#Factory Line Marking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoshifighting · 11 months ago

Text

Producer!Woozi x Celebrity!Reader

— Synopsis: You and Woozi have admired each other's work for a long time. Now, he has the opportunity to produce an album with you. Working on an album for a worldwide artist like you brings him immense joy... and turn-ons. — WC: 4.8k — WARNINGS: Smut, studio sex (Universe Factory), oral (f.receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, fingering, clit stimulation, g'spot stimulation, aftercare, reader fangirling over Woozi shirtless in Ruby's M/V mentioned.

Your name is splashed across big screens from Times Square to the Grammy Awards. Music didn't just enter your life; it crashed in, loud and powerful, sweeping you off your feet. It became your everything.

You went from singing in front of millions of people to strumming your guitar alone in a poorly illuminated room, lost in your own world. Music was your passion, your escape, and your purpose all rolled into one.

With that passion came endless opportunities. You were constantly on the move, traveling from one country to another, meeting people you once only dreamed of being in the same room with. You found yourself breathing the same air as your idols, sharing stages with legends.

Friendships blossomed, some fast and fleeting, others deep and lasting. The world knew your name. Your songs played in every state, on every continent, bridging gaps between different cultures and bringing people together.

Those cultures left a mark on you too.

You soaked in the richness of each place, each new experience shaping your music and your perspective. You remembered your early days, the hunger for inspiration, the late-night searches for new artists.

One night, you stumbled upon a webcam live stream with a bunch of boys in a neon green melona room. You laughed and loved watching them, their energy infectious even through a screen. You became a fan, following their journey as you built your own.

But here's the thing about being a superstar: time is never on your side. Your schedule was always packed, and despite being in contact with some of the Seventeen members through DMs and mentioning your admiration for them in interviews, meeting them in person was a challenge. You were in Seoul for a tour once, and they appeared on your show, but there was never enough time to truly connect.

Now, after years of hectic schedules and fleeting encounters, you finally had a moment to breathe. You were working on a new album, and for the first time in a long time, you had the opportunity to switch things up. Your usual producers were fantastic, but this time, something different was calling you. An opportunity was waiting in South Korea, and it had your heart racing with excitement.

You, your manager, and the company representing the group had been in talks for months, working out the details. The goal was clear: to collaborate with Woozi, the musical genius from Seventeen, on your new album.

When your team informed Woozi that you had just arrived at HYBE, his palms began to sweat. He never imagined he’d get to work with someone of your caliber. The fact that you specifically wanted to work with him made it all the more surreal.

As you walked through the HYBE building, your assistant and one of the staff members gave you a tour. You were almost giddy with excitement. The walls were lined with photos and awards, the air buzzing with creativity. When you finally approached the recreation area and spotted Woozi, his cheeks turned a shade of red. He was nervous, but seeing you smile so brightly at the sight of him sent a sense of relief through his system.

You were genuinely happy to see him.

As you step into the recreation area and see Woozi standing there, your cheeks flush a deep red. You can’t contain your excitement. "Woozi, I'm so happy to see you," you say, extending a hand, unsure if a hug would be appropriate.

He senses your shyness, and, in a moment of genuine openness, he breaks through his own reserve and gives you an awkward hug. It's brief and a bit clumsy, but it’s sincere. As you pull away, you swear this is the happiest moment of your life.

"I’ve admired your work for so long," you say, your eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "Your music is incredible."

Woozi shakes his hands in front of him, a shy smile spreading across his face. His long hair swings slightly as he responds, "Oh, no, really, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve done. I'm honestly just honored to be here with you."

You laugh softly, feeling a bit more at ease. "Are you kidding? I still remember hearing your solo for the first time and just being blown away."

Woozi's cheeks tint pink as he looks down, scratching the back of his head. "Thank you, that means a lot coming from you. I remember when we all watched your first big performance. We were in our green room, and we were all just in awe."

You grin, recalling that exact moment you first saw them. "I remember that! I was so inspired by you guys. It’s amazing how things come full circle, isn’t it?"

He nods, his eyes meeting yours with shyness "It really is. I never thought I’d get the chance to work with someone I looked up to so much." Woozi chuckles softly, breaking the silence. "By the way, I saw your post on Twitter about wanting to visit the Universe Factory—my studio."

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you cover your face with your hands. "Oh my God, you guys see my tweets? Oh nooo!"

He laughs, a sound that's both comforting and infectious. "Yeah, they're hard to miss," he admits. "And I may have received a few screenshots of your reaction from 'Ruby'."

You gasp, mortified as memories of your tweets flood back. You remember typing frantically about needing a defibrillator when Woozi appeared shirtless in the music video. "Oh no, those tweets. I can't believe you saw those."

He’s grinning. "It's okay, really. It was kind of sweet to be honest. We all had a good laugh about it."

Peeking through your fingers, you sigh. "Well, now that my embarrassment is out in the open, I guess it’s only up from here, right?"

Woozi grins, a twinkle in his eye. "Absolutely. Besides, it’s nice to know we have mutual fans of each other’s work. It makes this collaboration even more special."

