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covenofagatha · 3 months ago

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The Break Room

Harmony Cobel x female reader

You've been a Severed employee for two weeks now, and you are causing all sorts of problems with your unproductivity and your attempts to send a message to your outie. Ms. Cobel has no other choice but to see to it that you really learn your lesson in the Break Room

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: spanking (with a ruler), fingering, dub-con, mommy kink, bratty bottom reader, top Harmony, slight voyeurism (kind of?), no spoilers

A/N: wrote this to cope with finishing season two of Severance last night and I'm a sucker for a mean older woman (I'll be back to agatha shortly)

Ding!

The elevator doors open—you’re back again, like you never left. The white walls of the Severed Floor make you shudder as you step out. The seemingly infinite stretch of the hallways makes you want to scream. Every attempt at breaking out, of getting your outie to let you out, has been futile. Even your resignation attempt after your first day was denied.

You hear your first name and first initial of your last name being called and you turn around. Mr. Milchick, the supervisor of the Floor, jogs toward you with a dopey grin on his face. His cheerful demeanor does nothing to raise your sullen mood. You wonder if his superiors told him to be extra nice to you.

“Well, good morning to you too!” he says, chuckling at the frown that etches deeper into your face. “I just wanted to let you know how appreciative we are that you’re here with us. Lumon could not do it without you and we are eternally indebted to you for that.”

“I don’t even know what we’re doing here,” you scowl and he laughs joyfully, as if he didn’t hear anything you just said.

Mr. Milchick begins to talk about something else, but your mind is moving rapidly to figure out a way to get a message to your outie past the security detectors. Writing on yourself won’t work, swallowing a message won’t work. You hadn’t tried throwing a piece of paper into the stairwell and then stepping out to read it, but you suspected Lumon had detectors in that too.

Maybe…maybe if you could break up a message into parts and take them home one day at a time, it would be meaningless enough to get past the detectors. You’d just have to hope that your outie would be able to put it together.

A risky move, but it might be the only option. If that doesn’t work, you’re not sure what else to do.

“And here we are! Macrodata Refinement!” Mr. Milchick announces as he pushes open the white doors as he does every morning, like you’ve somehow forgotten where you live your small and meaningless life.

Your coworkers are already at their desks and they look up from their computers to smile at you. You give them a half-hearted wave as if to say yep, still here and briskly walk over to your seat.

The computer is already on and the rolodex flips to the second card. In the two weeks going on what feels like ten years that you’ve been here, you’ve gotten through one card. Everyone was so happy when you finally finished but it felt more like pity to you.

A sea of numbers stares at you, demanding to be sorted into four boxes. There isn’t much rhyme or reason to how to group them or which box to put them in; apparently you’re just supposed to know. It was explained on your first day that they evoke different feelings in you. You roll your mouse around aimlessly for five minutes—you know how long because you keep looking at the clock on the wall, willing time to move faster—looking for any sort of emotional response associated with the numbers, but there’s nothing.

Can the numbers sense your apathy at being here? Maybe you have to actually care about the job in order to get in touch with them.

That would certainly explain why Grant M. has the best performance in your department—he’s basically walking Lumon propaganda. You’re tempted to ask him how he comes to work every day so joyful: whistling down the corridors, bobbing his head to some imaginary tune while he sorts numbers, happily pouring the small container of dry roasted edamame from the vending machine into his mouth on breaks that he cuts short because he just can’t wait to get back to work. You’ve caught him reading the Lumon handbooks far too many times and he’s quoted it at you many times to show you why it’s a privilege and an honor to work here.

It’s even worse because Grant M. sits right to the left of you in the weird shape the desks are arranged in, so he’s able to peek over the mossy green partition at any point and make a passive aggressive comment about how he wishes his department members would take work as seriously as he does, or how he’s filled up fifty-seven percent of a box and he’d love to see that hard work from other people.

Even now, he’s peering over at you, just enough for you to see his messy brown hair sweeping across his forehead and the rim of his blue glasses that are too small for his face.

You roll your eyes and lower the partition and Grant lurches back like he’s been caught. His brown eyes meet yours, his lips curl into a sneer, and he jerks his head to the side to get his hair out of his face.

“Working hard or hardly working?” he asks in his voice that makes it hard not to slap him. It’s nasal and croaky and you repress a grimace.

You smile tightly at him. “Just getting into it.”

And before he can launch into a speech about the nine core principles of Lumon, you draw the partition back up and stare bullets at your computer.

As you absentmindedly draw circles with your mouse, you decide to try putting clusters of numbers into boxes at random, just to see what will happen. There’s a sick sort of pleasure you get from the thought of screwing up whatever data you’re supposed to be refining.

The numbers go into the box and your eyes widen—it worked. But then the box shakes from side-to-side and then throws up the six numbers, which slot neatly right back into the grid on your screen.

You slump back into your chair.

“Psst,” someone hisses and you look up to see your other desk neighbor, Nick S., looking over the partition at you. His straight brown hair falls to his shoulders and his eyes have a twinkle in them. He smiles at you, showing his crooked teeth, and you can’t help but grin back at him.

Nick is the closest thing to a friend you have. His rebellious streak calls to you, a twin flame to yours, and the two of you make it through the boring days together, mostly making fun of Lumon, or Grant when he’s not around.

“I can taste meat on my breath,” Nick whispers excitedly. “Do you think my outie had a date or something? Usually I taste nothing.”

You pretend to think about it before smirking. “Or maybe your outie just forgot to brush his teeth.” His face drops and you reach into the container of mints on your desk. It was a reward for being punctual every day your first week.

The participation prizes here are bleak.

Nick pops it into his mouth and crumples up the wrapper. “Hey, watch this.” He swivels around in his chair and tosses it in the direction of the trashcan about ten feet away.

The wrapper lands maybe five inches away and you cry out.

“Excuse me, some people are trying to work here,” Grant snipes and you and Nick look at each other, shoulders vibrating from your silent laughter.

“Can we all just please get back to work?” your other deskmate, Ryan W., asks exasperatedly. You’ve had the least amount of interaction with him. He’s the youngest and seems miserable, but it’s hard to tell if he’s miserable because of working here or because of the rift between you and Nick and Grant. He never picks a side, but you think you see him smirking sometimes when you and Grant are arguing.

Nick rolls his eyes but turns back to his computer so you’re left to your own devices. Because you’re still working through your new plan of how to get a message to your outie, you decide to shoot mints into the trash can while you mull it over.

The first one soars right in.

The second one misses by a mile.

The third one hits the edge of the can and bounces out and you groan audibly.

A warm hand touches your shoulder and you spin around. Mr. Milchick stands there, even his mustache looking displeased.

“Ms. Cobel would like a word with you,” he says. Grant snorts and you glare at him through the partition before standing up and smoothing your sensible gray dress. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to talk to Ms. Cobel, the manager of the Severed Floor. She’s intimidating, but there’s something about her cold exterior that does something to your stomach—like you want to get in trouble just to get her attention.

“Lead the way, then.”

You follow Mr. Milchick down the winding hallways, a right, a left, another right, another right, until you lose track of which way you’re even going. You suspect that he may have led you around in a circle a few times, just as retribution for the trouble you cause.

You finally get to the room with Mr. Milchick’s desk and then he knocks on the door to Ms. Cobel’s office.

“Enter,” a low voice calls out and Mr. Milchick gives you one last glance, maybe meant to be reassuring, before opening the door.

