#half of artefact storage???
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the-magnusinstitute Ā· 7 months ago
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Has anyone ever come to give a statement about dentists or given you random teeth??
We have lots of statements about teeth! The filing system is, apparently, in some disarray, but Sasha (shoutout to Sasha) says they have a whole box just labelled ā€˜teethā€™.
The contents of this box were not made clear to me. I can only assume theyā€™re statements. You can apply on our website for a permit to come in and have a look!
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prokopetz Ā· 1 year ago
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When I was a kid I read a lot of sword and sorcery fiction from the 1970s and 1980s, and there was an extremely specific recurring trope I encountered in those novels and literally nowhere else.
There'd be this villainous duo ā€“ typically servants of the principal villain ā€“ consisting of a scheming mastermind middle-aged father and his hyperviolent lunatic teenage daughter. The daughter would constantly fuck things up due to her erratic behaviour, and the father would put up with it because they were stuck in this intensely toxic codependent relationship that left the daughter with no meaningful social relationships apart from her father, and the father unable to refuse his daughter anything she wanted, no matter how unhinged.
I ran into this exact trope in at least half a dozen different novels by as many different authors, all in the same subgenre of fantasy literature, all clustered around the same period of time, and nowhere else. (To anticipate the inevitable request for recs, Sorcerer's Heir by Paula Volsky springs readily to mind; I'd have to drag my library out of storage to pin down the others I'm thinking of ā€“ it's been long enough that I'm not confident of my recollection of specific titles!) For over thirty years this remained the case, and I was prepared to chalk it up to simply being an artefact of its time.
So, with all this context in mind, imagine my surprise when I checked what was trending on Netflix around November of 2021.
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lafresnaya Ā· 11 months ago
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so... who was going to tell me that my estimates of the tma characters' ages was WAYYY off??
and i know jonny probably meant it to be that way so that there'd be leeway for creative interpretation of the characters and all, but my brain wants them pinned down. so. here's a mini-list/research rant of my favs. presently the list consists of:
Jonathan Sims
Martin Blackwood
Sasha James
Timothy Stoker
Mike Crew !
Oliver Banks
Michael Shelley
Gerard Keay
Three disclaimers ā€“ (i) The TMA timeline is a trainwreck. Many assumptions have been made. At least half of them are probably wrong (especially where University is used as an age marker) and also my maths ability sucks because I havenā€™t done maths in two years, so where there are glaring issues, so feel free to correct me and I will edit accordingly :ā€™) (ii) This is by no means definite. See above. Honestly, attempting to decipher them feels like trying to understand the Spiral. But Iā€™m doing it anyway, because as both a fanfic writer and an academic, I want to at least try. (iii) SPOILER WARNING!! SO MANY SPOILERS! I think the only seaosn that isn't spoiled is maybeeee S5 ???
With that, let's go! [Ages are approximate & as-of 2016 / S1]
Jonathan Sims Age: 28 Birth year: 1987-1988 There seems to be a general consensus on this one. MAG81 appears to be one of the key clues here ā€“ ā€˜Jon says that he was about 8 during the events of the statement and that it happened a year or two after Leitner's library ended, which was in 1994. So he's born around 1987-88.ā€™ [source: reddit]Of note is the fact that he lied about his age and pretended to be older, which is hilarious, and leads me to believe that heā€™s the youngest of the Archives crew ā€“ or at least, near there.
Martin Blackwood Age: 28-ish Birth year: 1988 Has worked for the Institute since at least 2009. Heā€™s lied about having a Masterā€™s in parapsychology, so is likely old enough to feasibly be able to have one. As all institute staff have to at least have a Masterā€™s in something archive-related (iirc), all of them must hence be at least 22/23, assuming the Masterā€™s courses are 1 year long. Jonny has, however, stated that Martin is either a bit older or a bit younger than Jon, and Iā€™m tempted to believe itā€™s the former (see above).
Sasha James Age: 28-34, 30-ish? Birth year: 1981-1987 Thereā€™s like, nothing on Sasha. Iā€™m assuming sheā€™s at least older than Jon, because that might be why he began faking his age. The only possible marker would be that Sashaā€™s worked in Artefact Storage (for 3 months), Research (for longer, I assume) and long enough in Archives to be considered as Gertrudeā€™s likely successor. So, definitely more qualified, and also older than Jon.
Timothy Stoker Age: 30-ish Birth year: 1986? Tim has a degree in Anthropology from Trinity College (I assume this to be Oxbridge, rather than Ireland or something, since he resides in London), and spent 5 years working at a publishing firm. This puts him at 26 (18+3+5) in 2013 when Danny was taken. As he says he began working for the Institute shortly after, I would assume that this is when he stopped working for the firm. Iā€™ve added a bit of buffer because nobodyā€™s birthdays are given, ever, and also there might have been a bit of time between leaving university and joining the firm and/or leaving the firm and finding the Institute. So ā€“ 30.
Okay thatā€™s the core staff, onto my other favs.
Michael 'Mike' Crew Age: 37-ish Birth year: ~1979 My #1 avatar! I did a double-take after I worked out his entire timeline, but hereā€™s the highlights: He was a uni student during late 1997-early 1998 when he went looking for Ex Altiora in Lion Books. Iā€™m assuming he was a first year, because generally uni students stay in the sameish area for the whole course and I donā€™t see him missing out on an opportunity to Leitner-hunt just because the store was in a slightly out-of-the-way part of town. So! This puts his birthdate at around 1979-1980.
Oliver Banks Age: 28-ish Birth year: ~1987 Oliver Banksā€™ timeline during & post-Uni makes NO SENSE. Fortunately, we do know that he moved to London around 2005 to do his undergraduate degree at the London School of Economics. Which puts him at around 18 in 2005, and his birth year can be worked out from there. Quick rant about Oliverā€™s timeline: Oliver is working at Barclays by 2007, and he was recruited after graduating. Which means he both began and subsequently completed his undergraduate degree between 2005 and 2007. Thatā€™s literally impossible for a standard 3 year course. Plus, by around 2007, heā€™s been working for nearly a year at Barclays, so he started in 2006ā€¦ so apparently he began his degree and completed it in under a year, since the academic year starts in September??
Michael Shelley / Michael the Distortion Age: 31 / 49 / early 50s (but canonically 92 at all points in the timeline) Birth year: ??? I didnā€™t do the research on this one, so hereā€™s my source because I donā€™t think thereā€™s any more I can add.This mess is truly Spiral-worthy, which could have been intended, but also may just be the TMA timeline wonkiness at work. Thereā€™s also been some speculation that he was hired at even younger than 18, but equally itā€™s possible that he was hired older, which puts his age squarely into the [I donā€™t have a fucking clue] range.
Gerard Keay Age: technically 32 Birth year: ~1984 Gerry was born in the 80s, and given that the above source states he was in his ā€˜late teensā€™ in 2002, this tracks. Making the assumption that heā€™s 18 in 2002, Iā€™m going to place his birth year at around 1984. However, he died in 2014 (Iā€™m assuming late-2014, given that he had time to encounter Leitner in London & travel a bit with Gertrude before his death) in the USA, putting him at around 30 at the age of his death. Since heā€™s dead, he doesnā€™t really age, but he is ā€˜awareā€™ enough to be in existential pain so Iā€™m going to go with Descartes on this one and say heā€™s ā€˜aliveā€™ enough to continue counting his years of existence. Poor guy. Doesnā€™t even get to actually die til August 2017 either.
Part 2 ft. the 4 Grandpas of the Apocalypse here
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writingjourney Ā· 2 years ago
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Unprecedented | Secondo x gn!Reader
Or: The four times you almost get Secondo to admit his feelings for you and the one time you succeed.
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Summary: Working with Secondo is only half as bad as people make it seem ā€“ at least until you fall in love with each other.
Content: 12.7k words, gn!reader, pining, sexual tension/suggestive language, food mention, blood/minor injury, forced proximity, soft secondo, terzo being a menace, smut-ish in part four but definite smut in part five (thigh riding, unprotected sex, penetration, dom/sub dynamics), 18+ MDNI
thank you for being patient with me, this is my first time writing Secondo, so pls go easy on me ā™”
MasterlistĀ ā€“Ā Ao3 link
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1 Voluntary Abstinence
The air gets colder by a few degrees as you take the last few narrow steps down the winding staircase into the basement. Burnt-down candles are illuminating the hallway from small alcoves, wax dripping down the weathered stone, their light flickering off the dark brick walls. Amongst these dancing shadows you make your way to the door at the other end of the hall. Itā€™s made of iron, heavy and airtight, the rooms beyond kept on very specific temperature and humidity levels to preserve the precious items theyā€™re protecting.
You push it open and find yourself in a small antechamber that leads into three different rooms ā€“ a tiny office, the restoration workshop and a small storage room. Entering this area always feels like stepping foot inside a secret laboratory, though it looks far less sterile with all the shelves of old tomes, paintings and other cursed as well as non-cursed artefacts.
ā€œPapa?ā€ you whisper upon closing the door.
ā€œOffice,ā€ a steady voice calls back.
You find Papa Emeritus II bent over the desk, sorting through papers. Heā€™s wearing his narrow reading glasses, the paint by his ears slightly smudged while his outfit remains pristine. Black slacks, a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled up casually, his usual black leather gloves switched for white cotton ones to avoid fingerprints and sweat stains.
Heā€™s hard at work, has been for most of the morning, trying to save a rare first edition of Nietzscheā€™s Der Antichrist. He lets you observe him from time to time, ever since you expressed your genuine interest in his restoration work. His book-binding fascinates you the most so whenever an interesting project emerges, he lets you know and you get as much time off from your regular clergy duties as possible in order to learn from him. Lucky for you, Sister has no issue excusing you from time to time to help Papa down here. Not many Siblings have the patience or steady hands to work on these intricate projects and even less want to work with Secondo at all, if only for his understandably high standards when it comes to handling fragile artefacts.
ā€œHow is it going, Papa?ā€ you ask casually.
ā€œI am taking some time to document the process and sort through these,ā€ he says. ā€œMy hands are a little too shaky for bookbinding right now.ā€
When you donā€™t reply, he finally looks up at you. His eyes appear bigger behind the glasses but he quickly takes them off, the marks now imprinted on his nose making you smile. Only the smile quickly vanishes when you take in his tired eyes. Even under the black make-up he looks exhausted, sleep-deprived and almost hungover, though you know he wouldnā€™t drink in the middle of a project like this. So there has to be a different cause.
Secondo, meanwhile, takes you in as well. Youā€™re wearing the tight habit that hugs your body in all the right places today and heā€™s very pleased with that. Perhaps by now youā€™re aware itā€™s his favorite, he knows youā€™re observant like that, such a smart, sharp-witted thing you are. Heā€™s trying very hard not to stare but youā€™re too busy worrying to notice.
ā€œAre you feeling alright, Papa? You lookā€¦ ugh.ā€ Youā€™re clearly trying to find a polite way to put it and it amuses him greatly. Even now you hesitate to speak your mind around him. ā€œI mean, you seem like youā€™re in need of some rest.ā€
ā€œYes, sleep was not a priority last night.ā€ He smirks to himself at the memory, he can still feel it in his sore muscles as well. ā€œSo you will have to excuse me looking a bit tired today, Sibling.ā€
Your lips press together into a thin line. ā€œOh. Of course.ā€
Secondo does not miss the hurt thatā€™s flickering over your face. Once, he might have, but by now heā€™s seen this look so many times that he can catch it in milliseconds. The guilt he feels upon glimpsing it is the main reason he established certain rules in the first place. As a man with many lovers, Secondo had to find ways to stop anyone from developing any actual feelings for him that he cannot reciprocate. Most of the time, this isnā€™t a real issue, the intentions are clear, people seek adventures, a like-minded lover who can satisfy them in ways that others canā€™t. But from time to time expectations change, feelings get in the way and itā€™s so very human but very bothersome at the same time. Secondo has no desire to toy with anyone, so at the first hint of anything that goes beyond lust, he usually calls it quits to avoid inflicting any more pain than necessary.
But there is a key difference here: Youā€™re not his lover.
