Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    Commissions begin to come in with enough frequency that Venigni briefly considers outsourcing some to the newly reestablished Workshop before dismissing the idea; there’s no reason to risk his reputation on subpar results when all he has to do is work just a little bit more to keep up.

    Well, maybe more than a little. Even the Great Venigni is still just one genius, and there’s a limit to what he can complete in a day. It might be time to hire some help soon.

    Until then, he relies more and more on P to keep the machinery of the factory functional and running, and on Pulcinella to ensure the machinery of his human body remains functional and running. What it also means is outside of requests for new tasks or being hauled by his collar to bed, he sees neither of them for days at a time.

    After some weeks of this, P begins showing up in his workshop in the late evenings. Normally the idea of someone sitting and watching him work would drive him mad, but the quiet ticking sound as P reads in a corner under Gemini’s light is unexpectedly comforting. Sometimes Venigni even allows himself to be distracted into conversation, enjoying P’s developing sense of dry and understated humor and the easy way he and Gemini bounce off each other.

    Sometimes P will even deign to help him with his project du jour despite his open distaste for anything resembling engineering work. They make a good pair; P is cautious to his cocksure, disciplined to his dramatic, and equally matched in his devotion to doing good in the world. Whenever Venigni gets ahead of himself with some grand ideas, P is there to reel him in and remind him what it is they’re trying to accomplish.

    At those other times when he is alone, he finds his mind wandering even as his hands work autonomously. Daydreams of tender confessions and gentle kisses cloud his vision; at night, when he does sneak in some sleep, his dreams are considerably less chaste, leaving him half-hard and wanting when he wakes alone in his bed.

   There are still nights he dreams of Arlecchino, but instead of his parents, P is the target; he watches helplessly as P is torn apart, oil splattering on his face instead of blood. This is how he knows he is no longer able to deny his feelings.

   The fuse is lit, and the glowing tip creeps ever closer to the powder.

    Before things escalate any further, however, he knows there’s one more conversation they need to have. However pleasant it’s been, he can no longer pretend there isn’t a shadow of mistrust hanging over their heads.

    When P comes to visit the next evening, Venigni is waiting for him. “You’re done early,” P says, hesitating in the doorway.

    “I was hoping we could talk,” Venigni replies, not remotely done at all, but nerves had kept him from making any progress for the past few hours.

    “Should I leave? And by leave, I mean be taken away. Preferably far away from here,” Gemini grumbles with a flutter as he’s unhooked and placed on a desk, but Venigni shakes his head.

    “No, because what I want to ask is… about what you  both have been hiding about the Frenzy. What else , I mean, besides the Grant Covenant being the key.”

    He tries to keep his tone as even as possible, but P flinches as if he had yelled all the same. Gemini chirps in concern, but doesn’t jump in, allowing P a moment to collect his words. “You don’t… want to know.”

    After all this time together, Venigni has started to catch on to how to read P’s mood — mostly. Despite the stoic mask he normally wears, there are always minute tells in the way the wiring under his skin will twitch, or his left arm shudders and rolls in its socket. He can tell now, beneath the expressionless face, that P truly believes what he’s saying.

    Because he feels like tempting fate, he prompts, “Can it really be worse than anything else you’ve told me so far?”

    “Ooh,” Gemini says through a hiss, ”you’re probably going to really regret saying that.”

    The missing pieces from the final days of the Frenzy are put together haltingly between the two of them, Gemini picking up when P trails off or prompting him to add his input when he’s been silent too long. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have believed a damn word they said. It all sounds like an outlandish fantasy novel: Ergo, made from human memories, is how puppets awaken egos; Geppetto’s goal was resurrecting his son through massive amounts of Ergo, some profane artifact, and the heart that beats in P’s chest; he had been killed by the reanimated corpse of his own son-turned-puppet; and P is actually –

    “I’m not Carlo,” P insists, and he seems to surprise even himself at the emotion in his words.

    “Some puppets awaken egos that are wholly their own, regardless of whose Ergo powers them,” Gemini adds. “Like Pulcinella, and Polendina.”

    “Right,” Venigni says weakly, stomach roiling with that same sick feeling he’d had when he realized Pulcinella was no ordinary puppet. They sit in a factory he’d used to produce creatures who, despite what he’d previously believed, all had the capability of awakening egos, and profited handsomely from it.