The office looks the same as it did on your previous visits: two chairs in front of the large wooden desk that Ms. Cobel sits behind, a few paper boxes stacked in the corner, the three piece artwork hanging behind the supervisor, depicting maybe a storm. On her desk is a thick computer, a speaker, a phone, and a small model sculpture of Kier Eagan’s head, the founder of Lumon Industries.

Ms. Cobel beckons you forward, her silvery hair, straight and falling past her shoulders, glinting in the light. She’s wearing a dark blue blazer over a dark blue turtleneck, which seems to bring out the color in her eyes. The swell of her breasts draws your gaze but then she says your first name and the initial of your last name in her slow, drawn out cadence, and it makes you shiver.

“It would appear that you are having trouble focusing,” she says quietly but commandingly. You look down at your black dress shoes against the blue carpet. “I know you are unhappy here, but you need to get your work done. It will do you no good to resist.”

You shrug and stay quiet. If you resist long enough, surely they’ll have no choice but to fire you.

Ms. Cobel’s lips draw into a thin line. “We have been patient with you these past two weeks. We at Lumon understand that it can be a tough transition for Severed workers. However, our leniency is waning. If you do not stop these foolish attempts to contact your outer self or to hinder your department’s progress, I think a trip to the Break Room will be in order.”

Mr. Milchick sucks in a breath next to you and you scoff. “What’s wrong with that?”

Your question is ignored and Ms. Cobel looks to the supervisor. “Mr. Milchick,” she says, her voice cutting deep, “can I trust that you will see to it that MDR has no more distractions?”

He nods and you half expect him to salute as well. “Of course, Ms. Cobel. You can rest assured that everyone in that department will be hyper-focused, absorbed, and concentrated on their work.”

Ms. Cobel tilts to her computer, no longer looking at either of you, and Mr. Milchick takes the dismissal as it is and leads you back to your office.

“It really is easier if you just do your work,” he tells you gently. “You need to accept that you’re a Severed worker now, and this is your job.”

You don’t answer and he stops walking, so you pause too. He steps closer to you and sighs heavily.

“I’m just—I’m just asking you to please try and make the best of it, okay? This can be a fun thing, if you let it. You have a great team in there, so let’s go in there with a new attitude and get some work done!”

It’s meant to be a pump-up speech, yet there is nothing it makes you want to do more than laugh hysterically. Did he really think that would work?

Mr. Milchick gives you what you think is meant to be a reassuring smile and resumes walking. It’s not much longer before you’re in front of the doors with Macrodata Refinement printed on the outside and he slips his keycard into the slot. The light flashes green and you reluctantly make your way to your desk, feeling the eyes of your colleagues on you.

Grant looks like he wants to gloat but you give him a nasty glare before he can open his mouth. Ryan turns back to his computer and you notice that his spiky hair is bleached blonde as opposed to the red it was before. His outie must’ve had a fun night.

“Everything okay?” Nick whispers and you nod, sitting down and pulling yourself to the desk. Mr. Milchick is standing in the corner of the room so you can’t say much more.

The numbers swim in front of you on your screen and you stare at them, trying to feel something. The only thing you feel is your eyelids starting to grow heavy.

What do the numbers represent?

Maybe they add up to a total for something?

Maybe they don’t actually mean anything and you’re getting paid to do meaningless work?

Maybe they represent letters—

You jolt, suddenly awake. Numbers representing letters. While you don’t know if that’s what it is, you just got an idea.

If you can figure out a way to get a number through the security detectors, one day at a time, you could spell out a message to yourself. You just need a way to make it look like not a message.

So that rules out writing numbers on scraps of paper, because they’ll argue that you had some sort of agenda by doing that and you’ll get caught.

But…

“I’m going to the supply closet,” you announce, shooting out of your chair. You hurry over and yank the doors open, switching on the lights. You grab a sticky note and look frantically because if they’re not here—and then you find them.

On the third shelf in the corner.

A mesh pencil cup containing four rulers sits sandwiched between glue sticks and tape dispensers. You grab one and walk back to your desk, trying to control your rapidly beating heart.

You write the numbers one through twelve on the sticky note and then the corresponding letters underneath. You can use the letter A through L to make a note.

How are you going to do this? Break the ruler into pieces? Make a little dash above each number and attempt to bring the whole thing out?

“Nick,” you hiss. He looks over at you. “Have you ever, like, brought office supplies home? From here?”

He leans in closer because Grant peers over the partition at you. “One time I forgot I put a pencil in my pocket when I left. It was there in my pocket the next day. I’m sure they checked it though.”

Your breath catches. So it’s possible, if it’s something mundane like that. Although you’re really regretting that you don’t wear a watch right now, because it seems much less of a risk to leave this kind of message that way.

But for the first time, you actually have hope.

You stare at the sticky note, trying to piece together what to say. You can’t spell OUT. You can’t spell HELP.

Something clicks and with a sharpie, you draw a dash above the eight, a dash above the five, and two dashes above the twelve.

H-E-L-L.

Will your outie understand what you’re trying to say? This might be your best shot. You just have to get lucky.

But the hand that clamps on your shoulder, the touch familiar at this point, drains you of all hope.

“Come with me,” he says, low in your ear, and your muscles tense. All his pleasantness from earlier is gone, replaced by a severe sternness he only has when someone is in trouble.

Nick gives you a compassionate look while you see Grant shaking his head at you. You’re tempted to throw the sharpie at him but you restrain yourself.

How’s that for exhibiting Benevolence, Grant? See, I know the nine core principles.

Mr. Milchick picks up the ruler and examines it, before sliding it into his pocket. He walks out and you get up and follow him. He takes you in a different direction than Ms. Cobel’s office and you get the strange sense that you’re descending, even though the floor is straight. The air seems to grow thinner and colder.

He pauses outside a smooth white door and inserts his keycard. On the wall next to is a plaque with the words Break Room. The hair on the back of your neck stands up.

The door opens, revealing a long, dark hallway, leading to another door.

Mr. Milchick gestures for you to go first and you hear his footsteps echoing behind yours as you walk down the corridor.

“We warned you,” he says gently before reaching around you to push open the door.

The room is dark, almost too dark for you to see anything, but you can make out the faint outline of a table and two chairs. You hear the faint sound of whirring and it’s familiar yet foreign all at the same time.

“Have a seat,” Mr. Milchick says, pointing to the chair against the wall. He sits in the chair on the other side of the table and there’s a click and then a bright light momentarily blinds you.

When you become adjusted to it, you realize that there’s a thick piece of glass between you and him with words written on it. He adjusts the knob of a machine on his side, the projector, you guess, and the words become more focused.

“You are going to read this statement to atone for your actions and you are going to mean it,” he instructs you.

Your forehead wrinkles as you scan over it. It’s a weird apology of sorts, but you’ll say anything at this point. You take a deep breath. “‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

Mr. Milchick purses his lips and there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach. “I’m afraid you did not mean that. Say it again.”

You laugh. “What? I’m not—”

“Say. It. Again.”

The words have burned themselves into your retinas and even when you close your eyes, you still see them. “‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

“You didn’t mean it. Say it again.”

This time, you slouch back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest. You’re not going to say it and you’re going to waste the rest of both your days. Will this be enough subordination to get fired?

“Say it,” he orders, his eyes glittering in the light.

“Or what?” you challenge. “Why the fuck am I going to repeat this stupid statement if I don’t mean it just so you can make me say it again?” You stare at him defiantly while he rubs his hands over his face, trying to figure out what to do.

And then the door opens.

It takes you a minute to make out the silhouette.

Ms. Cobel.

“Any chance you’re here to let me go?” you ask, voice cracking. She huffs and steps into the room, letting the door slam shut behind her, and you’re able to see the restrained fury on her face.