ā€œWell, I wonā€™t keep you, Papa, I just wanted to see the progress and check in on you. I have to help out with lunch preparations now, but perhaps I can come back later,ā€ you say without meeting his eyes again. ā€œI wish you a productive day nonetheless.ā€
He wants to stop you and say something, only heā€™s not sure what there is to say at all. Please, do come back? Donā€™t leave yet?Ā 
Itā€™s only when youā€™re out the door that he realizes he could have just thanked you.
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
Despite what occurred in his office before lunch, youā€™re back in the early afternoon hours, presenting him with some painkillers and a cup of black coffee. He can tell by the smell alone that this hasnā€™t been brewed in the kitchens; you clearly begged Terzo to let you use the fancy coffee machine in his office. Itā€™s always worth it, even if Terzo teases him mercilessly when it comes to you by now, his little assistente, as he calls you.
You donā€™t comment on your hasty exit from earlier as you set down your cargo on his desk and take a seat on the wooden chair opposite from him. Youā€™re staying for a while, it seems, thatā€™s good. He can use your company after working alone in the basement all day.
Not used to someone taking care of him, Secondo tries not to show how your simple gesture affects him. ā€œThank you, my dove. This is just what I needed.ā€
You smile with genuine kindness, the sort of smile that always makes him pause as he feels its paralysing effect on him. ā€œYouā€™re welcome, Papa. Are you feeling any better?ā€
He smiles and takes a much needed sip of coffee. ā€œYes, but I think I should take a bit of a break fromā€¦ā€ He stops, trying to word it carefully. ā€œā€¦ the nightly activities.ā€
ā€œOh, really?ā€
Your eyes bore into his and itā€™s like youā€™re begging for the honest answer he simply cannot give you. Secondo knows ā€“ he knows of your feelings for him, he knows of your desires, your wishes, your hopes. And heā€™d be a liar if he claimed not to return them. But right now being a liar seems easier to him than admitting to any of this.
ā€œI am not getting any younger and I canā€™t have it impacting my work too much,ā€ he states instead, a lame excuse for certain. His stamina is impressive even now and his reputation precedes him. Itā€™s the lack of sleep thatā€™s affecting him more and more, some joint pains maybe, but even that is barely worth mentioning ā€“ he can focus when he has to. Satan knows he could have a Sibling or even a ghoul over every single night if he really wanted to.
There is only one reason he doesnā€™t find proper fulfilment in most of these nightly encounters anymore. And that reason is looking at him with wide and far too hopeful eyes right now.
ā€œIā€™m sure some people will be very sad to hear that,ā€ you finally say, glancing away.
Not you, no, he thinks.
You shift in your seat, then, and he canā€™t tell why exactly youā€™re so nervous all of a sudden. It could be the subject matter. He doesnā€™t take you for being shy, so maybe itā€™s because of your very obvious attraction to him, the mere idea that anything could happen between you, implied by the fact heā€™s telling you about his sex life right now when youā€™ve been lingering on a safe professional level for months.
Secondo is not in the habit of discussing his private matters with people who arenā€™t involved, as much as Terzo tries to coax the details out of him over drinks sometimes. He is a private person, discreet, not necessarily secretive but certainly disinterested in any sort of unqualified opinions. But with you he feels safe enough to at least hint at them, if only to see that delicious blush spread across your gentle face.
ā€œWell, Iā€™m not saying that Iā€™ll stay abstinent forever,ā€ he finally says, aware that heā€™s sending out very mixed signals. ā€œBut I think I will be more selective from now on.ā€
You look at him again and your eyes still shimmer with expectation. He almost hates himself for giving you false hopes. But he canā€™t help it, you just look so stunning when youā€™re flustered for him, when your eyes circle in on his bare forearms, his gloves, his lips, your breathing becoming heavier by the second. Arousal suits you, he decides. It takes a lot of restraint to withstand the urge to show you what he could do to you if he just gave in. And this is certainly not the first time the image of fucking you on this very desk pops into his head.
In the end, you donā€™t comment. Itā€™s something he appreciates a lot about you, the fact that you know when to shut up. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you watch him work on the Nietzsche, standing idly by the side with your eyes glued to his hands, you barely say another word. But you donā€™t have to ā€“ the very telling smile that never leaves your face speaks for itself.
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
2 Papaā€™s Personal Pasta Day
Wednesday is Pasta Day.
Three different types of pasta, three different types of sauce you get to choose from. Itā€™s the best day of the week, everyone agrees ā€“ even Secondo.
And yet your Papa is nowhere to be found today.
Itā€™s not rare for him to skip lunch or avoid the bustle of the dining hall, but you always, without a doubt, catch him here on Wednesdays. As you eat the remainders of your own meal, staring at the empty spot next to his brothers where he usually sits, you wonder what keeps him occupied. You know he finished the Nietzsche but you also know that he recently got another box filled with rare books. So the only real explanation is that heā€™s even busier with those now.
Which means heā€™s skipping lunch altogether.
A sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Terzo stands up with his tray, though you can already see two Siblings scurrying towards him, ready to do the job for him. Without thinking too much you gulp down your last bite and hurry after him, asking a friend to dispose of your empty plate, an idea forming in your mind.
You catch him in the hallway as heā€™s sauntering back to his office, humming a merry tune.
ā€œPapa!ā€ you call out to avoid running after him for another five minutes.
ā€œHm?ā€ Terzo spins around, smiling in recognition. ā€œOh. Buongiorno, Sibling. Donā€™t you look so well today?ā€
ā€œThank you, Papa. I was wondering if you can you spare me a moment?ā€
ā€œAhh, for you always!ā€ The corners of his mouth curl up into smirk. ā€œI hope you donā€™t come to complain about my fratello? Because that list is already very long.ā€
You assure him itā€™s not a complaint and follow him to his office. Once inside, he casually leans against his desk, folding his hands neatly in front of him as he awaits your plea. A few dots of red pasta sauce stain his right glove but youā€™re too nervous to point them out to him.
ā€œI have aā€¦ a request,ā€ you start, fidgeting under his intense gaze. ā€œItā€™s unusual and I totally understand if you wonā€™t allow me such a thing. Butā€¦Ā  can I use your kitchen?ā€
ā€œMy kitchen?ā€ he asks, brows shooting up in surprise. ā€œWhatever would you use my kitchen for?ā€
You blush profusely as you start to explain. ā€œItā€™s justā€¦ your brother skipped lunch today and you know heā€™s working so hard on these books right now. He probably forgot to eat again and it will give him another headache in approximately two hours. I would ask to use his kitchen, of course, but then it wouldnā€™t be a surprise anymore and you know I canā€™t use the Ministry kitchens because theyā€™re busy in there now cleaning up. And I really donā€™t want to bring him reheated leftovers.ā€
Terzo considers this, considers you. ā€œOh Sibling, you really do like him, eh? What is it that you see in him? Heā€™s a grumpy old man with no sense of humour.ā€
ā€œHeā€™s not so grumpy when weā€™re alone,ā€ you offer, even more heat creeping up your neck. ā€œAnd he can be funny, in a kind of dry, unintentional way.ā€
ā€œHmmmm. My coffee machine, my kitchenā€¦ā€ Terzo furrows his brow, the skull paint on his face giving him a slightly menacing look. ā€œWhat is next? My bedroom?ā€
Your eyes widen. ā€œOh no! No, itā€™s not that kind ofā€¦ not that kind of thing.ā€
Terzo chuckles and his features relax, making way for genuine amusement. ā€œNo? You want to tell me you donā€™t fuck down there?ā€
ā€œN-noā€¦ā€
ā€œAh, well, so it is on me to give it a little nudge?ā€ His hand moves up to his chin in mock contemplation as he smiles at you. ā€œVa bene, you can use my kitchen but I have one condition.ā€
You give him a pleading look, folding your hands in front of your chest. ā€œWhatever you want, Papa, I will gladly do it.ā€
He smirks again, fishing for his keys before throwing them at you. ā€œI expect some leftovers in the fridge tonight. And they better be good.ā€
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
Carrying a tray down the narrow steps into the basement is not an easy feat, especially because your mind constantly tries to tell you that this is a bad idea and you forget to watch your steps. In the humidity underground the stone gets especially slippery, just like your situation with Secondo. Youā€™re not quite sure how heā€™s going to take this. You shouldnā€™t have made such an effort. This whole idea was born from mere intuition, from that pathetic need to impress him that you always carry around with you.
But you just canā€™t control that tiny part of you that wants to prove just how perfect you are for him, how well youā€™d take care of him if he just allowed you to be in his life ā€“ no matter how unlikely that is.
You just hope itā€™s not awful, especially since Terzo is going to eat that big bowl of pasta you left in his fridge. To be fair, his kitchen looked like it had never been used before, so at least you donā€™t have to worry that you messed up his routine.
You sigh in relief when you see that the lights are on in the workshop. You can hear Secondo in the main room, so you set the tray down in his office, the only area down here where eating is actually allowed, and then knock very carefully to avoid startling him.
ā€œOh.ā€ His eyes land on you and sets down the book in his hand that already looks mostly finished. ā€œGood morning, Sibling.ā€
You lift your eyebrows with a smile. ā€œHello, Papa. Though Iā€™m afraid I have to tell you that it is not quite morning anymore.ā€
He eyes the clock on the wall above him, exhaling in defeat. ā€œI forgot the time, to be honest. I missed lunch, no?ā€
You linger near the door, ready to take the plunge. ā€œWell, you did, butā€¦ are you hungry by any chance?ā€
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
Secondo is not quite sure what to expect when you lead him into the office. What he certainly didnā€™t expect was a tray that resembles the ones used for room-service in the upscale hotels he loves to frequent, cloche and napkin included. He knows you have good taste by being around you so often, but that it is this excellent is news to him. The thought of you choosing this fancy dishware for him is almost enough to make him smile.
ā€œSo you brought me lunch?ā€ he asks, though he should not be surprised by your efforts. Youā€™re always attentive, you most likely noticed him missing earlier and pieced it all together.
ā€œI made this in your brotherā€™s kitchen,ā€ you warn him. ā€œSo, he might ask about it.ā€
As he takes a seat behind the desk, Secondoā€™s brow furrows. ā€œYou made it? Itā€™s not from the kitchens?ā€
At this question you bite your lip. He tries not to stare at your mouth. ā€œUhm, I made it, yes. I didnā€™t want to bring you stale leftovers and besides, they didnā€™t have your favorite todayā€¦ā€
Secondo leans back in his chair. He can tell that you expect him to scold you, to tell you that he wouldnā€™t have minded the leftovers, that you shouldnā€™t waste your time on such a thing, but thatā€™s not whatā€™s on his mind at all. To anyone else, he might have said these things, but to you? He feels his heart swelling in his chest at the gentle care you offer him, an altogether unfamiliar feeling, so all he can really do is stare at you in wonder.
You seem uneasy under his lingering gaze, your restless hands fiddling with your habit. ā€œOkay, well, I should leave you to it. I have other dutā€“ā€
ā€œNo, no, you stay,ā€ he commands and there is no room to question him. He will not let you scurry off again, not this time.
He waits for you to take a seat before he removes the cloche from the plate, revealing a beautiful serving of Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe, complete with freshly ground pepper on top as well as some half-molten parmigiano. He fails to suppress a surprised exhale as he takes in the food. Itā€™s a beautiful plate, one he may well find in one of his favorite restaurants in Rome or Milan.
ā€œHow do you know what is my favorite?ā€ he asks, spreading the napkin out over his lap.
ā€œOh well, Iā€™veā€¦ Iā€™ve seen you get it for lunch whenever they offer itā€¦ Maybe itā€™s not your favorite, I just assumedā€¦ā€
ā€œIt is my favorite,ā€ he admits. ā€œYouā€™re very observant, my dove. I should be more careful around you, eh?ā€
You smile at him and the corner of his mouth curls upwards as well before he quickly averts his gaze. Secondo grabs the fork and moves it around in the pasta, his stomach giving an urgent growl. Itā€™s beyond him how he managed to miss lunch being this hungry, but you made sure to give him his very own Pasta Day and a much better one at that.