    “Carlo is,” P says suddenly, hand clutching his chest, “only part of my Ergo. His memories never awakened. That’s why Father…”

    Gemini chirps in sympathy, but says no more. Venigni is suddenly struck with a memory of what P had said the night he returned from the Abbey covered in blood: “ I almost failed. He took a blow meant for me. ” This part is true, despite his doubts at the time — it slots in with what he’s learned tonight perfectly.

    Geppetto had demanded P’s heart, and when he was refused, sicced his most powerful puppet to take it by force. Only to, apparently, take a killing blow in his stead. Even with what he knew at the time, the story had been suspect, and the idea that Geppetto would sacrifice himself for his puppet, absurd.

    But now the final piece clicks into place. Geppetto hadn’t sacrificed himself for his puppet at all.

    “I tried… but I’m not him.” P finally turns away from Gemini’s comforting glow to meet his eyes. In the dim light of the room, he can see it – a trickle of silent tears running down his cheeks. “Please,” he begs, but for what, he doesn’t seem able to specify.

    Please what? Please forget that he is powered by, and wearing the face of, his dead mentor’s dead son?

    Eyes closed, he takes a centering breath. That’s unfair of him.

    Gemini flutters and chirrups insistently. He imagines it’s a signal meant for him.

     He’s his own person. He remembers, of course, their conversation some few weeks ago; it has been on refrain in his mind ever since. It’s been a long time since he looked at P and saw a puppet, and even longer since he’s seen Geppetto’s son. What, exactly, has even changed in the past few minutes?

    “I know you aren’t,” he says gently, and he’s surprised to find that he actually does believe it. P wipes futilely at his tears, head hung low, and Venigni can’t help himself any more. He crosses the room to pull P into his arms, tucking the fluffy head under his chin and rubbing his back soothingly. He casts an eye at Gemini over P’s head, who obligingly dims his light — the closest he can do to giving them privacy, he assumes.

    He holds P there, who cries silently and motionlessly, fists clenched in his shirt, until the tears finally stop. “Your shirt is wet,” P mumbles into his chest, and he chuckles.

    “More importantly,” he says, tipping P’s face up by the chin to meet his eyes, “are you alright?”

    One of P’s classic nods is the only answer, but it’s enough for now. Exhaustion washes over him; he feels like a candle being burnt at both ends. He thinks P might be supporting him as much as he’s supporting P. Loathe as he is to admit it, he needs to rest, but he’s unwilling to send P away like this. Would it be strange to invite him to spend the night?

    Before he makes up his mind, P untangles himself and picks up Gemini, whose light flickers back to brightness. “You should sleep,” he says.

    Venigni bites down on his protest, trusting that P knows what he needs, and allows him to leave. Despite his exhaustion, sleep is a long time coming. Gratefully, when he wakes, he doesn’t remember if he dreamed at all, and as he goes through his day, he feels lighter than ever.

    He’s pleasantly surprised when P returns to his workshop the next night, which quickly turns to concern when P hesitates by the door again. “Come on in,” he beckons. “I’m just finishing up.” Of course, he’d told himself he was just finishing up perhaps an hour ago, too.

    When P reaches his desk, he can see the problem immediately: his flesh arm hangs limp at his side. P’s characteristic restlessness in his left hand is dialed up in his distress. Venigni tries to remember what he had last been working on, but the past few days are a blur. Still, he can hazard a guess at what happened. “Did you try to pull something out by force?” he chides. “You need to take better care of yourself. Even with your strength, there’s no reason not to use tools when they’re available to you. How long has it been like this?”

    P nods meekly, eyes cast to the side. “Can you help,” he asks.

    “Of course,” Venigni huffs, already bustling about, clearing the pile of papers off the armchair across from his desk. “Sit, sit. You’ll have to tell me where to look.”

    P removes his waistcoat and drapes it gently on the arm of the chair before sitting, Legion Arm clumsily trying to undo the buttons at his neck. Venigni tsk s and pushes the metal hand away to do it himself. 

    Shirt now open, P points to a nearly invisible seam in the silicone skin of his chest. Venigni can’t help but think of the last time he had worked on P’s internals and swallows thickly as he kneels next to the chair. He peels the skin away from the metal beneath, then opens the chassis where directed. This time, at least, it’s not the heart he must work on, but where the ball of the shoulder joint meets what would be his pectorals, wires serving as the connective tissue between them. He can see the problem right away: a bundle of those wires have been torn right out from the strain.