She slowly walks around to Mr. Milchick’s side until she’s behind him and rests her hands on his shoulders. “This must be a new record for the least amount of attempts completed before refusing to say the Compunction Statement.”

You shrug. “I aim to impress.”

One of the corners of her mouth quirks up, almost in amusement. “Well I’m afraid I will need to take matters into my own hands, due to Mr. Milchick’s incompetence.”

He splutters and looks up at her, agape. You watch her dig her fingers into his shoulders.

“Mr. Milchick, you are no longer needed here. Please attend to the rest of MDR and make sure none of them are attempting to write secret messages to their outies.”

He takes a deep breath, something looking a lot like contempt in his eyes, and stands up.

But before he can walk out of the door, Ms. Cobel adds one last thing. “Leave the ruler.”

Mr. Milchick freezes and withdraws it from his pocket before handing it over. Your eyes track the movement, feeling your heart race even more. There’s something happening in your stomach, a feeling you haven’t felt before, not in your two weeks of this Severed life.

He leaves and the door shuts behind him, leaving you alone with Ms. Cobel.

She tuts as she drags a finger down the length, pausing at each of the dashes you drew.

“This was a smart one,” she admits. “Took us a bit to realize what you were doing. But, as we’ve told you many times, any correspondence between your Severed selves is prohibited. So say it again.” She jabs the ruler at the projected words but you shake your head.

Ms. Cobel scoffs and stalks over. You watch until she’s right in front of you, and then her hand flies out to seize your hair. You let out a surprised gasp as she pulls you up.

But you’re only face-to-face for a moment before her hand moves to your back and she bends you over the cold table. You have to crane your eyes up to look at the words in front of you.

Your stomach is growing hot, an unfamiliar feeling between your legs, and Ms. Cobel chuckles from behind you like she knows.

“You could end this now,” she reminds you. “Just mean your apology and we can get back to work.”

“I can’t,” you choke out. “I’m not going to sit here and say it over and over again for the rest of the day.”

She sighs like she was expecting it and you feel the ruler against your spine. You suck in a deep breath. “Well, then,” she says quietly. “How about we make a deal?”

You don’t answer, but you tilt your head forward for her to go on.

The ruler moves lower. “You will say the Compunction Statement ten times, and after each time, you will receive a spank. After those ten times, your disobedience will be forgiven and you will be free to return to work. Or, you can just say it and mean it and I will spare you the physical punishment.”

You could fake it, you know. Maybe even pretend to cry a little bit so she’ll take you seriously.

But a part of you is curious. So you do nothing.

Ms. Cobel exhales slowly and the ruler is gone from your back. There’s a tense moment of nothing before you feel her fingers pulling at the hem of your dress. Your mouth parts but no words come out as she drags the fabric from your knees up until it’s hiked up around your waist.

Her breath hitches and she drags the ruler against the waistband of your underwear. “Well, well, well,” she drawls and you have no idea what she’s talking about. “That’s interesting.”

“What?” you croak, mouth dry.

But she slips back into her role. “Say it.”

This time, you do with no hesitation.“‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

The ruler snaps against your scantily clad ass before you have a chance to prepare and the sting shocks you. You jolt forward against the table, a whimper tearing itself from your throat, and you close your eyes to stop the room from spinning.

“Again,” she orders quietly.

“‘Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world. None may atone for my actions but me and only in me shall their stain live on. I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.’”

She hits you even harder this time and you wonder how they’re going to explain this to your outie self. You’re certainly going to be feeling this tonight and tomorrow and probably for the next few days.

Without being prompted this time, you read it again.

Tears spring in your eyes after the third hit and the slap reverberates around the small room. Your skin is burning and you can almost see the red welt that you’re going to have.

Again.

“You could’ve avoided this,” Ms. Cobel says. “It didn’t have to be this way. But you will learn your lesson.”

You cry out on the fourth spank, tears leaking down your cheeks. You stick out your tongue to catch the saltiness.

Again.

The fifth spank makes you scramble for purchase on the table, nerve endings lighting up all through your body, and your head starts to swim. Every inch of your body is on fire.

“Remember this pain and why you are receiving it. If you follow the rules, you get rewarded. But if not…Again.”

The six spank feels dull compared to the other ones, but maybe that’s just because your skin has been hit raw to the point of losing feeling. The hurt is bleeding and blending into something else and your body is throbbing now, hungry but you don’t know for what. The ache is coming from between your legs, radiating through you and making you pant desperately.

Your seventh repeat is much more broken and slurred and you think you skip over some words here and there but you can’t focus your vision enough to confirm.

She spanks you again, but this time it’s below your ass on the very highest point of your thighs, so it burns all over again.

“Just to make sure you’re not getting too complacent,” she whispers and you can barely hear her over the sound of your breathing. “It seems that you’re enjoying yourself a little too much.”

You barely get through the eighth attempt and your hips are bucking wildly the whole time, trying to get some sort of relief between your legs.

“Stop squirming,” she hisses and then spanks your ass again.

The nine repeat comes out in breathy gasps and moans and is this what it’s like to be drunk? Not being able to think straight or talk normally? There’s a fog in your mind that’s overwhelming you and all you can think is one more.

What are you supposed to do after this?

Ms. Cobel tsks lightly before spanking you for the ninth time.

You stutter through the statement for the tenth and final time, definitely skipping and combining words but you couldn’t care less. She should be happy that you can still talk right now.

But for the tenth spank, she grabs you by the hair again and spins you around. Your bare and bruised ass hits the edge of the table and you gasp in pain. Ms. Cobel stands in front of you, a dark look in her blue eyes, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips. The ruler is still clenched in her hand and you’re not sure what’s going on.

She pushes on your shoulder and nods down, and you piece it together slowly. You sit on the table, wincing again, and slide back until you can lay down comfortably with your legs bent up so your feet are on the table. You finally look down and see what caught her attention earlier—your underwear is black and lacy and fancy.

What was your outie doing when she put these on?

“Last one,” Ms. Cobel says and then smacks the ruler down hard against your cunt. It connects with your clit and your back arches painfully off the table as you let out a loud moan. Sparks fly through your body and you lay there for a moment in a stupor, dazed with pleasure. Your clit is pulsing and you feel more wetness gush into your underwear.

You lie on the table, completely spent. Your cheeks are wet and sticky and your vision blurs. There’s a mess in your panties, you can feel it.

“Very good,” Ms. Cobel purrs, sounding different than she usually does. Like she’s affected too. “Since you took your punishment well, I think it’s fair you get a reward. Lumon is all about rewarding excellence.”

Before you can ask what she means—or laugh at the ridiculousness of that—her fingers cup your cunt over your underwear. You gasp loudly as she rubs up and down and tuts condescendingly.

Which only makes the problem worse for some reason.

“With all the acting out you do, I should’ve guessed you were just looking for someone to put you in your place,” she croons.

You open your mouth to retort, but she finds your clit and presses against it hard, shooting down any thought in your head.

“Maybe you won’t find your work here so unpleasant now,” Ms. Cobel muses as she pulls your underwear to the side. She strokes her fingers through your folds, spreading your wetness all around, and the squelching sounds make your cheeks burn.

She seems to like it.

And then she pushes two fingers into you roughly while she examines your face. Your walls clench around her and your hips buck up again to get her inside you. There’s already a mounting pressure inside your core and when she rubs at your clit, it intensifies.

“Oh—fuck,” you whine and you think she almost smiles.