From your side of the table, his feelings are still veiled in shadows, hidden by the severity of his features. You canā€™t quite tell what heā€™s thinking, but you have to admit that the situation is a bit awkward because all you do is sit here and watch him eat. Secondo, completely unbothered, has quickly finished half of what you put on his plate and you feel mildly concerned that you didnā€™t bring enough. He moans softly every few seconds and you struggle to hide what it does to you. There is something inherently erotic about this man eating your food, the way he seems to treasure every single bite, how he licks the sauce off his painted lips before using the napkin to gently clean them, leaving a mouth-shaped black stain on the cloth. Itā€™s not hard to imagine the same shape covering every inch of your body, an entirely unhelpful thought. Secondo canā€™t hear how rapidly your heart is beating in your chest, but he may well notice how you sit there with your thighs pressed together, hands covering your lap.
ā€œItā€™s good?ā€ you ask for distraction, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve.
ā€œVery good,ā€ he states. ā€œHave you not tried it?ā€
ā€œUhā€¦ well I had to hurry down here before it got cold.ā€
Secondo fills another fork, expertly wrapping the spaghetti around its tines. Then he holds it out to you, his other hand kept flat underneath it, and you realise that he wants you to eat.Ā 
That he wants to feed you.
Your chest feels like exploding as you lean over the desk to reach him. Eyes locked with his, you slowly open your mouth, pushing your tongue out just enough to give him a glimpse. His hand doesnā€™t move, in fact heā€™s completely static as his eyes move to your open mouth. They stay glued there, his own lips parting just slightly. The expression turns his features unusually soft.
ā€œPapa?ā€ you ask, trying to hide a grin.
Secondo looks back into your eyes, but before he can move, you wrap your lips around the fork and slowly drag the spaghetti off. He watches your every move and his reaction gives you the courage to continue. You moan softly at the taste, the intense aroma of the Pecorino still evident in the sauce and it is good, you have to give yourself credit for that.
You hum vocally, a sound that hits Secondo like a brick.
Youā€™re so deliciously unaware of the pain heā€™s going through, how the sight of you licking your lips nearly drives him insane. Your tongue darts out to reach the corner of your mouth, but there is some sauce closer to your chin that you have to remove with your thumb. When you suck it off the digit, Secondo has to fight a deep groan and it comes out as a strangled cough. His cock is twitching in his pants, already half-hard, and he knows he has to get a grip. Youā€™re eating, it shouldnā€™t have such an impact on him.
ā€œI may need some more practice,ā€ you say, sitting back in your chair. ā€œBut I would say itā€™s better than in the kitchens.ā€
ā€œYouā€™re modest,ā€ Secondo states. ā€œIt was perfect, my dove, thank you. I could not have prepared this dish any better and I have made it a hundred times.ā€
An almost shy smile, only betrayed by the way your lips quiver as you hold back your delight at his praise. ā€œYouā€™re flattering me, Papa, Iā€™m sure youā€™re way more proficient than I am.ā€
Itā€™s an endearing look on you, a hopeful sort of confidence, laced with a hint of hesitation. Heā€™s not sure where his next words come from, but despite their barely hidden meaning he canā€™t hold them back. ā€œI hope I get the chance to return the favor soon. I think I know what your favorite is and I happen to know the perfect recipe.ā€
Your grin widens, your whole expression one of warmth and joy and heā€™s rendered speechless for a very conspicuous amount of time.
ā€œShould I get rid of the tray?ā€ you ask. ā€œI think your brother wants his dishes back.ā€
He finds his words again at the mention of Terzo. ā€œOnly if you come back down here after. I need your help this afternoon or I am going to miss dinner as well.ā€
ā€œCerto, Papa,ā€ you say, mimicking his Italian. ā€œI will be back before you notice that Iā€™m gone.ā€
You grab the tray and he watches your figure disappear through the door, slumping back in his chair with a myriad of thoughts and feelings running through his mind that he canā€™t possibly catch up with. His hand finds his crotch as soon as youā€™re out of sight, adjusting just enough to get rid of the painful tightness in his pants.Ā 
At least this time he didnā€™t forget to thank you.
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
3 Seeing Red
Heā€™s trusting you with a Crowley.
Itā€™s unprecedented. Secondo had Siblings watching before, he had them assist him before by bringing him tools, but never before has he allowed them to touch any of his delicate books.
Itā€™s the next logical step. You have been watching him for months now, you have practiced on less valuable books and shown unexpected talent. And even now, with the Crowley in hand, heā€™s surprised to find himself trusting you completely.
Inexplicably, his eyes find you ever few minutes without his own doing. Itā€™s not to control you, though maybe a tiny part of him does indeed check in with the state of your work. Whenever you look back, you hold his gaze so confidently. Itā€™s intoxicating to have your eyes on him, fully aware that you reciprocate the feeling, and even when you donā€™t look back, seeing you so patiently focused on the needle in your hands is quite the sight.
His staring doesnā€™t stay unnoticed. You catch him looking at you for the tenth time in the past few minutes, though that is only a rough estimate. As elated as you are by his attention, youā€™re genuinely getting frustrated with him. He has to feel the tension between you. You refuse to believe that all those lingering looks are meaningless to him.
A sudden sharp pain in your finger. You hiss, more in surprise than in pain, and quickly pull away. The thick, curved needle pierced your white cotton glove and dug straight into your skin. By pulling it out so rapidly, you must have damaged an artery or at least left a pretty big wound because the blood spills out immediately. The shock only lasts for a quarter of a second before you pull your hand away, just in time before a few heavy droplets of blood drip down your wrist and onto the floor. Fortunately, the book still looks pristine and you take a shuddering breath of relief.
ā€œWhat happened?ā€ Secondo asks.
ā€œIā€¦ Iā€“ā€
Before you can explain, heā€™s by your side, roughly grabbing your arm to hold it steady.
ā€œI didnā€™t bleed on the book,ā€ you stammer. ā€œI pulled my hand away really fast.ā€
His grip on your wrist is impossibly tight and you wonder if heā€™s going to scold you for your clumsiness, for being so distracted. His lips are pressed together as he takes in your shaky frame, his eyes meeting yours with such intensity that you struggle not to break away and you feel your lips quivering as you fight back tears.
ā€œIā€™m so sorry, Iā€“ I didnā€™tā€“ā€
ā€œI donā€™t care about the book,ā€ he says and then he pulls you out of the workshop. Once youā€™re safely back in his office, he leaves for the storage room. You stand there, watching the blood run over your hand, pressing your thumb into your pulse in hopes of limiting the blood flow just like he did. But the once white glove is ruined by now, blotchy and red all over.
When Secondo returns, he carries a first aid kit. He sits down on the chair in front of his desk and motions for you to join him. You carefully step beside him, hand out-stretched in a cautious offering, but heā€™s having none of it, he just pulls you straight into his lap and grasps your wrist again.
ā€œLetā€™s examine the damage,ā€ he says, even though youā€™re not sure you can even hear him. His strong thighs are firm underneath yours, keeping you steady, but then thereā€™s the throbbing in your finger, his hand on your arm, a wild mixture of impressions that overflow your sensory perception. Your rapid heartbeat surely does nothing to help with the bleeding.
You fight the urge to shift nervously but he doesnā€™t seem to notice your state, just turns your hand skyward and gets to work. He meticulously removes your bloody glove, one finger at a time, the fingertips of his own turning red in the process. Frustrated by the barrier, he removes them as well, throwing them aside with an annoyed grunt. Once his bare hands grasp yours, you feel a shiver running down your spine. The pain in your finger ceases to exist for a moment as you realise that this is the first skin on skin contact you ever shared. Youā€™re closer than ever, so close you can smell the remainders of his cologne, feel his exhales on your skin.
ā€œItā€™s not as bad as I thought,ā€ Secondo muses. ā€œYou hit a bad spot.ā€
ā€œIā€™m so sorry,ā€ you whisper. ā€œIā€™m not usually so careless.ā€
ā€œI know, my dove. It happens.ā€
Not to me, you want to say, not while Iā€™m here, trying so hard to impress you.
ā€œGo wash out the wound,ā€ he orders then, his hand patting your hip in encouragement, dangerously close to your ass.
You reluctantly hop off his legs and wash your hand in the sink in the workshop. The water runs red at first but turns clear in the matter of seconds. With the blood gone, the wound only looks half as scary and youā€™re far less shaky when you return to the office.
You expect Secondo to just leave you to yourself now, but he immediately pulls you back into his lap, turning slightly to reach into the first aid kid on his desk, fiddling for bandaids and a spray bottle with disinfectant. You patiently hold out your hand, waiting for him to figure out the logistics.
The antiseptic stings and you flinch, more from shock than actual pain. Secondo is so careful, not a single tremor in his deft fingers as he applies the bandaid, making sure it sits tight around your still throbbing digit.
ā€œThere,ā€ he says. ā€œIt is better now, yes?ā€
You nod, sniffling as you try to calm down. ā€œThank you, Papa.ā€Ā 
His mismatched eyes meet yours and the concerned furrow in his brow softens. One of his hands rests on your hip, the other comes up, hovering by your jaw as though heā€™s scared to touch you. You feel his fingertips grazing your skin, tickling, exploring cautiously.
His gentle touch gives you courage. You lean in slowly and press your lips to his cheek. The feeling of his skin against your lips is so soft that you linger, kissing again and again, slowly moving them further down while one of your hands skims his other cheek. Your last kiss hits the corner of his mouth and you hear him suck in a sharp breath through his nose. His lazy grip on your hip suddenly tightens until you can feel the tips of his fingers digging into your flesh.
You sit back and look at him. There is something wild in his eyes now, a flicker ofā€¦ you canā€™t quite decide if itā€™s lust or anger. For a long moment he stares at you like this, a terrifying expression that keeps you static. Right when you come to the conclusion that he must be angry, that you have to apologise, his hand shoots up to grab your chin and then his fingers push into your hair, his second hand joining in until heā€™s properly holding your head. He growls and presses his lips together until his whole face is tense.
ā€œPapa,ā€ you whisper. ā€œDid Iā€“ā€œ
He shuts you up by moving to stand, simultaneously lifting you onto his desk and pushing himself between your legs until your chest is pressed to his. The first aid kit flies to the floor, but the impact is only evident by a distant cluttering because all you can focus on is him. Secondoā€™s hands find your head again, holding it in place as he continues to stare at you, eyes moving from your lips to your nose to your cheeks that are squished between his palms, and then, finally, they meet yours.
You think heā€™s going to kiss you as he leans in, but then his head abruptly turns to the side and he buries his face in your neck. With a groan, he pulls you further into him, squeezing so tightly that you lose your breath.
ā€œYouā€™re killing me,ā€ he mumbles. ā€œOh, my dove, you will end me.ā€
ā€Papaā€“ā€œ
Another groan. He sounds like heā€™s suffering, a wounded animal about to turn into roadkill. You donā€™t quite understand. It feels good to be so close to him, to have him hold you like this, so you simply sink into his embrace, move your unhurt hand to the back of his neck and softly scratch his scalp. He sighs deeply, slowly relaxing against you.
ā€œWhat is this?ā€ you mumble.
He gives a dry chuckle. ā€œI wish I knew.ā€
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
4 The Storage Closet Incident
Are you high on glue and paint solvent? Maybe.
In any case, your head is spinning. You spent all morning so far sorting through a fresh delivery of restoration materials, taking inventory and checking if theyā€™re complete. Papa was here earlier to check in with you but left for a clergy meeting half an hour ago, so youā€™re left alone inside the storage room. There are three more boxes outside in the hallway and youā€™re on your fourth now, different types of paints and solvents and glue. You never opened any of the cans but you swear you nevertheless inhale the biting fumes.
Upon crossing out the last few items on your list, you hear a heavy knock. Maybe you should be cautious with opening considering that no one ever knocks here, but you do indeed find Secondo in front of the entrance, still fully robed.
ā€œForgot my keys upstairs,ā€ he mumbles, patting down his pockets as though they would magically appear if he just tried hard enough.
ā€œYou can take the ones inside the storage room for the rest of the day,ā€ you suggest.
ā€œHumph.ā€
Heā€™s usually in a pretty foul mood after clergy meetings that involve his father, so youā€™re not surprised by the lack of conversation. You watch him pull the keys out of the lock ā€“ the door stays open while youā€™re busy in the storage room anyway ā€“ and when he carries them into his office, you think nothing of it. Any potential concern would have escaped you at the latest when you catch him shedding his robes through the open door. As soon as theyā€™re hung up on the coat rack in the corner, you canā€™t help but sigh. Heā€™s wearing his classic black shirt underneath ā€“ black because it wonā€™t show the paint stains on his collar. But it barely touches his neck anyway; he keeps it open just enough to display the first few inches of dark, curly chest hair. You take in his slender form, the taut muscles on his arms stretching out the fabric as he moves around, sorting through the papers on his desk, hands covered in tight black leather gloves that perfectly match his belt.