    “You’ve made a fine mess of things here. I’ll have to solder some new connections,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything else. “Let me stoke the fire.”

    When he returns, it’s to find P sitting relaxed with eyes closed. Venigni carefully brushes along the disconnected wires with his fingertips, trying to plan his approach. “I’m going to try to connect this temporarily just to make sure it will work before I solder it into place, alright? Let me know if it hurts.”

    He busies himself with stripping some of the protective coating and trimming the end of the wires neatly. Once satisfied, he grasps the loose bundle of wires gingerly and pulls them back into place. As soon as the wires make contact he feels a buzz deep in his fingers. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make him drop the bundle on instinct.

    P gasps softly at the shock, eyes opening wide. His flesh hand twitches, then falls limp again; his Legion Arm moves in an aborted gesture before settling back on the wooden arm of the chair with a thunk. The wood groans under his powerful grip.

    “Are you alright? Please, I need you to use your words right now.”

    Eyes still blown wide and staring at the wires now hanging loose from his shoulder, P nods. “Yes,” he says after a beat. “Try again.”

    Venigni adjusts the wires back into order and touches the ends to the connection point again. As soon as it makes contact, a noise comes from P’s throat, though it doesn’t sound like pain at all. The buzz in his fingers is stronger this time — the wires are clearly still crossed.

    That must be why P makes that sound. The shock undoubtedly travels through his body and disrupts his vocal modulator every time he does this. Venigni tells himself firmly that whatever it might have sounded like is a coincidence, and not a living manifestation of his dreams.

    “Again.”

    Venigni chances a look at P, who is resolutely not meeting his eyes. He can hear his own blood pounding in his ears, threatening to drown out the sound of a rapidly ticking heart and crackling fire.

    Venigni touches the wire to the port again, and this time holds it there, fighting his instinct to pull away and just let the arm remain broken — at least until Pulcinella can chaperone them.

    There is no mistaking the noise P is making now as anything other than a moan. The wood of the armrest cracks and splinters in his metal palm. It feels as if all the blood in Venigni’s body is split between his face and the rapidly tightening space within his pants.

    “Does this hurt? Should I stop?” Venigni says, voice low, traitorous hand twitching the wires even as he spoke.

    “No, don’t stop.” P’s voice is doused in a heavy static. “Please… don’t stop.”

    Venigni bites his lip and lets his hand fall into a rhythm of connecting and disconnecting the wires, watching an arc of electricity jump every time he pulls them away, and hearing the needy sounds coming from P’s throat. He feels a stab of guilt — should they really be doing this without talking about it first, especially after last night? — but he’s also not nearly strong enough to resist.

    A twist of the wires makes P’s reactions only grow stronger. He writhes in place, chest heaving with breath he doesn’t take. Venigni’s free hand snakes down between his own legs to press the heel of his palm against the growing bulge there. Sweat is dripping down his face, pooling into the too-tight collar of his shirt. If he continues this, could P possibly reach — ?

    A metal hand lays over his own and he drops the wires as if burned. P’s face is, impossibly, as placid and unruffled as ever, no part of him even hinting at what he might be thinking under the surface. He takes hold of the wires himself and twists them back into alignment, demonstrating by tapping the fingers of his left arm against the chair arm. “Like this.”

    “Right,” Venigni says, mouth dry. “Right, the soldering - I’ll get the soldering iron.”

    The actual repairs only take a few moments longer. He has to brace his elbow on the arm of the chair to keep his hand from shaking. P flexes his arm experimentally and nods, already closing up the access port and replacing the skin. “Thank you,” he says with such sincerity Venigni starts to think what just happened was a fever dream fueled by lack of sleep.

    “Of course,” he makes himself say, angling himself so his predicament is less visible as he puts away his tools. “Any time.”

    P nods and stands from the chair, but makes no further movement to leave, still looking down at his hand. The light in the room is dim, but Venigni can’t see the tell-tale glow of Gemini at his hip. Thank God for small miracles.

    That means they’re alone. Which means — they should talk about it. It means absolutely nothing besides that they should talk about it.