Ms. Cobel curls them further inside you and the whirring sound from somewhere in the room grows louder. “Such a naughty girl,” she tuts, “breaking the rules like you do. But it’s okay now, because I think we’ve figured something out that works.”

An explosion of flashes happens from behind your eyes and words fall from your tongue uncontrollably. “Yes, please, mommy—”

She gasps, completely unrestrained, and her thumb swipes hard against your clit. Her fingers twist roughly, stroking your walls, and your head drops hard against the table. Your ass is throbbing and sore and it only makes the growing feeling in your core worse.

“You’re going to be mommy’s good girl from now on, aren’t you?” she asks and you nod frantically.

Ms. Cobel pauses for just a moment and you clench around her to draw her back in, but then she fits a third finger into you. You take it easily, the stretch only giving you more pleasure, and you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get any work done ever again.

But why would you want to, if this is what it gets you?

Now the only message you want to give to your outie is to wear something a bit more scandalous tomorrow, rather than the business professional dress.

“When I count to three, you are going to come for me,” Ms. Cobel says, quiet but domineering. Heat flares inside of you. “You are going to come for mommy.”

“One.”

She thrusts inside you faster, waves of pleasure rushing over and over of you.

“Two.”

Her thumb circles your clit roughly and you let out a loud keen while trying your best to ride her hand on the table. You’re about to come, you’re struggling to hold it back, biting your lip until it bleeds, you can’t—you need—

“Three.”

You let go and your orgasm tears through you like an explosion, making your vision go blank and sending you into a state of euphoria you’ve never felt anything close to. She doesn’t slow down and keeps going and you choke out moans while you try but fail to catch your breath.

“I can’t take—please, mommy—too much,” you pant while she smirks wickedly, but slows and then stops.

Ms. Cobel pulls her fingers out of you and you feel a rush of liquid seeping from your cunt. She pulls your underwear back on and lays her hand on your thigh as a gesture of tenderness.

But she seems to realize what she’s doing once you sit up and she quickly steps back. “Get situated and then get back to work. I trust you’ll be able to focus much better now.”

In a haze, you nod and she forces a smile before picking up the ruler that she had thrown on the table beside you and then walks out of the room.

You carefully climb off the table and pull your dress down.

The clock above the door says that you still have six hours left in the workday.

——

Ding!

The elevators open—you’re back on the surface, back as your outie. When you step off, you notice the soreness in your backside.

The security guard scans you and permits you to go ahead into the changing room. You exchange your badges and grab your phone and keys and then go down to the parking lot.

There’s a note on your windshield, which will be the reason for your soreness.

Your full name is on the envelope and you open it.

While on the Severed Floor, your innie sustained a minor injury to her rear when she was reaching for paper clips in the supply closet, fell backwards, and hit the edge of a shelf. Included is a ten dollar gift card to a restaurant of your choice.

You snort. Surely that’s not really what happened.

But you know how to find out.

It’s a short drive home, only about five minutes since you live in the subsidized Lumon housing neighborhood. The white Volkswagen Rabbit is already parked in the driveway and you pull up next to it.

You unlock the door and step inside. The first thing you hear is the whirring of the coffee grinder and you smile to yourself. It’s a noise you’ve come to associate with home.

Kicking off your shoes, you walk into the kitchen, where your wife, Harmony, is cooking dinner and brewing a cup of coffee for herself. Her silver hair catches the overhead lights and contrasts nicely with her maroon robe. She smirks when you enter and you hold up the note.

“Apparently I hit my ass on the edge of a shelf in the supply closet,” you announce. “Seems like you had some fun. Is it bad that I find you fucking innie-me hot?”

“Oh, I did have fun,” she says, reaching into her robe and withdrawing a ruler. There’s a jolt inside you, like you recognize it but you don’t know why. “The underwear was a nice touch.”

You grin at your wife. “I’m glad you liked it. And I’m glad innie-me finally decided to act out enough to get your attention. I’ve been wearing lingerie for the past week ever since you said you like when she’s bratty.”

Harmony snorts and grabs her cup of coffee and walks over to the couch. You follow, still in your work clothes.

“Will you tell me about it?” you ask.

Her pupils dilate just a bit. “Oh yeah? You want me to tell you about how I bent her—you—over and spanked you with the ruler ten times? And how you got so fucking needy for me that I had to turn you over and fuck you with my fingers?”

Your breath catches. “Fuck.”

Harmony smirks. “You called me ‘mommy’. Like you fucking knew, even in there.”

A shiver runs through you, followed by a heavy heat. “Well, how about you, mommy?” you simper, fingers seeking her leg and pushing her robe up her thigh. “Did I take care of you?”

“That might be for tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll do something that warrants it,” she says, teasing slightly.

Your tongue pokes between your teeth and you move to straddle her. “Or,” you whisper, leaning down to nip at her exposed neck, “you could let me take care of you right now.”

Her underwear is already soaked through when you finally reach down between you.

“Yes,” she sighs and you can’t wait to hear about her and your Severed self more tomorrow.

#harmony cobel #harmony cobel x reader #harmony cobel x female reader #severance #harmony cobel smut #covsfics #the break room

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ceilidho · 4 months ago

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Soap lowkey being so deranged he isn't actually severed. (TBI just makes him hyperfocus on that macrodata refinement). Drools over both your innie and outie day in day out. The question isn't if he prefers making your innie uncomfortable by leering at you across the office out or making your outie cry by groping you on your commute home. No. The question is which one does he get his paws on first.

Okay, I do like this, BUT...there's also something so disgustingly romantic to me that it doesn't matter if he's been severed and has no memory of you from the office or from the outside world, he's still just as obsessed with you.

Has no recollection of the time he cornered you in the supply closet at work and bent you over the photocopier when his outie sees you at the grocery store picking up a carton of eggs, but Soap still can't pull his eyes off you. Already thinking of the best line to approach you with and whether or not you'll complain if he follows you home.

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maximsdeadwife · 4 months ago

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desperate to know how sub!mark s would react to reader breaking a uniform policy to get his attention and how badly he’d stumble over his words trying to reprimand reader and maybe it gets a little spicy?

Thank you so much for this ask because this actually turned into a very nice warm up for what I’m trying to write for him and has, I think, got me out of a bout of writers block!

I’ve put reader (gn) in Helly’s shoes for this imagine, it just worked best for this scenario as I was writing it. I intended this to be a few headcanons but ended up with a bit of dialogue and a little story unfolding into approx. 1k words, so it’s basic and my first time writing for him, but hopefully reads ok! I kept wanting to add in bits about Petey x Mark and things they might have got up to in the past because I’m shipping them like crazy, but I refrained this time. If anyone wants that in though… lmk 👀

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

Emerging from the bathroom with as new a look as you could manage with what your outie dressed you in, you turn the heads of everyone in your department – all three of them. Mark S however, is the only one who’s heart skips.

Despite already feeling a pull toward you, Mark S has never before experienced the thrilling sensation of seeing someone he finds attractive looking completely different in a new style, and the way it somehow makes them ten times hotter.

When Irv and Dylan turn to glare at Mark, waiting for him to take action, he knows he has to talk to you. It’s a breach, and he needs to know why you’re doing it and restore your outie’s clothes to their former state before you leave for the day. It’s his duty to take good care of you after all, and he wouldn’t want to see you get into any trouble for this. He needs to be the one to do it, rather than leave you to be picked up by Mr Graner should this cause any kind of stir.

He’s unable to look you in the eyes when he stutters out his request for you to accompany him. How will he make it down all those hallways to a spare room with you looking so sexy, alone together the whole time?