ā€œSoā€¦ā€ He looks up and catches you staring. ā€œHow is inventory going?ā€
ā€œGreat,ā€you say, finally looking back at your actual work. ā€œIā€™m more than halfway done.ā€
ā€œGood,ā€ he says. ā€œYouā€™re fast.ā€
You smile when you deposit the last bottle of glue onto the shelf. ā€œSpeaking of inventory, can you help me carry the rest of the boxes? I left the big ones for when you get back.ā€
Heā€™s already back out of the door before you even finish your sentence, carrying one of the heavier cartons inside to where youā€™re standing. You push it in front of the designated shelf and wait for him to bring the other two boxes in as well ā€“ carrying both at the same time. On his way inside he bumps against the open door to the storage room and it falls close behind him. He sets the boxes down and you notice him flinching as he rights himself, even though he covers it up with a low cough. You make a mental note to acquire something for his back pains, perhaps Primo can whip up some sort of tincture or cream. And even though you highly doubt Secondo would let you rub it into his back, the image is very clear in your mind now.
You hide your deepening blush by pulling out your neat little list, flipping through the pages without actually reading anything. ā€œThank you, Papa. Iā€™ll spend the rest of the afternoon sorting these until Sister needs me.ā€
He moves to reach out for your arm, but his hand drops before he ever reaches it. ā€œThank you, my dove. I know itā€™s tedious work.ā€
You smile at him, a little disappointed that he didnā€™t touch you. ā€œWell, Iā€™m happy to help in any way I can.ā€
His gaze lingers on you for a little longer before he pulls himself away to return to the office. Only then do you realise that something is very odd in here. The door is closed. Fully closed. With no functioning door handle inside, you have no way of getting out without the keys. For a second, all you can do is stare at the metal bar used to pull it open ā€“ and the very empty hole where the key would usually be found.
ā€œYou have the keys, Papa,ā€ you remind him.
ā€œI donā€™t,ā€ he states. ā€œTheyā€™re on the desk.ā€
His lips are pressed together tightly and you can feel the colour draining from your face.Ā  No one ever comes down here, there is no chance people are going to find you anytime soon, at least not before your friends notice you missing.
You swear you can hear him mumble a cazzo, before he lets his forehead rest on his hand, massaging his temples, but your heart is beating so fast that it drowns out all other sounds. Youā€™re not necessarily panicking, even though you do suddenly begin to wonder whether youā€™re secretly claustrophobic or not.
ā€œItā€™s fine, I have my phone,ā€ he says but you already know there wonā€™t be any reception down here. Your suspicion is confirmed when he sets it down on the shelf next to him with a little too much force.
ā€œMy friends will probably come looking for me when I miss lunch.ā€
He looks over to you and suddenly his expression changes. There is a glimmer of something almost dangerous in his white eye that makes him look menacing, the effect only amplified by his skull paint and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. You back against the wall behind you, unable to look away despite your body telling you to be on alert. The last time he looked at you like this was when you hurt your hand and you wonder if heā€™s finally going to initiate more. The thought is arousing and bone-chilling at the same time.
ā€Papaā€“ā€œ
ā€œAre you scared?ā€ he interrupts, reading you perfectly.
ā€œNo,ā€ you reply. ā€œIā€™m not claustrophobic.ā€
He approaches you slowly, the soles of his black leather shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. ā€œThat is not what I meant.ā€
When he stops right in front of you, you swallow, your throat suspiciously dry all of a sudden. You can smell him over the paint solvent now, his cologne so heavy in your nose that you get dizzy. If you werenā€™t high before, then you are definitely high now. Instead of fear, you suddenly feel incredibly, stupidly bold, full of adrenaline and longing.
ā€œIā€™m not scared of you,ā€ you say somewhat confidently. ā€œIā€™m not scared of being alone with you.ā€
You should be, his eyes are telling you. Even closer now, he leans into you, his hands resting on the wall on either side of your head. You know the eye contact is something he enjoys so you keep your eyes on him without flinching away.
ā€œIf I had you right here right now no one would hear you screaming.ā€ He chuckles uncomically, his voice deeper than youā€™ve ever heard it before. ā€œI could do to you whatever I want.ā€
ā€œThen why donā€™t you?ā€
He furrows his brow. ā€œHm?ā€
ā€œWhy the hell donā€™t you?ā€ you challenge. ā€œWhy donā€™t you show me what you want to do to me?ā€
He seems taken aback by this, staring down at you with his lips slightly parted. For a second you think heā€™s going to snap back, scold you for disrespecting him, but he just huffs out a laugh. ā€œYou know why.ā€
ā€œNo I donā€™t!ā€ You fight back tears as all of your suppressed emotions threaten to spill out. A strangled sob almost swallows your next words. ā€œI donā€™t.ā€
Secondo stares at you and you finally look away, trying hard to stay quiet. You know this is not what he expected to happen and neither had you. But you canā€™t stop, youā€™ve lost control over your emotions and now that the cork has been removed you canā€™t get it back inside.
ā€œI keep trying to find a reason why you donā€™t want me.ā€ You force your gaze to meet his once more, despite being afraid of what youā€™re going to see in his eyes. ā€œWhatā€™s wrong with me, Papa? What do I lack that the others before me had? What is wrong with me that you donā€™t even want me for a night?ā€
Youā€™re crying now, struggling to make sense of him. Frankly, youā€™re already embarrassed by your outburst and expect him to laugh it off or gently tell you that he appreciates you but just doesnā€™t feel attracted to you like that. Even him yelling at you would help at this point.
ā€œMy doveā€“ā€
ā€œDonā€™t call me that.ā€
He cocks his head to the side, his lip quivering slightly. ā€œWhere is this coming from now?ā€
You donā€™t reply, even though your pout should be answer enough. Secondo regards you for a long moment but there is no anger, only curiosity.
ā€œWho knew you could be so feisty?ā€ he mumbles, leaning in even closer but turning away just before your mouths can touch.Ā 
His lips ghost over your cheek, down your jaw, but they never touch. All you can feel is his hot breath on your skin, the tip of his nose dragging over your cheekbone. You squirm, letting out a desperate, high-pitched whimper. Secondo chuckles against your ear and the unfamiliar sound goes straight to your core, goosebumps running all over your body.
ā€œYouā€™re cruel,ā€ you whisper. ā€œSo cruel.ā€
ā€œI am.ā€ His lips touch the shell of your ear. ā€œBut you seem to enjoy it.ā€Ā 
Impulsively, you wrap your hands around his neck for support. Secondo moves to look at you again, his pupils blown wide with lust. This time, you close the gap by leaning in, but he turns away just slightly, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. You try again, more boldly this time, and you swear your lips are already grazing his, but then theyā€™re gone again. His hand moves to grip your chin painfully tight, his thumb digging into your cheek so hard you can feel it pressing against your teeth. Youā€™re completely immobile and when you test it out, his grip tightens even more. Youā€™re pretty sure youā€™ll find subtle bruises all around your jaw tomorrow.
Secondoā€™s mouth still hovers just in front of yours, his exhales tickling your face, but he remains just out of reach. You whimper in desperation and he chuckles again, nuzzling your nose.
ā€œNot so bold anymore now, eh?ā€
ā€œPlease,ā€ you whine, squirming in his grip.
ā€œPlease what?ā€
You let out a half-strangled mewl. ā€œP-please.ā€
Secondo hums and he can feel your body shivering underneath his, muscles jerking, everything inside of you trying to reach for more. He knows heā€™s being cruel, knows that youā€™re suffering, but he canā€™t deny that the thrill of having you at his mercy like that is spurring him on. He wants to test out your limits, see how far he can go, if he can get you to beg even more. Youā€™re always so good, so quiet and polite. Seeing those previously unknown sides of you is like unwrapping a birthday gift and why should he stop when there is still so much more to explore?
You whimper louder this time and he brings his other hand to your waist, pulling you flush against him. A gasp and your mouth stays open just slightly, lips wet and glistening with spit, still pushed into a beautiful little pout bis his gloved fingers. He pushes his erection against you, eliciting a moan from you that seems to come from somewhere deep within. Itā€™s what tips him over the edge, his patience dissolving into thin air. He unravels, closing the gap and swallowing all of your other sounds with his mouth. The kiss is sudden and almost violent. He has to release your jaw to ease the pressure on your head, but he just moves his hand down to your neck instead. More moans and whimpers as his tongue pushes into your now open mouth and itā€™s adorable how you keep trying to move against him. He rewards your efforts by easing up just slightly, allowing you to taste him as well.Ā 
Secondo is not sure whatā€™s taking hold of him but he canā€™t fight the urge to taste more of your body. Youā€™re all breathless when his mouth moves to your cheek and over your jaw, soothing, exploring. His lips find the soft skin below your ear, a shiver running down his neck. He can feel the tendon there twitching underneath his tongue and then heā€™s just sucking with reckless abandon, his intensity the result of a week-long, maybe even month-long starvation.
You moan into his ear and he thinks heā€™s going to lose it, his hips move on their own accord, pushing against you. Itā€™s not a lot of friction but itā€™s enough to extract a deep groan from him. He wants to let go, he wants to have you so bad that itā€™s starting to obscure all rational thought. But he canā€™t lose control like that, not right now. As a safety precaution he pulls away, slotting his knee between your legs instead. With his hand on your hips he pulls you forward and you groan at the friction. A strangled sob and you try to wriggle for more. Itā€™s uncomfortable with all the layers of clothing in between. His own pants are so tight that it provides him more pain than relief but to see you unravelling under his ministrations is enough to keep him going.
ā€œPlease,ā€ you whisper, wriggling even more but his hand on your hips stays firm. He can feel the fabric of his pants getting wet under your movements, your crotch hot against his leg.
ā€œFeels like youā€™re leaking onto my thigh,ā€ he whispers back. ā€œYouā€™re such a mess, my dove, and I havenā€™t even done anything yet.ā€
You moan again, completely beyond words. He had this coming, he knows it. This was bound to happen at some point, the inevitable. But youā€™re at his mercy now and Secondo knows how to handle responsibility. He can see in your eyes that youā€™re too far gone now and for a second this clarity hits him like a brick. Itā€™s almost like heā€™s watching the scene from above, birdā€™s eye view. This is exactly what he did not want ā€“ to fuck you like itā€™s just that, like itā€™s just sex, a quick romp in a closet, not even fully undressed, no real intimacy. Right now, itā€™s all you want, itā€™s all he wants, but whatā€™s going to happen after?
Secondo pulls his head back to assess the situation, but when he sees the slowly drying tears on your cheeks, your still watery eyes, his paint and spit smeared all over your face and neck, he canā€™t bring himself to say any words that could possibly hurt you.
Heā€™s lucky to be spared any excuses by a plethora of muffled noises in the background. Your eyes widen at the same time as he hears them and reality slowly settles around you again.
ā€œFratello?ā€ The voice is barely audible through the thick door. ā€œSecondo? Hellooooo?ā€
He acts faster than you even seem to realise whatā€™s going on, gently letting go of you in favour of banging his fist against the door as rapidly as he can, trying to draw attention to you. There is barely any time to recover. The door opens after a minute and you find Terzo glancing into the room, hands still on the key in the lock.
ā€œOh, there you are, Secondo. Got locked inside, eh?ā€ Then he smirks. ā€œAnd with your little assistente no less. Tesoro, you look so flustered, did my brotherā€“ā€
ā€œStai zitto,ā€ Secondo snaps, pushing past him before his brother can get any good glimpse at the situation in and on his pants. ā€œWhat do you even want down here?ā€
ā€œOh, thank you, caro fratellino, for saving us from being locked inside this room all day.ā€
A scoff. Secondoā€™s eyes find you again when you close the door of the storage room behind you and you struggle to meet his eyes. A pang of guilt, fear even, of what is going to happen now.