    Venigni turns and opens his mouth, but P takes the opening to speak first instead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know… it would feel like that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

    The unexpected apology throws him off and he forgets what he had been about to say. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Rather the opposite, really,” his stupid mouth adds before his mind has a chance to catch up.

    “The opposite,” P parrots back, head tilted to one side.

    Venigni doesn’t entirely feel ready to confess the effect it's had on him just yet, so he takes a different approach. “I was more worried it made you uncomfortable. I know how you dislike being reminded…” what you are , he doesn’t say, but the implication hangs between them.

    “Sometimes, yes,” P admits. “But when – I can – I don’t –” He closes his eyes in frustration. “Did you dislike it.”

    It takes Venigni’s lust-addled brain a moment to parse the question after all the false starts.

    “I didn’t,” he confesses in a near whisper.

    “You liked it.” Venigni’s face is burning, but he nods. He can’t tell if this is a question or not any more, but he feels compelled to answer anyway.

    “I-I did,” he stutters. This is not what he’d imagined when he daydreamed of sweet confessions by candlelight.

    “You liked the wires. My wires.” P’s voice is full of wonder as he steps ever so slightly closer with each sentence, the glass of his eyes dark as the lamplight behind him casts a halo around his hair. His shirt is still unbuttoned, and Venigni can’t help the way his eyes flick down and back up. “You desire… me .”

    “I do,” Venigni confirms, knowing he has been masterfully cornered, and there’s no point in denying any further.

    A cold hand reaches up to cup his cheek in a mirror of that fateful evening at the hotel; just like last time, he finds it roots him to the spot, but unlike last time, it’s paired with a satisfied smile like the cat that got the cream. “Kiss me,” he requests.

    “Are you sure you want this?” Venigni asks as the hand on his cheek slowly draws him in closer. “I know you might feel you have some obligation, or —”

    “Don’t tell me what I think,” P rebukes, but his tone is gentle.

    “Oh,” breathes Venigni. So this is what Gemini had meant.

    It’s odd not to feel any puff of breath from P’s nose against his skin as he slowly, slowly closes the distance.

    It’s utterly unlike the first time they kissed. This time, Venigni takes control; it starts out chaste, but he soon begins to move, seeking friction, letting a hand dig into wavy brown hair. P’s lips are softer than he expects as he lets his teeth graze gently against his lower lip. P gasps into his mouth and he takes his opportunity to deepen the kiss, letting his other hand loop around P’s lower back, pulling their bodies flush.

    This is not something he’d paid attention to before, but he does now: what P’s mouth tastes like — not unlike the outside, mostly of nothing with a slight hint of rubber. His tongue and palate are smooth, unnaturally textureless and lubricated with artificial spit. P’s lips lack the fine motor control to mimic his own movements; the resulting kiss is wet and messy and he can’t get enough of it. His cock jumps against P’s hip where they’re pressed together.

    He has to break away first, gasping for a breath.  “Lorenzo,” P sighs against his mouth, which is a delicious thrill. P has never once called his name before, and it makes him want to find ways to hear it again and again. He moves in again at the same time P does, their noses pressed awkwardly together before they adjust, and he smiles into the next kiss.

    “We should move somewhere more comfortable,” he murmurs in P’s ear. He aims for suave, but his voice comes out as gutted and needy as he feels. He can’t see the answering nod, but he can feel the silk of P’s hair as it slides against his cheek.

    He takes P by a hand and guides him up the stairs to what was once the lofted employee break area, but now serves as his makeshift bedroom. Curtains have been hung to give him some privacy, but they do nothing to dampen sound; he has no idea where Pulcinella or Gemini are, but he privately hopes it is somewhere well outside of earshot.

    Once they crest the stairs he pulls P in close again, walking them to the bed even as he’s unable to stop pressing kisses to his lips and along the line of his jaw. When the back of P’s knees bump against the bed his hands come up between them. Venigni pulls back to check in, but the question dies in his throat as P drops to his knees in what looks like a practiced motion.

    “No, no, not like that,” Venigni says, trying not to let the little stab of hurt in his chest show on his face, urging him up by his shoulders. P obligingly stands again and follows his lead, laying back on the bed with his dark hair fanning out in sharp contrast to the pale sheets. Venigni clambers over him, snaking a hand between them to undo the remaining buttons of P’s shirt.