When he stands, a few papers drop from the binder he shakily pulled out (the one with the scripts to follow – hopefully there’ll be one about uniform policy), and he fumbles awkwardly at your feet as he tries to pick them up.

Irv and Dylan peer around the desk dividers. Dylan is in awe because he knows how into Mark you are even though you’ve tried to keep it hidden. Irv rolls his eyes, suspecting that Mark won’t be equipped to handle this, not with you enticing him anyway. Irv also suspects this was designed to tempt Mark, but he’ll bite his tongue. For now.

Mark keeps his eyes forward and strides ahead while you wish he would slow down just a little. Opening the door to the nearest office he finds, he squeezes his eyes shut as you pass through into the room, trying to remind himself that he’s a professional macrodata refiner and he can do this. Petey would have been able to do this. Petey would also have ribbed him for weeks if he knew he was so turned on by you simply showing up with a new look, but Petey isn’t here and no one needs to know.

Perching awkwardly at the edge of the nearest desk in the uncomfortably sparse room, Mark suddenly can’t remember how to sit. Or stand. Or what he usually does with his arms. This is new, too. Is he unwell? He clutches the binder close and smiles at you; a smile Irv might describe as ‘goo-goo eyed.’

‘What is it, Mark?’ you ask, and he lets out a breath, waiting for the tug of war in his mind to decide whether he’s looking through the binder or just going to come out with the truth.

You step closer and he flinches, feeling his trousers tighten. Oh no, not now, not here- and with that, the binder is strategically placed over his crotch.

‘Am I breaking the rules?’ you ask, close enough now for your knees to touch his. You see his pupils, even within those deliciously dark eyes, dilate.

‘Y-you’re not supposed to- you can’t- your outie-’ he tried. And tried again. But with you so close he could feel the warmth of your breath on his cheek, it was harder by the second. He was growing harder by the second, too.

‘I promise, I’ll tidy myself back up before I leave today, make my outie proud. Is that what you needed to hear? Or did you need to follow procedure and do this by the book?’ You tug at the binder, the only barrier between you and him, and his breath hitches. You reach up to run your fingers through his thick dark hair and he drops it, papers scattering from within. His cheeks flush.

‘I don’t mind if you do, I just really wanted to see you like this. All out of breath and-’ you place a palm against his thigh - ‘is this ok?’ He nods so desperately you have to stifle a chuckle. ‘Out of breath and whimpering-’

‘I’m not whimper-ah!-’ he whines. He doesn’t want you to stop, wants you to keep touching him exactly like this but… maybe a little faster? Or harder? Maybe without the layer of fabric between him and your hand? He’s not sure what he likes, never having had the chance to explore it, but he knows he likes this feeling and wants to chase it.

‘You’re just how I imagined you’d be,’ you whisper against his ear, ‘I can’t concentrate on those goddamn numbers when you’re right at the other side of that divider.’ The hand in his hair moves to loosen his tie.

He can feel himself leaking, not sure if this is a good thing, but it must be because it still feels incredible, and without expecting to, he moans. It’s a gorgeous, loud, hungry moan that startles him and pleases you, and just as your lips ghost over his, he jumps back. Milchick is coming down the hallway. Mark smooths his hair into place and picks up what he can of the binder to place over his still tented – and now stained – trousers.

After an uncomfortable interaction, you’re both back in MDR; you dressed as your outie would want you to be, and Mark with an uncomfortable heat in his core. An itch left unscratched. A horribly awkward silence fills the vast space. Mark wonders if Irv and Dylan know, somehow. And why does that make him feel embarrassed that if they did know, he didn’t finish – or satisfy you?

You carefully slide your divider down, gaining a raised eyebrow from Irv, and flash Mark a knowing smile. He blushes. You pass him a note – Store room, 5.15? Mark nods, rushing off to the bathroom to hide what the thought of it did to him.

#mark s x reader #mark scout x reader #severance #severance fanfiction #mark s smut #not s f w 💀#maximsdeadwife answers #mark s thoughts #mark s imagines

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bloodfilledegg · 4 months ago

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Rewatching severance season 1 and remembering Gretchen’s “i think you just haven’t found your thing” assessment and watching Dylan freezing in complete executive dysfunction paralysis the one (1) time in his day when he encounters choice: the snack vending machine.

iDylan, for better or worse, doesn’t have to (or get to) find his thing. His thing is assigned, it’s macrodata refinement, and with his full attention focused on it he’s refiner of the month.

tl;dr holy shit Dylan has mad executive dysfunction

#severance spoilers #severance #dylan george

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plummy-squish · 5 months ago

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I just finished the book Cultish: The Language of Fanaticism by Amanda Montell. It’s about the language that cults will use to essentially brain wash their members (not in the typical brainwash way that you think about). It’s “the technical terms, the redefined words, the shorthand, the clichés, the euphemisms, logical distortions, and so on set members apart from and above their pedestrian neighbors, families, and coworkers". Montell does not necessarily view "cultish" – the "language" she identifies as the set of linguistic tricks cult leaders use to coerce and manipulate members – negatively, but she believes that people should at least be able to recognize it.”

Anyways fucked me up! In the past two days I’m seeing it everywhere, in marketing, in the slogans in my job, in popular work out groups, cliche phrases we all say…… and then i watched the latest episode of severance! I don’t think I’ll watch this show, and more specifically Mr Milchick and other unsevered employees the same.

In this last episode i wanna talk about that acronym ORTBO that they introduced because it’s the most obvious tactic that they used.

“Thought terminating clichés squash independent thinking” -Amanda montell

Episode 4 Spoilers ahead:

O- outdoor

R-retreat

T- team

B- building

O- occurrence

Wtf when have you ever heard this weirdly stated acronym? Well the innies do all the time! So this is normal for them to hear, i mean they are from the MDR department! Macrodata refinement, even with that longer version of the word it still doesn’t feel like a full explanation as to what their job does. But to them because they are introduced to it and taught to not question their bosses for fear of punishment and so they just go with it. Which now mdr has become part of their everyday vocabulary they don’t even question the meaning.

Cut to this episode, our innies are unconesntionally ripped out of their regular office space and put into this isolating harsh environment phrased as a reward. They are told they have been good enough to earn this trip and give it a title, the ORTBO, and they are very lucky to be experiencing this.

Later when they have been walking for a lot time, feeling lost and hungry are a considering eating a literal frozen dead seal because this “reward” isn’t feeling like a reward. Dylan reminds them, they are on an ORTBO and he repeats its vague meaning trying to convince them not to doubt the company. Almost trying to convince himself as well. This is the same Dylan that’s been getting fed incentives of seeing his family on the side and have been told he’s extra special. He has more to loose than anyone else right now and by repeating it is trying to stop everyone from doubting. Aka the orbto is working.

“Creating special language to influence people’s behavior and beliefs is so effective in part simply because speech is the first thing we’re willing to change about ourselves . . . and also the last thing we let go” -Amanda montell

Cults will make up words and introduce them in this way to make a group of people feel connected. Like they have been let into this new group of special workers allowed out side and given a term phrased as a reward to squash any train of thought leading to doubt or questioning. The further they go on this team building occurrence they will understand the reward.

They also use this new group language to make the group feel superior and anyone on the outside intrigued into what people are talking about. Making learning the language feel connecting with others and like you are understanding the deeper meaning. They feel superior and anyone on the outside feels like they are missing something.