Terzo, completely unhelpful, looks between the two of you. ā€œSo, what happened here, eh? What did I miss?ā€
ā€œNothing, Papa,ā€ you say quickly. ā€œThe door closed but it doesnā€™t have a handle on the inside. We had to use the key for something else earlier and forgot to put it back.ā€
ā€œThatā€™s not what I meant, tesoro.ā€ Terzo glances at his brother and then back at you, furrowing his brow now that heā€™s seeing you both in proper lighting. There is a sudden edge of concern on his face. ā€œSibling, you look like youā€™ve been crying.ā€
Secondo is surprised that this is the first thing his brother comments on. You avoid both of their gazes, wringing your hands behind your back. ā€œOh, itā€™s nothing. I should probably goā€¦ I need to get back to work and Iā€™m already late. Sister wonā€™t be happy.ā€
Terzo cocks his head to the side, stopping you before you can walk out. He talks in a hushed, gentle voice, practically shutting Secondo out. ā€œYou should take a moment to calm down, tesoro, have a trip to the bathroom before you face Sister. Youā€™re quite the mess.ā€
You nod at him, a grateful smile on your face, and then your eyes meet Secondoā€™s. A quarter of a second, nothing more, and he has no chance to convey anything with his expression. You give Terzo another pained smile and then you hurry outside.
The two man both wait for you to close the doorĀ  before they face each other. Secondo has settled behind his desk by now, a healthy distance between them that seems to be the only thing keeping their tempers in check. Secondo canā€™t help but scowl, gripping the edge of the table so tight that his knuckles turn white. ā€œThis is none of your business, Terzo. I donā€™t meddle in your affairs.ā€
ā€œWhy did they cry?ā€ Terzo asks, unimpressed. ā€œWhat did you do?ā€
ā€œWhy do you ask it like that?ā€
ā€œItā€™s usually not a good sign when someone cries after making out, fratello. Donā€™t think I cannot see your ruined make-up. Your little assistente looked even worse.ā€
Secondo almost jumps from his chair. ā€œYou think I would hurt them?ā€
ā€œI donā€™t think you would hurt them,ā€ Terzo explains calmly. ā€œNot physically at least. But everyone sees how they look at you, stronzo, how you look at each other.Ā  Did you fuck up?ā€
Secondo breathes out a sigh, his hand relaxing as he leans back in his chair. ā€œI donā€™t know.ā€
Terzo takes a few cautious steps towards him. ā€œLook, I know, youā€™re not the type, you donā€™t fall in love, blablabla. But it is never too late to settle down if you find your person, you know? It may feel like giving up your freedom, but look at what you gain.ā€Ā 
ā€œAha. And what is that?ā€
Terzo smirks. ā€œSomeone who puts up with all of your bullshit.ā€
A drawn-out pause as they stare at each other.
Finally, Secondo exhales all the stowed anger, shaking his head incredulously. ā€œI canā€™t believe youā€™re trying to explain to me how relationships work. You.ā€
Terzo shrugs, moving back towards the exit. ā€œThink about it. You are going to feel so much more balanced.ā€
Heā€™s halfway out the door when Secondo notices that he never told him why he was here in the first place. Thinking back, heā€™s not sure heā€™s ever seen his brother in this workshop or anywhereĀ close to this part of the basement before.
ā€œWhat did you want down here?ā€ he calls after him.
ā€œHuh?ā€ Terzo turns back to him, shrugging nonchalantly. ā€œAh, you know, a ghoul noticed you two were trapped in there and to be honestā€¦ Iā€™m kind of invested now.ā€
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
5 Returning the Favour
A note.
You pick up the weighty envelope that someone, most likely a ghoul, had delivered to you earlier by sliding it underneath your door.Ā  The paper has your name on it in beautiful cursive, deep black ink, a green wax seal with a II stamped into it, keeping the contents safe. The note inside is written in a similar fashion, kept very brief and in neat handwriting. All it says is: My quarters, 7pm. Secondo.
Considering you spent most of the night in pure agony, this is a welcome glimmer of hope. He is reaching out and that is what matters, despite all of your doubts and anxieties telling you otherwise, obscuring the joy you should feel at the fact that things are finally moving.
You take the note and press it to your heart, sitting back down on the bed in your tiny quarters. It smells vaguely of his cologne or at least the whimsical part of you wants it to. In any case, he wrote it, thinking about you, maybe even longing for you. Your worries slowly melt at that thought, even though youā€™re aware youā€™re in love with the most unattainable man in the whole abbey.
If you had glanced outside the window in that very moment, you would have caught Secondo making his way through the gardens and to the greenhouse ā€“ a man on a mission.
He had been pondering all night what he could possible do to make it up to you, to set things right. And there is really only one thing he could think of: Food.
When you made him lunch he promised to return the favour. Another unprecedented lapse. Secondo cooks, he loves to cook, but he does not cook for his dates. Itā€™s too intimate, too personal. His kitchen is sacred, preparing food a form of meditation after a long day. Itā€™s a part of himself he doesnā€™t share with fleeting encounters.
So when he found himself in a nearby Italian market earlier, carefully choosing the ingredients for a meal, he almost felt lost. Heā€™s bought in bulk before, heā€™s bought for himself before, but heā€™s never bought specifically for two. And most unsettlingly, it feels good.
Now, here in Primoā€™s sanctuary, he has almost made peace with these new developments.Ā 
Almost.
Ā ā€œBuon pomeriggio, fratello,ā€ he greets the older man. ā€œI am in need of some fresh basil.ā€
Primo immediately picks up his scissors. ā€œChe fortunato. My basil plants are thriving at the moment.ā€
Secondo has no doubts about that. The smells inside the greenhouse are rich and aromatic, a sensory reminder of all the summers he spent in the Italian countryside, trying to connect with his roots. As much as he loves big cities with their bustling night lives, clubs and parties, exclusive bars and restaurantsā€¦ this is home.Ā 
While heā€™s busy reminiscing, Primo moves to an array of basil plants in the corner, their oval leaves a vivid shade of green. Secondo is pleased with that. Theyā€™re going to turn his dish into the most beautiful colours and since his objective for today is that everything has to be perfect, details like that matter.
ā€œĆˆ sufficiente?ā€ Primo asks.
ā€œA bit more. I am cooking for two tonight.ā€
Primo furrows his brow, cutting some more leaves off the delicate plant. ā€œYou have a guest for dinner? Someone special, then?ā€
Secondo hates that he knows him so well sometimes, but Primo is the only one who was ever even close to a healthy father figure for him. His counsel is the only one he truly values, even though he is rare to seek it out these days.Ā 
All he can do is give a curt nod in reply.
ā€œYouā€™re in love,ā€ Primo states with a smile. ā€œThat is a good thing, you know?ā€
Secondo makes a face. ā€œI feel like I am sick. I donā€™t know how people do it.ā€
ā€œIt will stop feeling like that at some point,ā€ Primo explains, carefully placing the cut basil in a small basket. ā€œYou will grow to appreciate a steady presence by your side, fratello, especially when you reach my age.ā€
Secondo wants to reply that he doubts it, but it would be a lie to pretend he hasnā€™t thought about it since getting close to you. You are steady. You are smart and kind and caring, he can talk to you as well as be silent with you. There hasnā€™t been a single moment in all these months now in which heā€™s grown tired of you. And yes, that is unprecedented as well.
ā€œThank you for the basil,ā€ Secondo says.
Primo gives him a gentle, brotherly smile.
āœ¦ āœ§ āœ¦Ā 
A tentative knock.Ā 
Secondo looks up from the counter and towards the door, his heart rate quickening in a concerning jump. Another knock, more confident this time. He chuckles to himself. Youā€™re nervous but you donā€™t want him to think that you are ā€“ which is exactly how heā€™s feeling right now.
Before he opens, he wipes his hands on his black slacks, rights the collar of his white shirt, and then there you are. There you are.
And itā€™s a sight he will never forget. Heā€™s very pleased to see that you dressed up for him. When he kisses your cheek in greeting, he catches your scent and the perfume with its sweet as well as tangy notes perfectly mirrors your character. It takes everything in him to break away again.
ā€œThank you for following my invitation,ā€ he says, closing the door behind you.
A shy smile. ā€œIt sounded more like an order.ā€
He feels his heart plummeting and for a second there is a shadow of doubt crossing his mind. ā€œIs that the reason you came? Because you felt obligated?ā€
Your eyes widen and you quickly shake your head. ā€œNo. No, I would have come either way, no matter why you want me here.ā€
Relief. He takes your arm and gently guides you further into the room. ā€œI want you here because I promised to cook for you and I intend to keep that promise.ā€
ā€œSo, this is a dinner date?ā€Ā 
ā€œYes.ā€
ā€œA date date?ā€
ā€œYes.ā€
Your smile is worth it, genuine and so bright that he almost forgets what heā€™s supposed to do. Your lips are all he can focus on when youā€™re so close and itā€™s only when he sees them form an O that he realises heā€™s been staring. Secondo finally pulls you into the kitchen area and motions for you to sit on a stool at his counter. Itā€™s surreal to see you here, such different surroundings, but itā€™s a sight he could get used to.
ā€œIs that fresh basil from the greenhouse?ā€ you ask.
Secondo values a professional mise en place, every ingredient neatly laid-out ready to be used which gives you the perfect opportunity to analyse everything heā€™s going to use. ā€œIt is.ā€
ā€œSo you did guess my favourite.ā€
ā€œI didnā€™t guess, my dove.ā€ He looks up at you. ā€œYouā€™re not the only one who is observant.ā€
You smirk and while heā€™s busy filling a big pot with water to boil the pasta you take in his quarters. Naturally, they are much bigger than yours, the kitchen and living area combined into a spacious room, all dark colours, black and grey, contrasted with a few light grey touches here and there. You notice a lingering smell of incense and what you can only assume is cigar smoke. A small serving cart turned into a bar sits next to an emerald green couch with velvet upholstering. Your eyes are drawn to a carafe filled with a dark ember liquid, sitting right next to a crystal ashtray that reflects the remainders of sunlight streaming in through the arched windows.
Secondo sets the heavy pot down on the stove and the thud makes you turn your head back to him. Heā€™s noticed you drifting off, hoping that you like what youā€™re seeing, that you wouldnā€™t mind spending time here more often. His home in the abbey has been crafted very consciously over the past decade, every item carefully curated. Heā€™s toying with the optimal balance between luxurious and still slightly understated, comfortable.
Your face doesnā€™t betray your opinion but as he turns on the stove, you slip from your stool. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you join him behind the counter and tries not to let you deter him from the task at hand ā€“ salting the water, one of many steps. You come to a stop right behind him and then he feels your arms snaking around his waist, squeezing tightly as you press yourself into his back, your cheek right against his shoulder. Itā€™s an unexpectedly tender hug, like you just need to be close to him in any way that you can, and despite your soft affection that he so struggles to accept, heā€™s immensely relieved to have you closer.Ā 
Secondo lets you hold him for however long you want. He can clearly imagine your squished cheek, your puckered lips, and all he wants is to spin you around and kiss you breathless. But his plan says no physicality until after dinner. He knows he wonā€™t be able to stop once you start touching, and he has a lot to do until then, a lot to say until then. So itā€™s dinner first, then discussing the necessities, and then he can fuck you.
ā€œMy dove, youā€™re distracting me,ā€ he says, finally adding a generous amount of salt to the water.
ā€œMhm.ā€ You duck underneath his arm and hug him sideways now, your face melting into his neck. When your nose brushes against his sensitive skin itā€™s almost enough to make him come undone. A shiver runs down his spine and you give a satisfied hum at his reaction. ā€œActually, I was wonderingā€¦ is it allowed to kiss the chef?ā€
ā€œOrdinarily, itā€™s not.ā€
A kiss just below his ear. ā€œAnd un-ordinarily?ā€
Fuck his plan.Ā 
He grabs your hips and pulls you flush against him, bringing one gloved hand up to cup your cheek. He stops for a second, taking in the barely visible bruises on your jaw. With the memory of what happened in the storage room clear in his mind, he feels a jolt of lust, and then his mouth is on yours. This time, heā€™s not as forceful, but itā€™s not as soft as he would wish either. He canā€™t help but push his tongue into your mouth at the first opportunity, tasting you and a hint of minty toothpaste. You moan softly, clinging to the front of his shirt until heā€™s sure he could have spared himself the trouble of ironing it.
He breaks away, staring at your swollen lips, the skin around them all red and wet with spit.
Oh, that mouth.