    There is no give to any of his fleshy parts as he runs his hands under the fabric.. He is cool to the touch, especially where his heart sits pumping icy Ergo through his veins, but the skin rapidly warms along the expiratory path Venigni’s hands travel. P allows the attention for a moment, lips pressed together in impatience, before reaching for the buttons of Venigni’s own shirt.

    He tamps down his instinct to pull it off himself, allowing P the space to explore on his own. P trails his fingers along Venigni’s skin, his eyes locked to the path they travel: along the dip of his clavicle, petting the hair on his chest, a curious fingertip lingering on a nipple. Despite the loving care that went into his face, P’s upper body lacks any details at all, simply a plain, undecorated stretch of skin, and he seems to marvel at their differences.

    P’s hand reaches his belt and begins to paw at the clasp, but Venigni puts his hands over P’s to slow him down. “Where’s the rush?” he asks. “Getting to know your partner’s body is one of life’s greatest joys, meant to be savored.”

    P cocks his head in confusion, but lets go of the buckle, arms settling on the bed at his side in uncertainty. Venigni takes this chance to mouth along the exposed side of his neck, working from just under his ear down his throat. “How does this feel?” he murmurs. “With words.”

    “… Good.” He can feel the buzz of P’s voicebox against his mouth, and he kisses the area gently before continuing down to his chest. One of P’s hands tentatively slides up his back, his Legion Arm twitching but remaining at his side. Venigni takes a hold of his wrist and places the metal hand on his other shoulder, pressing it there meaningfully. It doesn’t move to stroke his skin like the other, but it doesn’t leave his shoulder, either.

    He kisses a trail down to the waistline of P’s trousers, taking this moment to look up at his face. P’s lips are parted as he watches, but if this is doing anything for him, it isn’t otherwise showing in his face. Venigni decides to adjust his approach; he kisses his way up P’s Legion Arm, heating the cold metal with his tongue, and works his way back up to P’s chest to trace a finger along the seam there.

    “Would you like me to touch you here again?”

    P pushes the questioning hand away, and shakes his head.

    “Tell me what you want, P.”

    He doesn’t receive an answer right away, but he doesn’t expect one. While he gives P time to think, he idly traces along the other seams, mapping out their trail beneath his ribs and along his sides.

    When the answer comes, he almost chokes on his own spit. “Sex.”

    “There are many ways to have sex, Pinocchio. This,” he says as he drags a finger down the seam on his chest again in illustration, “could be considered sex. So if this isn’t what you want…”

    “Like a human,” P says simply, as if he hadn’t just yanked the proverbial rug out from under him. The idea brings forth images from half-remembered dreams, a jolt of arousal spiking his heart rate even faster. At the same time, he wants to ask if and how that’s even possible, knowing his unconscious mind had simply invented whatever was most convenient to his fantasies at the time.

    “If you’re sure,” he says instead. “But say the word and this stops at any time.”

    He has no idea of what to expect when he removes the rest of P’s clothing, having never bedded a puppet before — not because he’d have been opposed, entirely, but because of a dearth of opportunity. And yet he still finds himself surprised as he pulls the last of the fabric away. He’s had lovers of all shapes and sizes, but nothing quite like this.

    P’s pelvis is perfectly smooth, with a featureless bulge taking the place of his genitals, like a doll. Venigni strokes the inside of P’s thigh and up toward where it joins to his hip, palming over the bulge, but feels like an awkward teenage virgin again, unsure of where to touch. He laves his tongue over the area, eyes looking up desperately in search of any sign that he’s doing the right thing.

    P tilts his head at Venigni’s ministrations. With a creaking sound, his legs spread a bit further apart, and he uses his own hand to guide Venigni’s lower and deeper until he feels it — an opening ringed with rubber like his skin, but softer and thinner, as though it was made to stretch.

    It sends a spark of need straight into his gut even as it makes him feel ill. P had been so clearly made to be used, anything not exploitable left unfinished or undone. He tries to push those thoughts from his mind and focuses on the slight hitch in P’s chest when he pushes a finger in experimentally. There is no texture to it inside, and it’s slightly slick with what must be the same fluid that lubricates his mouth.

    “Can you feel this?” He crooks his finger, gently stroking as deep inside as he can reach. P nods shakily, eyes wide and staring at where Venigni’s hand disappears from his view. “How does it feel?”