Cross fit does this well! They have new work out terms like dms (delayed muscle soreness) so if a CrossFit gym bro is talking to a regular gym bro and uses the term DMS, the regular gym bro feels dumb for not knowing what this is and not keeping track of it. And is now curious as to what CrossFit has that he is missing before he knows it he’s sucked in. (I bet you they will bring back this term later if they can to alienate other employees in other departments)

Um hello even in the way they advertised this episode is using this tactic! They didn’t give us the meaning or context they gave us the word and now we wanna know what this new acronym is in the next episode.

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Severance universe has literally created a whole new language to keep certain people in the know and others confused. Watch for it!

It’s not always in acronym form; Sometimes it’s a saying, sometimes it’s just a common word given a double meaning to those in the group and out of the group.

Another day another dollar- something we hear all the time to make us just go to work and endure shit we shouldn’t

Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith- something we would hear all the time growing up as Mormon to stop people from questioning and like it’s bad to have critical thought

Endowment- to people out side Mormonism it means gift people inside it’s a whole secret ritual that you are sworn to secrecy or off yourself before telling another soul

lol my work calls its self a village

Its everywhere! It’s in our marketing! It’s in our gyms! It’s at work! We don’t even notice because it’s working.

“Words are the medium through which belief systems are manufactured, nurtured, and reinforced, their fanaticism fundamentally could not exist without them.”-Amanda Montell

Anyways this book has fucked me up and has made severance even better for me

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defiantinnies · 3 months ago

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Emotional Support - Seth Milchick

chapter one

pairing: Seth Milchick x fem!reader

cw: afab reader, slowburn, there will be very minor plot changes, milchick is lowkey unprofessional and ooc as time goes on, eventual sexual content, violence, not proofread

summary: Days in the MDR office are long. The lovely thing about them is him. And your co-workers. Definitely also your co-workers.

The lights. Those bright, white fluorescent lights. Boy, do they hurt your eyes. Your bottom also hurts, likely from sitting all day refining. Your fingers cramp so you crack them.

You look over to Petey’s desk. He’s been gone today. With no one else for Mark to playfully banter with, it has been quiet. You thought you’d enjoy it at first, the quiet, but you quickly realized their chatter had been like white noise for you to concentrate, so you miss it.

Irving, as usual, is refining silently. Mark is concentrated on his screen and Dylan plays around with one of his blue Lumon-gifted finger traps, presumably having finished a file. And you are distracted, studying all of them like rats.

After a moment, the three begin talking. You decide not to interject, instead listening silently to their meaningless conversation—something about Mark and Petey being sick, discussion about Irving’s classic “what’s for dinner” line, the perks.

Then suddenly, he walks in. Milchick. “Good morning, Macrodata Refinement,” he says.

Irving stands. “Hi, Mr. Milchick.”

You almost think he’s a suck up, but you know you’d do the same if you weren’t so sheepish, so you cannot judge him.

Instead of chatting with all of you like you hoped he would, he calls Mark out for a “talk”. Mark exits the MDR office and you hear their footsteps grow further and further away until it is silent. Only you, Dylan, and Irving remain.

After a moment, Dylan speaks up.

“What do you think’s going on?” He asks.

“Maybe it has something to do with Petey.” Irving replies. “What do you think, Y/N?”

“A Petey problem.” You say. It seems that your words trigger silence, because that is what fills the room as you sit with what you said.

Dylan leans in closer. “Do you guys think he got fired?” He questions.

“We cannot assume things like that. Mr. Milchick would tell us if so,” Irving says.

“Irv, you trying to get brownie points or something?” Dylan jokes.

And you try not to laugh, but it is so hard not to. Their eyes direct to you. Dylan starts chuckling after a moment.

“See, even she’s laughing. She thinks so too.” He adds.

“Y/N, do you really think that’s funny?” Irving asks. Your smile falters.

“No. Sorry Irv.” You mutter. To occupy yourself you begin refining again before looking at Dylan. “I agree—Milchick would tell us.”

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Damn. Where the hell is Mark? Now I’m stuck with two lapdogs.”

Irving scoffs at his words. You almost see his professional persona break as he opens his mouth to counter him, but he stops himself before anything gets out.

Everyone goes back to refining, and again, you’re back alone with your thoughts again. Where is Petey? Where is Mark? Sunflower seeds or dried blueberries for lunch? Why did you laugh at Irving? That was rude. You aren’t rude. Or at least you don’t think so. What do they think about you?

Irving is the next to be called out of the office. When he is, Dylan asks Milchick what is going on, and he simply responds with that too-perfect smile.

It is a long while before they return. About an hour of refining, you estimate. And when they do, a pretty lady with an intense strut follows them. She has dark orange hair, almost like the food tokens for the vending machine, and a dark green turtleneck that you are sure violates the dress code. Irving sits at his desk, and Dylan is ready to pop another question.

Milchick pushes a television cart into the room, settling it a short distance in front of a rolling chair that you think was always there.

“Who’s she?” Dylan questions.

“Petey’s replacement,” Irving responds. “Her name is Helly R.”

Mark returns with a bandage on his forehead and sits.

“What happened to your forehead?” Dylan asks Mark.

“A speaker was thrown.” He says.

“Shit.” Dylan looks back at the perpetrator, who is watching herself on the television. Her outie, you mean. Everyone follows suit, glancing over at her. They look back to their screens. You don’t.

Your eyes shift between the television, Helly, and Milchick like clockwork. You are looking at Helly when she turns back and offers you what seems like a look of sympathy before quickly turning back at the television.

Milchick looks at you after her. His gaze holds for a little too long. It is intense, as well. So intense and prolonged, in fact, that you are the one to look away first.

Back to refining again, after the nth distraction that day. Helly soon approaches the desks, specifically Petey’s empty one, alongside Milchick.

“Y/N, will you come with me?” Milchick questions. What? Why you? Is it because of the look? What did you do?

You exchange a quick glance with Mark and Dylan before getting out of your seat and following Milchick into the hallway. You two stop once you are out of the office.

“Would you like to take a walk with me?” He asks. His smile is polished, practiced, like usual.

“Ok.” You respond.

Once you reach the conference room, he speaks up. “I just wanted to check in with you.”

You look over at him as you walk.

“I’ve noticed a slight dip in your refinement metrics today. Nothing alarming, of course, but we strive for consistency here at Lumon,” he continues, “I understand transitions can be an adjustment.”

His slight smile doesn’t waver.

“And I know work can sometimes feel…weighty. Even for our most dedicated refiners. That is why Lumon provides the resources to ensure every worker remains at their most optimal.”

A pause. His steps cease abruptly. Without thinking, yours do too. You turn, catching the quiet scrutiny in his expression.

“Would you like to schedule a wellness session with Ms. Casey?” He finally asks.

You stare a moment. A wellness session would be good for you. A wellness session would keep things running smoothly. A wellness session would be the right choice. His eyes stay on you, patient, waiting.

Milchick notices your hesitation.

“It’s completely voluntary, of course. We, I, want to make sure you are feeling your best,” He claims calmly. His demeanor seems to expect something from you.

“I’m okay. Really. I think Petey’s absence just has me a little bothered. And all the other distractions today, as a matter of fact.” Your fingers play nervously with the hem of your sleeve. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll get back to normal soon. I don’t want to take up Ms. Casey’s time with something so small.”

His expression doesn’t falter, but there is a subtle shift in his gaze as he watches you.

“I understand. Change can be challenging,” he says, his voice smooth but softer than before. “Even for those who adapt well. And you do adapt well.”

For a brief moment, you feel the lightest pressure against your shoulder. His hand, just barely resting there. But the moment you glance down at it, his fingers retreat just as quickly, as if the gesture was never meant to be there.