Heā€™s going to lose his mind over it, slowly but surely, and he canā€™t help but kiss you again, slower, deeper, exploring every inch of you with his tongue.
When he breaks away this time, you smile and the way it stretches your lips, plumps the apples of your cheeks and brings out that joyful glimmer in your eyes ā€“ it feels so personal, so very intimate to him. This kind of smile should belong to him and only him.
ā€œAre you very worried about this?ā€ you ask suddenly, smoothing your hand over his shirt. ā€œAbout us?ā€
A deep, long sigh. ā€œI worry, yes. I donā€™t know if I can give you what you want.ā€
Your hand slides up his neck, softly cradling his cheek. ā€œAll I want is you, Secondo, in any way that I can.ā€
He smiles at the use of his name, closing his eyes as he leans into your touch. It may well be the first smile in a long time that he doesnā€™t even attempt to hold back, though heā€™s not sure if thatā€™s true. He catches himself smiling at the mere thought of you more often than seems healthy. In your presence, his mouth does a lot of things he simply canā€™t control anymore.
Like kiss you again right now, fiercely, passionately, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth until you start whining. At this point, he doubts he will ever be sated. His need for you is an ever-expanding black hole and heā€™s teetering at the edge of being consumed himself. But heā€™s no stranger to uncertainty, to taking risks, as much as he hates the feeling of powerlessness. And so the next time you part, he turns off the stove despite the water almost boiling, and pulls you into his bedroom.
There should have been a conversation at some point tonight that lasted more than that one sentence of reassurance you gave him, an honest exchange of expectations, feelings and hopes, but maybe he doesnā€™t have to say it.
Itā€™s a knee-jerk response, a very reactionary change of plans: Make love to you (or at least attempt it), eat dinner, then fuck you for the rest of the night.
The bedroom, unsurprisingly, is dominated by a huge four-poster bed, clad in emerald green sheets that give off a sweet scent, only overpowered by the smoky aroma of the incense burning on Secondoā€™s altar, the light of numerous black candles dipping the room in a warm, flickering light, heavy curtains blocking out the sun completely.Ā 
You stand in front of his bed shivering in anticipation.Ā 
ā€œTwo things,ā€ he says, eyes fixated on yours. ā€œFirst: In here, it is Papa. At least for now.ā€
You nod.Ā 
ā€œSecond: You will tell me immediately if I do anything that you donā€™t like. No shame, no judgement. You use your words to let me know what you want or do not want. Yes?ā€
ā€œYes, Papa.ā€
He smirks. You learn fast, but he knows that already. Secondo reaches out for your hands, taking both of them in his and bringing them to his lips, gently but insistingly kissing your knuckles. In the dim light, his features look daunting, a stark contrast to his soft mouth. His eyes meet yours, fervently, longingly, and then he drops your hands and pulls you in for a real kiss. This time, knowing he wonā€™t have to hold back anymore, he lets his hands roam free, opening buttons, freeing every inch of your skin with deft, confident fingers, until youā€™re completely bare in front of him. His mouth doesnā€™t leave yours even as you gasp for air, sucking and licking on whatever he can reach. Ultimately, he keeps your bottom lip trapped between his teeth to allow you some air, teasing it with his tongue before swallowing your next breath yet again. Meanwhile, his hands explore the outlines of your body, big, curious hands still covered in leather, mapping out every single detail.
Shaky fingers toy with the buttons on his shirt, not managing to open any of them but trailing further down until they find his belt. He allows you to fiddle with the buckle, if only because your warm fingers graze his abdomen with every attempt to open it. When you give up and reach further down, he gently removes your hands and pulls away from the kiss.
You look at him with big eyes, whimpering softly, and he can tell that youā€™re nervous.
ā€œRelax, my dove,ā€ he says, swiping his thumb over your hot cheek. ā€œAll I want is to take care of you. Now, get on the bed.ā€
You do as he says, so obedient. Secondo removes his belt slowly, watching you stretch out amongst his sheets and pillows. His hand falters at the sight. Youā€™re beautiful, a dream come true, and in that moment he is immensely relieved that he did not give into his impulses before.
With your eyes on him, he removes his shirt and steps out of his pants. He didnā€™t bother with underwear, so when he joins you on the bed there is nothing separating you anymore. Your skin is hot under his as he crawls between your legs, towering over your shivering form.
He canā€™t help but kiss you once more, licking into your waiting mouth. Your hand moves to his head, scratching softly, and he hums as he allows his lips to travel to your neck. He finds a deep purple hickey there which shouldnā€™t come as a surprise to him since he left it there a mere day ago but the sight nevertheless makes him proud. Youā€™re already marked as his and when the night is over, your whole body will be.
Making true on that promise, his lips trail down your body, stamping soft, lingering kisses to your chest, your nipples, licking down to your abdomen where he stays for a moment.
ā€œHm, cosƬ dolce,ā€ he whispers. ā€œSo sweet.ā€
ā€œPapa,ā€ you say.
He looks up. ā€œYes?ā€
You buck your hips slightly. ā€œI needā€¦ I need more.ā€
He sits back, intense eyes circling in on you as he removes his gloves, throwing them aside. ā€œOpen your mouth, tesoro, show me that sweet tongue.ā€
You do, poking out your tongue slightly, and he leans back over you, sliding two fingers in between your still swollen lips. You start to suck, swivelling your tongue around his digits and he can feel his cock twitching at the sight and feeling.
ā€œSo good for me, my dove,ā€ he whispers. ā€œSo good for your Papa.ā€
You moan around his digits, the vibrations sending a pang of need into his body. When you start to breathe heavily through your nose, he decides that his fingers are wet enough. His hand snakes down your body, collecting more of your arousal, and then he starts working you slowly, carefully. You whimper, demanding more, but for right now heā€™s not going to hurry. Youā€™re not going to come before heā€™s inside of you.
He continues for a bit longer until you can feel the arousal flowing through your whole body, building up into waves that make you shiver. His fingers find your waiting hole, spreading out the combination of spit and arousal on his hand and stretching you open bit by bit. His hard cock, already leaking precum, sits hot and heavy against your thigh. Mismatched eyes never leave yours, catching ever flicker of lust and pleasure in your half-lidded eyes, even as the squelching sounds between your legs get louder and you barely manage to hold his gaze anymore.
ā€œPlease,ā€ you whisper. ā€œPlease, Papa.ā€
ā€œPlease what?ā€ he demands. ā€œWords, tesoro.ā€
You swallow heavily, chest heaving as your body tries to search for his, but heā€™s hovering just above you, propped up on one arm, massaging your insides with the other.
ā€œI want you, Papa,ā€ you say. ā€œPlease, I need you inside of me, need to f-feel you. Please.ā€
Secondo could listen to you all day and maybe later heā€™s going to see just how long he can get you to beg, but right now heā€™s too impatient, too eager, spurred on by how tight and wet you feel around his fingers. His cock is aching for friction and so he removes his hand, ignoring the disapproving whine you let out.
ā€œSince you ask so nicely,ā€ he says.
Cock in hand, he lines himself up, carefully pushing inside. Your head falls back into the pillows as you let out a drawn-out hum, taking him so well, inch by inch, and he feels a flutter inside of his chest at the sight. Your legs wrap around his back, heels digging into his ass, and he lets his chest sink onto yours, waiting for you to relax, to adjust. Pressed together like that, a searing wave of emotion overcomes him, deep, warm, an intense longing to never let go that is utterly unfamiliar to him. He has to unload the sudden tension in a heated kiss, feeling your moans and whimpers reverberating inside of him as he slowly starts moving.
He tries to make it last, to keep up a careful, deliberate rhythm. He really, really tries, biting his lip to hold back, but he soon has to go faster to stay sane. More desperate noises from you as his thrusts get harder and weeks of held-back need for you spill out from inside of him. Attaching his lips to the still unmarked side of your soft neck, he starts sucking, biting, trying to absorb you into him. You keen, one hand on his neck, the other tightly grabbing his shoulder for support. With a pop, he removes his mouth to take a deep breath and your expression is hazy, eyes clouded with lust. He shifts his weight onto one arm, angling your hips up slightly and you clench around him over and over again at the changed angle, crying out softly at every roll of his hips. He feels himself getting close and to his relief he can tell youā€™re getting there too, trembling underneath him more and more.
ā€œPlease,ā€ you say, strangled, whimpery. ā€œPlease, Papa, I n-need toā€“ need to come.ā€
He growls, bringing his hand between your bodies to help you over the edge. Itā€™s strenuous, his arm protesting wildly, but when he feels your sticky arousal on his fingers, itā€™s enough to keep him going.
ā€œCome for me,ā€ he says. ā€œCome on my cock, tesoro. Youā€™ve been so good for your Papa.ā€
Itā€™s all you need, two more thrusts and a few words of praise, and you tighten around him, crying out as your whole body shudders. He gives a few more laborious thrusts to draw out your pleasure before he finally changes the angle, taking the weight off his arm until he can pound into you harder, chasing his own release. His hips snap against yours, loud obscene sounds, and you whimper in overstimulation, arms wrapping around him gently as he stills. A low moan leaves his burning throat and he spills inside of you, filling you up with his seed. His hips stutter a few more times before he rolls onto his side, dragging you with him.
Heavy, panting breaths fills the sudden silence of the room. Secondo pulls you close and you settle against his chest, breathing kisses to his sweaty skin, softly licking up the column of his throat. He only hums and for a long time, you stay like this, tangled up in silky sheets and the comfort of each other. His hold on you is so tight that you donā€™t, not even for a second, doubt whether he meant everything that just happened, all the things he canā€™t bring himself to tell you yet but that you can feel so clearly even in his silence ā€“ and for now, thatā€™s enough.
ā€œYou sabotaged my dinner plans,ā€ he finally whispers, breathing more slowly now. ā€œI didnā€™t even get to open the wine.ā€
You chuckle against his neck. ā€œWould you like me to help you preparing it now?ā€
Secondo sighs deeply, pulling you closer. ā€œNo, my dove, give your Papa a few more minutes of this, yes?ā€
By the way you can feel him twitching against your belly, you highly doubt that itā€™s only going to be a few more minutes. He knows this too, his plans long abandoned, and when you prop yourself up to look at him, eyes full of reverent love for an old man like him, he starts to embrace all of the changes you bring into his life. Maybe Terzo was right after all, maybe itā€™s never too late, not even for someone like him.
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Thank you for reading! I know this was very long but believe me, writing it was a pain too :D I hope you enjoyed it ā€“Ā kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always very appreciated ā™”
Masterlist ā€“ my Ao3
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fox-guardian Ā· 2 years ago
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time for some assorted stoker swap au excerpts in no particular order because i need to share this thing in some capacity so bad. i might've shared some of these before but i Don't Care it's been months anyway
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[ID: A series of snippets of a google doc in dark mode.
"Bone app-the-tea,"
After much hesitation involving pacing his room and making jokingly threatening faces and gestures at the screen and quoting vines at it to calm his nerves, he finally pressed the apply button with a yelp.
Two hours and one dramatic reading of some awful werewolf fiction later,
He was surprised. He was delighted. He was very likely fucked.
Danny looked up at him guiltily with the bucket of popcorn resting on his stomach. ".... I have good news and bad news." Tim's face fell as he straightened up. "What have you done?" "Good news and arguably bad news, depending on your personal thoughts on it," he elaborated, standing up, still holding his popcorn. "I repeat," Tim said, pressing his palms together and pointing at him, "what have you done?"
"Either way, I can't imagine the whole staff is wearing corsets and hoop skirts." ".... That'd be pretty cool though." "It would be, actually."
A resting bitch face is all it was, that's alright. He lived with a guy with a resting bitch face, this was fine.
Danny thought for a moment. "I.... have a background in urban exploration. Would that be useful?" Jon and Sasha looked at each other, and then looked at him. "That would be very useful," Jon said, with an air of curiosity to his tone. "Very, very useful," Sasha added, grinning mischievously. "Hey, he's my partner now," Jon said, jabbing a finger at her. "I get to go out in the field with him first."
"Sounds like I didn't die in Artefact Storage," Sasha replied.
"I'm an adult," Danny said, sipping from his novelty beehive mug.
Next thing he knew his back was hurting and he was upside down on the floor
".... Danny, did you-" "I might've gotten some light carbon monoxide poisoning in the attic." "Danny!" Tim sat upright, setting his mug down.