    Another nod, but that just won’t do. “Tell me,” he insists, stilling his movements. 

    “Warm,” P whispers.

    Not one the usual accolades for his performance in bed, but he knows P lacks the vocabulary for this sort of thing. He squeezes P’s hip with his free hand and begins to slowly draw his finger in and out, feeling the rubber of his entrance gripping tightly around the digit and sticking to his skin.

    “Just a moment, I have something to make this a bit easier…” He trails off as he pulls away entirely to rummage in the nightstand beside them, looking for his jar of lotion. P pushes himself up on his elbows to watch curiously as he unscrews the lid and starts warming a generous portion on his fingers.

    This time he pushes two slick fingers in, scissoring them experimentally to see the stretch. It doesn’t seem to be physically necessary to prep him like he’s accustomed to doing with others — the ring seems to easily accommodate the needed amount of stretch — and his cock aches with need at every little static pop of sound from P’s throat, but he steels his patience and takes his time with it, working in a third.

    He isn’t the only one becoming impatient, however; before he can do much more, P is yanking his hand away and reaching for the buttons of Venigni’s slacks. He obliges this time, sighing in relief as his pants and underwear are shucked carelessly out of sight and his weeping cock is freed into the chilly air.

    With a questioning look, P reaches for him, hand hovering hesitantly between them. “Can I…”

    “God, yes, please,” Venigni groans, the last fraying ends of his patience beginning to snap.

    His grip is butterfly-light at first, as if testing how much pressure is needed. Venigni sucks in a breath when P holds him a little tighter and the chill of his palm presses against his hot arousal.

    That’s all he does, at first — a hand gripped around his cock, motionless, and Venigni can’t help but rut into it a little in search of more friction. The hold releases, replaced by trailing fingers exploring, tracing the veins running along his length, curling into the dark hairs at the base, cupping his balls. A bead of fluid begins to dribble out from his tip; P swipes a finger over it and inspects it curiously.

    “How long do you intend to tease me?” Venigni asks breathlessly. P’s eyes flick up to his as he brings that fluid-covered finger to his mouth, giving it a kitten-lick and inspiring a number of sordid fantasies, before reaching down to grip Venigni by the hip and drag him further between his legs, driving all other thoughts from his mind.

    Venigni hooks his arms under P’s bent knees and attempts to pull him into a more accessible angle. P goes limp, allowing the manhandling – but also placing all of his weight into Venigni’s arms. It’s not impossible, but his arms shake with the strain and he isn’t quite sure how he’ll find a free hand to line himself up. P huffs out a little laugh and the weight in his arms disappears. With a groan of cogwheels, he holds this position perfectly still. Venigni slicks the leftover lotion on his hand over his cock, but despite every instinct in his body telling him to press forward, he forces himself to stop. He’s proud of how he’s able to keep the desperation out of his voice as he asks, “Are you sure?”

    Still looking directly into his eyes, P nods, then adds for once without prompting, “Yes.”

    He moves slowly, ignoring the insistent push of P’s legs wrapped around his lower back, watching for any sign of discomfort as his cockhead stretches the ring of rubber. P gasps at the intrusion, eyes wide and the hand not on Venigni clenching the sheets, eyebrows knitted upward. He pauses, unsure if this is pain or pleasure.

    “Does it— “

    “Don’t stop .”

    That staticky little whine is going to play a starring role in his fantasies from now on.

    It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before with the handful of men (and adventurous women) he’s bedded — not just tight at the entrance, but squeezing along every inch of his length. He can’t help but shiver a little at the chill as he seats himself fully inside P, who is always just a little colder than the air around them.

    Venigni falls forward to bracket P with his arms, bringing him close enough to see each delicately painted freckle even in the dim light of the room. “You’re so beautiful, tesoro mio , you feel so good,” he murmurs as he pulls out just enough to rock experimentally back in. The drag of friction is only just slick enough, and after his many months of unintentional abstinence, threatens to overwhelm him entirely. He sets a slow and languid rhythm at first, committing each twitch and gasp he draws out to memory, trying to keep eye contact even as P’s eyes flit away shyly.