The two of you resume walking, this time back in the direction of the MDR office. You steal a glance at him. His posture remains upright, hands clasped behind his back now.

“Still, I hope you’ll be kind to yourself. Petey’s absence has been noted, and if you’re feeling… off, that’s understandable. It’s not a flaw.”

He exhales lightly through his nose, the closest thing to a sigh you’ve ever heard from him.

“I won’t push.” A small pause. “But if that changes—if you ever want to talk, or if the weight of everything becomes too much—you only have to say the word.”

The hum of fluorescents overhead fills the brief silence between you. Still, as you both turn the final corner back toward MDR, there’s a noticeable change in the air. You wonder if it’s just you who feels it, or Milchick too.

As if sensing the moment has stretched just long enough, Milchick’s posture straightens again, his usual professional demeanor locking back into place.

“For now, I’ll let you get back to work.” His smile returns. “I appreciate your diligence. Truly.”

As you near the door, he slows just slightly, letting you step ahead.

“Thank you for taking the walk,” he says, voice as smooth and measured as ever, but something in his tone feels lighter. He is letting himself slip again. “I hope the rest of your workday is fulfilling.”

“Yours too, Mr. Milchick.” You smile.

He nods. Smiles, again.

Milchick lingers for a beat, watching as you settle back into your station. Only when you’ve fully returned to your work does he finally turn away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he disappears down the hall.

All eyes are on you. Mark, Dylan, Irving, Kelly—no, Helly, you think—all look at you. Their eyes ask something they don’t need to say, one you’ve heard today after two of the men staring were taken out by Milchick. What did he say to you?

You swallow, shifting in your seat. “It was nothing.” The words feel flimsy the second they leave your mouth.

Dylan scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Right. ‘Nothing.’ That’s why he took you on a little field trip.”

Irving exhales sharply through his nose. “He didn’t reprimand you, did he? Because if your numbers are down, it’s entirely understandable given the circumstances.”

The circumstances. The word hangs there, but you all know what it means. Petey. Helly.

You try not to fidget under their stares, keeping your hands folded neatly on your lap. “He just wanted to check in,” you say carefully. “Make sure I was… adjusting well.”

Dylan is about to say something. But then Mark clears his throat and breaks the moment. “Alright, everyone. Let’s get back to it.” His tone is light, casual, like he’s trying to brush off the tension, but you can tell it’s more for your benefit than anyone else’s.

Again. Refining. The office settles back into the usual rhythm of work and you force yourself to focus on your screen, on the numbers in front of you, but your mind keeps drifting back. The hallway. His voice, softer than usual. The warmth of his hand on your shoulder.

Slowly, absently, you bring a hand to your shoulder, pressing your fingertips to the spot where his touch had been.

There’s nothing there now—just fabric and the familiar shape of your own body. But still, for some reason, you keep your hand there.

#seth milchick #milchick #milchick x reader #seth milchick x reader #mr milchick #mr milchick x reader #severance x reader #severance

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thetyger · 4 months ago

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not to blame a child for this but like. mark and helly are fucking on the severed floor. dylan is stealing his own wife. milchick is putting himself in the break room. irving is fucking dead. what exactly is miss huang managing here that macrodata is NOT getting refined

#severance #severance spoilers #/several ants

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buglism · 4 months ago

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Hi, may I request general romantic relationship headcanons for Mark S? The reader is a refiner. I’d prefer a female reader but gender neutral would be okay. Also if you‘re comfortable with it, I’d welcome nsfw headcanons. I promise to enjoy each headcanon equally. Thank you!

Mark S (Innie) x Fellow Refiner Reader (innie) "The Work is mysterious & Important; EMDR Companion program" rating: 16+ general audience, 18+ for content down the line should it be requested A/N: thank you for being my first severance request, and thank you for enjoying each headcanon equally. The board says sorry for not including NSFW in this section of headcanons, though if you like this the board will send another document your way per your request. Thank you, the board has concluded this authors note. jk, another note: this is... something! and long, not rlly headcanons? eh, this is set in a slight AU bc I couldnt figure out how to write reader as MDR, helly has been with lumon for a little bit and they decided to get her a 'friend' that wasn't mark (despite them both admitting it was attraction but helly would rather be 'whole' when she loves someone or love no one & mark is...yeah you'll see.) to keep her happy :p

Mark S (Innie) & EMDR Therapist reader (gender neutral) Being with Mark S would be like.... pre S2xE7 (sobs)

cw: hints to angst with S2E7 and how im writing readers job (im sorry, i love ms casey so much she needs someone as a coworker too), Panic attack mention/hints to severe anxiety, mental health discussions/therapy practices (EMDR :3 if yall know anything ab this the potential for angst here is, unlimited) No gender mentioned (plz lmk if i missed any i am in fact stoned every time ive come back to this to write, including now), heavy symbolism/references that id love to see if anyone catches, drug mention but no use, i sure as fuck hope this is comprehensible o7 might as well be a fic at this point

being throwing head first into a submarine with absolutely no idea how you got there.

when you woke up on that damn table to the sound of a female voice arguing with a male voice from a small speaker on said table you thought "well, i must be dead and this is hell."

unfortunately you are not.

The female voice, who you come to know as Helly R, is what Ms Casey calls your 'Big sister' in a companion program lumon is trying out. You are one of the first of the co-worker companions, you should feel honored to be apart of lumon history. The second voice is who you've come to know as Mark, head of Macrodata Refinement (MDR).

They had argued for a little bit, helly resisting mark's advice on how to be friendly and approachable, meanwhile you promptly had a panic attack and passed out again on the table; your outie was notified and not surprised. Poor thing.

Your routine was simple; you'd arrive earlier than most; besides Ms. Cobel, who you still cant quite understand. But that's neither this nor that. After you and her make quiet and...somehow terrifying eye contact over the tea machine Irving arrives while she goes to her office.

You'd prep your desk near the MDR's & find the daily 'activity log' set out for you and helly (soon to be the entire MDR department) by Mr Milchick & Ms Casey, scanning over it as you chat with irving.

He's such a sweet older gentleman, you imagine he is what people would see if they were to have a grandfather, or perhaps a kind uncle; though, you're not really sure what those words mean fully, he is kind to you and has started making handmade motivational sticky notes that you find when you return from your lunch, even long after your first week.

Dylan arrives not too long after, you can't quite place him; he's caught somewhere between a complete and utter asshole or oddly the voice of reason? but you don't bother one another much, once you found a slightly broken finger trap on your desk, three days in and you were not adjusting as well as lumon thought you would. So, of course you press him, he says he "didn't want that junk anyways, it barely worked for shit. Must've thought your desk was the trash can"

he doesn't mean it, you know he doesn't; Or you did, because when you deflate and come back from another 'bonding excursion' with helly you find a few extra food tokens on your desk along with a new note from irving. "he says sorry, he doesn't but i feel he should so i made him give you some of his tokens as penance. - Irving B" and a drawing of your face smiling at a forward angle sits under his signature. His outtie must be very artistically talented, it makes sense why he spends so much time at O&D.

And then man of the hour & helly arrive around the same time, they stagger us, you know?

You and helly start your morning in a room near the wellness center, Ms. casey set's it up special for you and her; the décor something between an office room & a conversation pit with desk chairs. It smells of a soft lavender & spice as you two chat about the daily topic, in the beginning it was awkward, but you and helly do grow close, well. As close as lumon allows. (Ms casey comes in often with drinks, usually bottled water. And while lumon is listening, sometimes she allows herself to sit in silence with you two while you chat, piping up sometimes with her own comment. As odd as she is she is a comforting aura in Lumon, how lucky you are)

now with mark it started off as just coworkers, you didn't quite have a major focus on romance; a lot of internal conflict arose the last time you tried to think about that.