"Then fuck 'em,"
"Then, I repeat, fuck 'em."
"You all deserve it~" Danny said, blending his natural nerves into the false face of a fidgety fanatic.
"Yeah.... " Danny says, forever changed.
Danny tried to dream up as much mental eyebleach as possible. Kitty cats and puppy doges and bees half stuck in flowers, kitty cats and puppy dogs and bees half stuck in flowers. This was going to be fun to tell Tim about tonight.
end ID]
~~~~
also the current working titles for the chapters i have so far!
1 - some wednesday night in august 2013 2 - how to ace a job interview 3 - *spongebob voice* IM READY IM READY 4 - field work 5 - another day another dollar 6 - stakeout!
this update isn't much but i thought it'd be fun to share some stuff out of context :) and hopefully it motivates me to write even more lol
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murderandcoffee Ā· 1 year ago
Note
Wingmen au where Martin straight up asks Jon out and Jon gets so flustered he tells Martin to get out of the archive
I hope you're okay with me writing a little scene based off of this because it has been rattling around in my head all day!
Jon was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands when the knock came at the door. He groaned, lifted his head, and intoned, "Come in."
The door swung open to reveal Martin.
Jon sighed. He'd thought his assistants had all left already. Apparently, he was wrong. He waved his hand in a "get on with it" sort of gesture. "Yes, Martin, what do you want? If it's about Ms. Vasquez's statement, I asked Sasha to look into the--"
"Uh, no," Martin interrupted, "it's not about that."
Jon frowned. "Well, then what is it? It's 5:15, why are you still here?"
Martin leaned against the door frame and, for a long moment, stared at Jon. Jon stared back.
"Well?" he prompted.
"Do you want to get dinner?" Martin asked.
Jon waited for additional information. Martin gave no additional information.
Jon narrowed his eyes, suspicion already bubbling up inside of him. "Why? What did you do?" Obviously Martin was trying to soften an incoming blow. Had he misfiled a statement? Contacted the wrong person? Broken something in artefact storage? "You didn't let another dog in, did you?"
"No!" Martin waved his hands. "No. No dog. And I didn't do anything." In a softer voice, he said, "I'd just like to buy you dinner."
If Jon had been holding a pencil, he'd have snapped it in half. "What?"
"I said," said Martin, sounding half-nervous, half-exasperated, "that I'd like to buy you dinner. Any place you wanna go. In fact, I know this wonderful little Greek place a few blocks up. Best souvlaki you could ask for off the continent, and the ambience--"
"Get out."
Martin blinked. Frowned. Blinked again. "What?"
"Get," Jon repeated, "out."
Martin took a step forward. "Why--"
Jon stood so fast his chair toppled over behind him. "Get out!" He pointed at the door. He could feel his face burning, and the awareness of it only made the burning worse. When Martin did not move, Jon shouted, "Get out of my archive!"
Lips pressed tightly together, Martin gave him a single nod and fled.
Jon fell forward, bracing himself against his desk with both arms. He let out a shuddering breath.
I am going to have to speak with Elias about my assistants' penchant for playing pranks. This has gone too far.
He waited until he was sure Martin was out of the building before packing his things and slipping out the door.
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hoeswater Ā· 8 months ago
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I'm Talking about MagPod and Archives Again
I know that those of us in the middle of the Venn diagram of ā€œMagnus fansā€ and ā€œPeople who actually know how archives workā€ have really given Jonny a hard time about the way that the Magnus Institute archives and artefact storage are shown as working (or, I mean, not working) in the podcast. Not just in terms of best practices (where) but also likeā€¦ archives can be spooky, it can be a spooky job, but not really for those reasons, you know? Anyway, I think that Protocols Episode 9 actually engages with the archivesā€™ role as an archives in a way thatā€™s really, really interesting. Qualifications: Iā€™m almost done with my masterā€™s in Library and Information Science/Archives Management and have been working in actual archives of various types for a year and a half.Ā 
Specifically, Iā€™m really interested in how Dice Guy engages with the horror within the context of the donation process. We hear a lot about the horror that objects in this universe cause while theyā€™re still in the possession of their pre-Institute owners-slash-avatars, and a lot about the horror that these objects cause when theyā€™re mishandled (looking at you, Jon ā€œIt is Remarkably Easy to Buy An Axe in Central Londonā€ Sims) while being stored at the Institute, and every now and again we get to see Jon or Gertrude accept or turn down an offered object (the teeth apple, Eric Delanoā€™s page, etc) in TMA. But this is one of the only places in the podcast(s) where the process of donation and acquisition registers as a part of the horror story for the people giving or receiving the object. Iā€™m thinking specifically about the beginning of the ā€œstatement proper,ā€ where the statement giver says:
ā€œSo yeah, I tell you all about them, how I got them, all that crap and you justā€¦ You take them away, right? You accept them. Good. I think. Iā€™m pretty sure thatā€™s how it works. Itā€™s how it worked for me, at least. Put them in whatever vault you like, bury them, drop them in the ocean for all I care. All that matters is that theyā€™re yours now.ā€Ā 
At surface level, this disclaimer seems pretty similar to some of the other things that statement givers say in TMA: I just need to tell someone, I just need somebody else to know, You have the power to do something about this and I donā€™t, etc. But this statement differs from the ones we saw in TMA because itā€™s not just about catharsis or reaction to a terrible thing happening; itā€™s the actual change of ownership of the dice that gives this moment meaning within the horror story for Dice Guy. And this hinges on the fact that Dice Guy, like a lot of real-life people, sees the purpose of an archives as being locked vaults designed to keep non-expert people away from things they donā€™t know how to handle, rather than their actual purpose, which is to preserve things for the express purpose of making them accessible to the public. I imagine that the Magnus Institute, if it were real, would have some pretty strict access policies due to, you know, special circumstancesā€“ the stuff it holds generally having the ability to kill or maim or otherwise make peopleā€™s lives miserableā€“ but itā€™s fun to think about. If Dice Guy had understood the fact that archivists and staff and conservationists and sometimes researchers interact* with the materials in their care, would he have still donated the dice? Was he at the point where it didnā€™t matter who got the bad luck, as long as it wasnā€™t him, or was he leaning on the stereotype of archives being locked vaults as a way to absolve himself of the guilt of giving the dice away to a person, because people use the things they're given and he thinks archives don't?Ā 
It also raises some interesting questions about ownership. Real archivists think about the ethics of donation, acquisition, and ownership a lot. What does it mean for somebody to give something to an archive? What does it mean to accept it, therefore a) accepting responsibility for the preservation of the object and b) assigning cultural/historical/ideological value to it? This is where TMAGP comes pretty close to real archival theory: Dice Guy thinks that heā€™s nullifying the diceā€™s power by giving them to the Institute, but isnā€™t it true that to accept an object into an archive assigns it a level of power? The notes at the beginning of the statement seem to suggest that the dice coming under the Instituteā€™s ownership lends them power beyond what they had originally, as well: ā€œViability as Subject,ā€ ā€œViability as agent,ā€ ā€œViability as catalyst,ā€ ā€œRecommend referral to Catalytics for Enrichment Applicability Assessment.ā€ To me, this says that maybe the dice were in the running to potentially be chosen for the role that the tape recorders fill in TMAā€“ to facilitate, or serve as a catalyst for, the narrative/the fearsā€™ growing power by being passed to the ā€œagentā€ (Jon or Jon-equivalent) through the Magnus Institute. We, the audience, know that, if the dice had been selected to fill the tape recorder role, that would give them the potential not just to make one individualā€™s life more miserable, but to fundamentally change the entire world a la TMA 160 and 200.Ā 
*In TMA canon, the Web uses the Magnus Institute as a site for agents and catalysts to interact, just as much as the Eye does if not more. The fact that the archives is a site of interaction between people and particular objects is critical to the narrative as told by the Web, even if it seems incidental to Jonā€“and even if Jon doesnā€™t understand the archives that way. Itā€™s an interesting way to look at the Magnus Institute and archives as functioning in a similar way to actual archives, which serve as sites of interaction between people and historical objects (in spite of Jonā€™s complete lack of ability to function as a regular archivist.)
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howboutsleep Ā· 10 months ago
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everyone is saying redcanary's gore image that got deleted is them being covered in eyes or whatever.
im convinced that whatever killed redcanary was not eye aligned
first and foremost. when you see a person/corpse with additional eyes growing out of their body, you dont just go uhm mods this gore is disturbing my tea time please delete it immediately. cause that is no ordinary gore
another popular interpretation i saw was that the posted image was redcanary with their eyes gouged out. sure. whatever. thats ordinary gore. mundane and normal. but then, why would anything eye-aligned, that sees through eyes, do that? yeah sure poked out eyes creepy yada yada but jt just doesnt make sense.
now think about the box redcanary found. this is so from artefact storage. but hey, wasnt there a fire in the institute. and from tma, most entities' artefacts (and avatars (love you nikola you were probably the funniest molten plastic spill in existence)) are easily destroyed in fire.
except for ones belonging to the desolation.
so yeah. redcanary so posted half life 2 Corpse01.mdl inspiration on sfw subreddit. hope they get unbanned
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a-mag-a-day Ā· 2 years ago
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Another Real Historical People statement! It's not actually known who operated the Mechanical Turk during its original tour, but Abraham Janssen was one of the best chess players in the world at one time, so he'd certainly have been a good choice.
Love the description of the Unknowing, as well as the clarity of the Slaughter Squad in contrast to it. The Slaughter certainly does have a directness of approach.
Martin: How dare you leave me behind?! I am shocked! Shocked, I say! šŸ˜‰
I hope the B&B was nice, at least.
"That axe of yours" is hilarious to me, because this is the first time it's been mentioned since Jon presumably dropped it in Artefact Storage after destroying the Web table (otherwise we'd have ended up with Brutal Axe Murder). I can only imagine that Artefact Storage just... kept it there, because they don't let an object of unknown provenance leave without studying it first. Two and a half months later, Jon shows up in absolutely disastrous condition and is like "Yeah, um... that's mine?" (Sonja: "EXPLAIN. šŸ˜”") After which I guess it's just been in his office? Visibly enough that it is well known that it's there? Leaning against the side of his desk or something...
Axe has become a recurring character in a way the pipe never managed
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kitkatyes Ā· 8 months ago
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I canā€™t sleep so hereā€™s my thoughts on a hypothetical tma ieytd au
Something, something major tma + minor ieytd 3 spoilers
I really like the thought of Phoenix being in artefact storage. But, like, theyā€™re more into the artefact retrieval aspect of it. I can just imagine Phoenix breaking into someplace with half an earbud in plugged into some mobile phone from who-knows-when with their handler rattling on about what they need to get
Iā€™m tossing up weather Zor or Morales should be the head of the institute. They both make sense, I think. Both are the big bosses of their companies, after all. Waitā€¦ what if itā€™s a Jonah situation: itā€™s Moralesā€™ body but Zorā€™s mind??? I feel like such a genius (it is 2am, I am exhausted from my schools production and Iā€™m letting my brain run wild)
Okay, whoever is the Elias stand-in would Know that Phoenix is an avatar of the End (their uncanny ability to escape death etc.) and thus, keeps sending them to get all the artefacts: it is quite annoying to replace staff that have been devoured via homophobic vases and other such artefacts, after all. Their handler is none the wiser to the
Juniper would definitely try and do the Unknowing and Phoenix has definitely confiscated at least one of his masks over the years
HOLY SHIT WHAT ID THE HANDLER WAS LIKE SASHA AND GOT FUCKING SNATCHED KDNFVKJHFD
I AM CONNECTING THR DOTSā€” THINKING OF OPERATION SAFE AND SOUND WHERE JUNIPER STEALS HIS VOICE WHAT IF HE JUST STEALS HIS BEING???
PHOENIX DOESNT NOTICE BUT PRISM DOES AND THEN THEY REALISE
I love Phoenix so much (giving them immense trauma)
What if after that, they get ā€˜promotedā€™ to the archives branchā€” either as archival assistant or The Archivist
ā€œI understand that your coworker was forcibly replaced by some weird creature but here, do paperwork instead of running around like a lunatic; I promise itā€™ll make you feel betterā€
Worm incident but itā€™s bees. I donā€™t think I need to explain who this is
Im gonna go pass out now bc i desperately need sleep, gn
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theburiedlad Ā· 2 years ago
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Y'all wanna hear a like half-baked AU I've been rotating in my brain for a little while?