    A whir of gears spinning up is his only warning before P wraps his arms around Venigni’s back and squeezes them together in an unbreakable hold. Venigni’s face is pressed into his chest, needy little noises vibrating against him, mechanical heart thumping directly under his cheek. He is intimately aware that the only thing preventing him from being crushed is P’s iron-clad self-control; it sends a shiver down his spine and throws off his rhythm, his next thrust just a bit harder.

    “More,” P cries. Venigni doesn’t hear it so much as feel the vibration reverberating all the way into his chest.

    Never able to deny P anything, he picks up the pace as much as he can. With his arms pinned down he doesn’t have enough leverage, but he makes up for it by snapping as much strength as he can into the shallow thrusts. He’s going to have bruises on his hip bones tomorrow, already feeling the tenderness there against the firm, unyielding metal.

    He can feel his orgasm building; the heat is coiling low in his belly, his balls tightening. “I’m close,” he breathes into P’s ear, but P shows no sign of letting him go. “ Caro , I’m not going to last much longer, let me—“

    P tightens his grip just a little bit more, just to the point that it starts to hurt — and fuck if that doesn’t push him right over the edge, cock pulsing as he comes with a muffled groan against P’s shoulder, sparks flying beneath his eyelids.

    Finally P loosens his hold and allows Venigni to lift himself up on shaky arms, his hands still clutching at Venigni’s back. With a hiss Venigni pulls out and watches, enthralled, as some of his spend trickles out after.

    His limbs are jelly and he feels sated in the afterglow, but he’s not willing to ruin his reputation as a generous lover now. “What can I do for you?” he asks, running a hand along P’s side and down a leg encouragingly.

    P shakes his head, a small, shy smile on his lips. Venigni can’t help but press a kiss there, deciding not to push it for now. Next time, he’ll take his time taking P apart, whatever that means for him. For now, he reaches over to the nightstand for a cloth to gently wipe away the traces of their activities from between P’s legs.

    “Stay the night with me?” Venigni knows it’s selfish to ask someone who doesn’t sleep to spend the next few hours stuck in bed, but he also can’t imagine waking up to empty sheets in the morning. P nods and allows himself to be pulled into place half-draped over him, a heavy but comforting weight that quickly lulls him to sleep.

—

    Venigni awakens with a start, cold and alone in his bed. For a moment, he can almost believe last night had been a dream – until he shifts and feels the sheets rub directly against his unclothed skin and the sting of bruises blossoming on his hip bones.

    Not a dream, then.

    His mind runs away from him, inventing the scenario helplessly. He’d let himself think with the wrong head, pushed P into something he hadn’t wanted, and now P has, rightfully, removed himself from the clutches of yet another person who used him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d inadvertently sabotaged a budding relationship before it could even begin. Guilt is roiling in his stomach.

    It serves him right after he’d done the same to so many others.

    The sound of heavy footsteps on the concrete stairs interrupts his thoughts. He runs a hand over his face, hoping he doesn’t look as wrecked as he feels before Pulcinella comes in for his customary morning chores. But when the curtain twitches, it’s not his butler that walks through; it’s P, holding Melody against his chest. The small smile on his face melts when he sees Venigni staring back at him wide-eyed.

    “Are you okay,” P asks, hesitating by the top of the stairs as he juggles the wiggly kitten. He’s wearing what looks like one of Venigni’s own nightshirts, and it’s adorably far too long for him.

    “Fine,” Venigni says, but it sounds a little choked, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I’m fine. You left to get her?”

    P nods, crawling back into the bed with Melody placed gently between them. Venigni almost feels like laughing at his own dramatics. He turns to face them, stroking the cat in an attempt to calm her into settling down, but she isn’t having it, so instead he pulls the sheet over her. P looks surprised, one hand ready to tear the sheet back again, but Venigni demonstrates his plan: he taps and scratches at the sheets around her and watches as she pounces blindly for his fingers through the fabric.

    He moves his hand away to allow P to try the same, and almost doesn’t recognize the sound he hears as Melody pokes a needle-sharp tooth through the fabric to bite onto P’s hand. Not just his usual huff of amusement, but soft giggling laughter, the first he’s ever heard in all the months they’ve spent together.

    He feels three words budding in his chest, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

    Maybe P isn’t the only one with insecurities, he muses; they certainly have more difficult conversations ahead of them. But for now he’s content to lay here, watching Pinocchio play with his kitten, the sound of birdsong announcing the sunrise. It’s something they’ll be able to work through – together.