Did you have a spouse? did he have a spouse? what are the ethicals of innies dating if their outties are married? is that cheating? Its against lumon policy thats for sure.

you spark conversation every so often, chatting with him and MDR through out your day as you catalog their mood patterns in the journal provided by Lumon.

He's more fond of you than he would like to admit, though still struggling with his own internal conflict you two find solace when he has a particularly rough day.

"You don't have to baby sit me-" he says, sitting in the same room you and helly have grown fond of, a red and green candle lit by Ms Casey sits in the center of a dark oak stool nearby.

"It's not babysitting mark, I asked Mr Milchick if me and Ms Casey could do something to help ease your stress. He recommended we try a therapeutic bonding exercise, Ms. Casey has taught me so much. Let me help, please?"

you may wonder, what could lumon do to help mark? Well

"I still don't understand exactly what you want me to do?" the clay ball is an odd sensation in his palm, somewhere between wet playdough and overmixed clay

"You let the ball form however you want, sculpt till you're happy and we chat. It's similar to something Ms casey taught me about EMDR, Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy."

He lets the ball sit on the table for a moment, staring at its pale color before he sighs and begins shaping it.

At the same time you begin as well, the cold clay takes forms easily as you mold its first section "what emotions do you feel at the moment, Mark?" he pauses

"Frustration, i guess. and a little embarrassment- i mean how is molding clay and talking gonna help me when there's nothing wrong with me." his voice is filled with hot frustration, the corners of his lips tremble as he forms the base of his sculpture.

the room is quiet as tears seem to fall from the corner of his eyes, but he doesn't stop sculpting as I sit silently next to him

"it just feels so...hopeless" he says, forming one of the many branches "I feel, hopeless. I guess" you smile, you understand. The clay between your fingers molds into the thorax of a beetle like creature, you're not sure its name yet but you know it well enough as if you've sculpted this a thousand times before.

"I suppose we all feel hopeless" i admit to him as my eyes drift back down to the clay, antennae form easily; the small ridges made by indenting and forming with your nails "But i want you to know, when I awoke on that table; though i did faint, i wasn't scared of you. You and helly have become very important people in the 78 hours i have been awake so far, And i think you should be proud of that." i say and lean back from the table, sitting atop it a medium clay sculpted firefly.

He blinks, once, twice seemingly confused and sees he's formed a tree with many spiraling branches. He wipes his tears against his sleeve and glances at me with something beginning akin to a soft smile before he shifts and nods.

"would you like to go back, mark?" "yeah, thank you. "Of course, mark."

since then you and ms casey have been tasked with keeping MDR's moods within productive margins, managing their tempers and logging outbursts (mainly from dylan, keir help him before you smack him)

Though you and mark have grown close, during your sessions and after the overtime contingency especially; where you found out ms casey was his wife, though it was after she had already been sent down.

You had grown quiet since her depart, your final meeting was quiet as you gazed at her in your once shared space in the wellness center.

"Ms Casey-" "you are one of the brightest students I could ever ask for, I enjoyed every moment observing you use the practices we talked about. It matters to me deeply that you took what I had to say to heart." the tears flow silently and freely "Ms casey." "yes?"

"May i have a hug? before you go?" you didn't have to be an empath to see the barely contained sadness as she opened her arms and allowed you to burry yourself into her, crying softly.

Mark and you spoke of her often, even as things changed and Ms cobel was fired, you two found the quiet moments to share space for your woe.

You didn't expect during the overtime contingency that you two would be in the same place, however.

Stepping into the elevator you turn to see mark and helly, she waves at you and smiles before speaking "You got this, remember the plan and we'll be alright. And hey, maybe your outie is somewhere really cool" i smile as the doors close, eyes locking with marks before they shut

Your head swims as you feel connected, brown eyes stare at you confusedly, a woman; wavy hair and a fair face greet you

"hey, you good?" she asks as she finishes chewing what looks to be dried nuts and berries

"oh? yeah, sorry, little lightheaded-" you gaze around, there's so many people here, it looks so warm and homey but soon the sound of everyone talking hits and you screw your eyes shut "Oh boy, you look faint lets get ya into the back bedroom my dear" before you can protest her hands rest gently but firmly on your back, you don't resist as the woman ushers you past people and sights you've never seen before

Your head pounds as you arrive in a room with three beds, when your eyebrows raise she makes a gesture of 'don't ask' before letting you sit in the middle bed, a racecar. "are you sure you're alright? not gonna have a panic attack on me are you? You haven't had one in a while, are you okay?"

You stare at her face, she seems familiar in a comforting sense just as it hits you; the plan "c-can i talk to you about something, actually?" the tone you take catches her instantly, before she can reply a voice peeks behind her "Your brothers looking for you Devon" she turns and nods before taking a glance at you

"After Ricken gets done with his reading we can chat, shouldn't be too long, do you think you need to stay in here or-" "i-i'd rather not be alone, actually" you don't understand your woe, but its there and its prevalent, the thought of being alone with the amount of unknown people makes bile rise in the back of your throat.

"no yeah sure, you can come sit with me if you want; though i need to pump and I have no idea where my equipment is" you nod, a pump? the thought crosses your mind, images of hydraulics or machine pumps fill your brain and you look at her for a moment before you decide its better than nothing to go with her and help her find whatever she needs, she feels safe; like Ms Casey.

You follow behind her as she is handed a baby, who is handed to you; you stare at the small little wonder in your arms for a moment, she stares back at you and the world slows, a soft smile grazing your face as the little girl takes your finger into her tiny fist. You stare at her in wide-eyed silence before a familiar voice pitches in

"Y/n? Is that-" your head snaps up and you see him, mark. You eyes dilate and you try to stutter out a reply before the woman, Devon comes over "Oh hey, heard you were looking for me?" she looks up at him, it clicks, they're related.

The small infant shifts in your arms and becomes fussy, you must look like a fish out of water as Devon smiles and coos at the infant as she takes the child back into her arms "Okay you two are like, really weird. Did you-" she comes closer to you and mark "did you guys take an edible before coming here? and you didnt tell me-" "no no, listen, uh. Can we chat somewhere?" mark says and you nod, Devon looks at you suspiciously before the baby whines again and she sighs with frustration

"listen, i don't care if you did- though i'm a little peeved you didn't tell me so i could snag one- but i gotta pump so we" she gestures to the three of you "can chat after that, i gotta find Ms Selvig bc mama needs alone time or she'll go insane"

she departs into the crowed leaving you and mark alone, your eyes connect and without thinking shift closer to him as the crowed seems to dense back up "where are we?" your voice is silenced by the murmur of what feels like millions of voices

"i, don't know. But i think that's my wife so-" "ew no that's definitely your sister, you guys look the same" he makes a face before it seems to connect "ah, yeah."

Devon returns and you two are able to go back into the racecar bedroom, her face reading frustration and confusion

"okay whats up? because ricken is gonna start reading soon and he gets a little anxious-" "Okay so, i..don't know how to tell you this"

(and i dont remember how it happened, blame the weed)

When you reawake inside the lumon elevator your heart is in your throat, you steady yourself against the railings, heaving in breaths as the doors open. The room is different, you step out and are greeted by Mr Milchick and... a teen girl.

"what the-" "Hello, Care to wait for the rest of MDR to arrive with me and Ms Huang?"

#severence #severance x reader #mark s x reader #mark scout #severance apple tv #asked by: veryfancydoilies

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