Of course you do here it is: (also SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT)
The OG four (like Jon, Sasha, Tim, and Martin) making it through all five seasons and all becoming Avatars
Like they're all fighting against Jonah and trekking through the hellish landscape and they're all badass eldritch horrors
Like there's Jon and Martin who haven't changed (Eye and Lonely, respectively)
Tim is so Desolation aligned it is astounding, like in the first few seasons his whole thing was burning and destroying things ("If you get killed by improperly filed statements, me and Martin will... Burn this place to the ground."), and he literally did blow up a whole Avatar ritual in s3. I fully believe that if he had made it he would have been a very interesting prospect to the Lightless Flame
Sasha could honestly be aligned to just about anything but just to make it interesting, let's align her with the thing that ultimately got her killed (the table that she was looking at when the NotThem killed her in the original universe). No, I don't mean the Stranger - I've decided Sasha is Web aligned šŸŽ‰!
So what's the deal? How do Tim and Sasha make it through to the end with our favorite boys? That still needs to be fleshed out but I have a basic idea - a coma for Tim would work given that that's how Jon not only survived the explosion but also achieved Avatarship, and maybe Sasha defends against the NotThem long enough for her to get out of Artefact Storage and actually catch the many eyes of the Web
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tmagrp-aita-confessions Ā· 5 months ago
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WIBTA if I didn't give a statement to the Institute about the Leitner my collective read?
Right, so, I(?M) am part of a plural system (collectively early 20s, M) of 13 individuals that works at the Magnus Instituteā€”specifically artefact storage. We just processed a Leitner for storage, having read the statement attached. The thing is, uh...
...we've read that Leitner, or skimmed it, at least. And it was fine for us. Beneficial, even! I don't want to be too specific about it, because that's very personal details, but frankly we're better than ever these days. And yet the statement that came with the Leitner... the person that read it turned into a half-real sort of spirit-thing.
I have... theories as go why. And I want to test them. But we'd almost certainly have the book taken out of our reach if we confessed to having had contact with it before, and that's... well. Not conducive to my goals.
For the record, my headmates don't think we should give a statement, but they also really do not want me to test my theories either.
So. WIBTA?
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inklingofadream Ā· 1 year ago
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Probably very long ramble about age, job experience, etc for the OG Archives gang (teen jon au ppl get tentatively excited)
Martin's birth year is pretty solidly 1987, because when he says he's 29 we have a semi-solid date for that; Jon is roughly the same, because he claims to be turning 38 in the birthday tape, in 2015 or '16, adding 10 to either his new or former age (as Sasha died in July 2016, but we don't know when exactly Jon's birthday is [unless you are a Jonny Sims just gave Jon his own birthday and never changed it as Jon became a v separate character, in which case Jon's birthday would be November 3, 1988]). Assuming a Bachelor's degree and on-time graduation, he would have graduated in 2009. He started at the Institute in 2011, and may or may not have had an office job in the two years in between. Or maybe he graduated late to make my life easier!
Martin left school to work full-time when he was 17, eventually landing his job at the Institute. Given that the search took long enough for him to decide he wouldn't be able to get the kind of money he needed on the back of his real CV, I would guess that he had some prior work experience, part-time stuff possibly dating back to before he quit school and similar stuff in between dropping out and getting hired at the Institute. He was working at the Institute in 2009, when he would have been 22, meaning a maximum of 9 years of other work experience. Realistically, I don't know that his mother's health was pressing enough for him to have started working at 13, but 15, when there would be fewer restrictions (and also because very few 13 year olds can pass for older, at least consistently). He had to get desperate enough to work up to lies as big as a master's in parapsychology (I'd assume he tried to pass with a Bachelor's of whatever first? Or maybe he was just tailoring his fake credentials to the posting's minimum requirements). Regardless, my assumption would be that he had a couple years of experience in customer service roles of various description.
Tim has a Bachelor's degree and was in publishing in 5 years before Danny died. Assuming 4 years to finish his degree (and he graduated with the highest honors possible, thank you Wikipedia page about UK degree classification) and the publishing job being his first job after graduation, he would be 31 in 2013, for a birth year of 1982, five or six years older than Jon and Martin and the only one of the four we know for certain has experience with a non-Institute office job.
Sasha is an information void (šŸ˜­). She worked in Artefact Storage for 3 months, spent an unknown amount of time in Research, and transferred to the Archives with Jon. My inclination is to put her a bit older than Jon and Martin, but not more than a few years older than Tim. Call it 30 to 35 at the start of the show. We can guess at prior experience based on her behavior, but I don't know that that's a great indicator. Publishing is a pretty tough industry, and Tim was still the driving force of the wine in the middle of the workday, with both his bosses thing at the birthday party. I think even before things go bad the Institute is just on the casual side of things. For my purposes, I'm considering the Institute Sasha's primary professional experience.
By which I mean, someone else should benefit from the hour and a half I spent researching this unanswerable question
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researchercase Ā· 6 months ago
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Thought I should post this here. I recorded it a while ago but i guess it'd be useful for others to hear it?
(OOC: ignore logic for this and imagine that somehow the tape recording can be posted on tumblr)
[CLICK]
CASEY Honestly not sure why I'm doing this, but if it worked for Erika, I guess it'll work for me.
Statement of Casey Ross, regarding my time in the Coffin, an Artefact of the Buried. Statement given directly from subject, 16th May, 2024.
Statement begins I guess.
[Pause]
[Sigh]
CASEY [Statement] I don't even know why I'm trying this, I'm not like the Archivist, not like Styx. I can't even go down to the Archives anymore without freezing up when I reach the elevator, I had to get someone else to get this tape recorder for me.
Feels like an ironic joke. 'Oh the Workaholic claustrophobe got buried alive and now can't even go down to a basement in their own workplace'.
[Another Pause]
I don't even know how it happened, how I got in. Well, I do butā€¦ it just happened so fast. It was January 5th, a Friday, end of the week. I was supposed to get dropped off at my flat by Kieran but he was sick that day and since no one else could give me a ride I decided to walk home. I don't live far from the Institute, just a 30 minute walk on a good day.
It was around 6pm I recall, since it was January it got darker earlier in the day, and I'd been walking for 10 minutes at that point, posting on my blog and about the cross the pavement when a van parked in front.
I was a bit peeved that day so this was just another inconvenience to annoy me, I guess my brain didn't catch up when I saw the name on the side of the Van, 'Breekon & Hope'. I moved to walk past it, along the door when suddenly, it opened. I had to back up in time as it did so, more pissed off at the Drivers who almost hit me with the door.
Then, I saw it. A coffin with chains on it. I didn't need to see what was etched on it to know what it was. It was too late for me anyways.
The coffin opened, and I went in. Other statements talked about the compelling aspect that lures victims into the coffin, and that's what happened to me. The thing is, the whole time my mind was there, it was just my body that moved without me doing anything. I remember the anxiety and fear I felt as I went down and down into it, before the lid closed.
It's difficult to remember exactly what happened for the month I spent in there, just constant anxiety attacks as I was crushed more and more by the earth, yet kept alive. I will say it certainly felt longer than a month, at a point you just loose count of the days, especially when you can't keep count on anything in there, or see the sun rise and fall.
I suppose when the Coffin was put into the Institute is when I felt something different. Like a tug of a string that I couldn't find, but it was there and I could feel it. Apparently a way to get out of the coffin is with a tether, a connection to something or someone, a strong one at that. Just can't believe that tether was my workplace.
It certainly wasn't strong enough to pull me out itself so I decided to dig. Digging is was got me out of a Buried manifestation when I was younger so it was worth a shot to try.
It did work. The closer I got to the lid, the more that tether tugged.
I was physically weak at the point I reached the entrance but I managed to lift it open and climb out. A few minutes later, I was found by one of the workers in Artefact Storage and an ambulance was called. Got my phone back though, since Kieran found it and it was kept at Lost and Found.
I was in hospital for around a week and a half, and went to physical therapy for a few weeks after, just to make sure I could move properly after having not been able to for a month.
After that is just me getting back to work, catching up with Kieran, finding out what happened while I was gone, and so on. Only lingering effect the coffin left was extreme claustrophobia and occasional pain in my legs and joints, which is why I have a cane now and a emotional support animal, Goose, who's my dog.
I guess it doesn't help that a Buried avatar is now working at the Institute as a researcher but it surprisingly doesn't bother me that much? I actually kind of like the rain.
CASEY [Exhale]
Uh.. statement ends I guess.
[Pause]
I need some rest.
[CLICK]
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the-spooky-archives Ā· 1 year ago
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Good morning to everyone with a better sleep schedule than I
My name is Jasper Creed, Iā€™m the head of artefact storage at the Magnus Institute. My job is identifying evil tables, evil books, and less evil taxidermy.
Thereā€™s not much going on but my half professional half personal blog is @thatsalotofstaplesdude
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feinstone Ā· 1 year ago
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After about an hour and a half of searching, I found the source!
The name "Olmec Penis Man" seems to have originated from this instagram post sharing the image, which was in turn based off the description of this post.
Neither stated the source for the image and the objects, beyond the original post saying it was part of "temporary exposition in the USA."
Based on the composition and quality of the photograph, I figured it most likely was either part of a museum collection, or was at some point listed for sale at an auction. When you take photos like these to make an object look good, you're either bragging about having it, or trying to convince someone to buy it.
The inclusion of text on the first image saying "Patrimonio de Mexico" made me think that this was likely an object that had either been repatriated or been the subject of repatriation requests by Mexican officials, so I started by searching Mexican museums that may have had it in their collections, as well as other museums around the world with large pre-Columbian collections that may have owned it.
Photos of that quality of an object in a museum collection usually means that it was recently added to their online gallery, often as a result of being pulled out of storage and displayed for a themed exhibition, but after trawling through a dozen museums catalogues, I had no luck. While I found plenty of objects of a similar style, I couldn't find any objects matching this exact image, nor could I find any collections with photos of this kind of composition. Typically these photos would be taken in bulk, and there would be a dozen or so other items in the collection with the same lighting and photographic style, but I couldn't find anything in the places I looked.
But, while searching through more potential sources, I came across this post on a website that had the exact same image, and stated that the piece was formerly part of Guy Joussemet private collection.
This lead me to find this article, which stated that a large portion of the pre-Columbian artefacts from Guy Joussemet's private collection had been incorporated into the Barbier-Mueller collection, which went up for auction through Sotheby's in March of 2013.
Damn. Should have started with auctions. Would have saved me like 45 minutes of scrolling through museum collections.
I searched through the Sotheby's auction results history to find objects from the Barbier-Mueller collection, and lo and behold:
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I found this page on Sotheby's site that shows what appears to be the same object, and provides a little more details on it's history and provenance (or lack thereof, as it were).
The page obviously doesn't refer to it as Olmec Penis Man, but it does call it "Statuette anthropomorphe Ć  tĆŖte phallique." Google translate assures me that this is French for "Anthropomorphic statue with a phallic head", which I think is as close to Olmec Penis Man as you'll get in a professional setting.
Anyway, while searching for more information regarding the piece and the collection, I discovered that this auction was a bit of a disaster. Would it shock you to learn that an auction house commissioned to sell a massive private collection of pre-Columbian artifacts didn't put a huge amount of effort into verifying the provenance and authenticity of the pieces they would be selling for a truckload of cash?
According to these two articles, and many more across the internet, the auction was a disaster. A large number of the pieces for sale did not find buyers, and a buuuuunch of countries from which the objects were, uh, """"obtained"""" requested that the auction be halted to allow them to go over the pieces before they were sold. The government agencies making these requests have said that a lot of the pieces seemed to be forgeries, and most of the ones that weren't are heritage items that need to be repatriated to their rightful owners, and any sale of those items would violate several international legislative protections that prohibit their import and sale to private owners.
Sotheby's ignored this and went ahead with the auction anyway. While the sales were affected by the requests and accusations of forgery, it seems they still managed to sell a lot of the collection.
I don't know if this little dude ended up being sold, or if it was indeed repatriated to the country it was looted from, but I at least found some details proving that it does in fact exist, and that it's name basically is "Penis Man."
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Olmec Penis Man, Mexico, 800-1200 BCE
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