's heartbeats as he walks over to the doors, shutting them with a click as he turns the key in the lock.

"Did you miss me?" asks Geppetto, his voice in P's ear as he stands beside him, his hand sneaking around his waist and coiling around him like a snake, ready to devour its prey.

"...Yes, father."

The lies come so easily, now.

Geppetto's hand slides down P's waist, to his hip, and then his rear, squeezing it.

"You've been such a good boy out there. I'm sure you want a reward," father praises him huskily, although P knows he hasn't been a good boy at all. Geppetto's fingers dig in through his trousers, rubbing at his hole.

It's already damp, and father chuckles reverberate in his ears when he feels the slickness seeping through.

P doesn't do it by choice. He is his father's creation – and that sort of function must have been Geppetto's design.

He is a sick man.

But he's also his father.

And P doesn't fight back as his own father begins to lavish kisses upon his neck, fingers undoing the buttons of his clothes as the puppet stands on the spot, allowing Geppetto to undress him before finding himself pressed face-first against the door as Geppetto unbuckles his belt.

Because, at least when they're doing this, father is loving to him, and not to the boy in the painting whose eyes are wrought with scorn, disgust etched so plainly on his face as he watches his replica and own father commit a vile act of degeneracy in front of him, against the door, where anyone could walk by and hear—

"—I love you, son—" Geppetto pants, thrusting deep. His age is catching up to him, he's easily winded; sometimes he can't even get hard at all, and P likes that. Those times, Geppetto indulges him and his body with so much attention that P can hardly stand it.

P twists his head so he can stare at the portrait. It stares at him with hate, as if despising the way the puppet moans and comes undone underneath Geppetto.

And for that reason, P smirks for the first time ever, his smile only seen by the painted boy.

"I love you too, father."