You nod, recalling how your fanbase and Seventeen’s had always gotten along so well. “Our fans really hit it off, didn’t they? It’s like they’ve been rooting for this collaboration all along.”

Woozi smiles and gestures for you to follow him. “Come on, let me show you the Universe Factory.”

Walking into his studio, you’re immediately struck by how incredible it looks. Purple lights cast a calming glow over the space, and the view from the windows is breathtaking. Everything, from the colors to the high-tech equipment, is perfectly arranged. You can tell he put a lot of effort into making this place special.

“Wow, Woozi, this is amazing,” you say, your eyes wide with admiration. “I always saw photos of your studio, but in person, it’s even better.”

“Thanks, but it’s just a studio.” Woozi’s shy smile returns, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes. “I wanted it to be just right for when you got here. I spent the whole week cleaning and moving things around. Even used some scented sprays.”

You laugh, feeling a snugness in your chest. “You didn’t have to go through all that trouble for me, but I appreciate it.”

He shrugs, his smile widening. “I wanted everything to be perfect.”

Woozi shows you some of the instrumentals he’s been working on, and they’re incredible. The beats blend seamlessly with the lyrics you sent him, and you can already hear the potential for something amazing. He’s practically buzzing with enthusiasm to hear how your voice will mesh with his music.

“Let’s get you in the recording room,” Woozi says, leading you to the booth.

You put on the headphones and glance through the glass at Woozi in the control room. As you start warming up your voice, he watches with a small smile. You can see him scoffing lightly, clearly amused by your funny warm-up techniques.

He presses the intercom button. “I’m definitely going to use that later.”

You sulk playfully, giving him a pout. “Come on, don’t make fun of me.”

He laughs, the sound filling the control room. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just cute the way you warm up.”

Rolling your eyes but smiling, you turn your focus to the paper in front of you. Woozi cues up the beat, and you start with a rough draft, feeling your way through the melody. Even in this initial take, Woozi can’t help but feel impressed. Your voice is powerful, yet it fits perfectly with the track.

You glance up occasionally, catching Woozi’s eyes. He gives you a thumbs-up, his appreciation evident even through the glass. As you continue, you find yourself getting lost in the music, and Woozi’s focus never wavers. When you finish, you look up to see him grinning widely.

“That was just the warm-up?” he says, pressing the button again. “I’m really excited to hear the final version.”

You laugh, feeling a rush of confidence. “Yeah, just the warm-up. Wait till you hear the real thing.”

Woozi nods, eyes gleaming with joy. “I can’t wait. Let’s do this.”

You start to sing for real now, fully immersed in the music. The lyrics flow smoothly, and your voice dances effortlessly over the instrumentals. When it comes to a tricky melisma, you frown slightly, pausing to ask Woozi through the intercom;

"Which tone should I use for this part?"

Woozi, equally focused, listens intently as you demonstrate two different versions. Both sound amazing to him, and he takes a moment to think. He taps his chin thoughtfully before pressing the button. "Try the second one, but start a half-step higher and then slide down smoothly."

You nod, absorbing his suggestion. You take a deep breath and try it his way. The moment you hit that melisma, sliding down effortlessly, the note hangs in the air. Woozi’s eyes light up, and he gives you an enthusiastic thumbs-up from the control room.

As you're in the middle of recording, Soonyoung suddenly appears in the studio, his presence bringing an unexpected burst of energy. You catch sight of him through the glass and wave enthusiastically, a big smile spreading across your face. Soonyoung returns the gesture, his excitement palpable even from a distance. He settles on the couch behind Woozi, watching the two of you work with keen interest.

Woozi presses the intercom button and gives you a nod. "Try going a bit higher for the adlibs."

You nod and sing the section, hitting the high notes while looking at Woozi for confirmation. He listens intently, his gaze dark in focus. “You did so good. That was perfect.”

You can hear Soonyoung’s voice from the back. “He never praises us like that.”

Woozi turns in his chair, giving Soonyoung a deadly glare.

Soonyoung, unphased, grins and stretches as he stands up. “Alright, alright. I know when I’m not wanted,” he says dramatically, walking toward the door. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses and turns back. “But after you’re done recording, we’re taking you to dinner Y/N. No excuses.”

You give him thumbs up. Feeling the warmth of their camaraderie. Woozi shakes his head but smiles, turning back to you.

“Ignore him. Let’s finish this up. You’re doing great.”

After skipping through some tracks, you find yourself sitting in Woozi's incredibly comfortable chair, fiddling with his equipment. The buttons, dials, and sliders are all so intriguing, and you can’t help but feel like a kid in a candy store, discovering new settings and features.

Woozi watches you from a few feet away, arms crossed, a smile playing on his lipsㄧHe knows you’re no stranger to studios and equalizers, but he loves seeing the joy in your eyes as you explore his setup like it’s the coolest thing in the worldㄧHe wonders if your producers ever let you have this much hands-on control.

“Hey, Woozi, how do you tweak the master mix settings here?” you ask, looking up from the console.

He steps forward, moving behind you. His arms come to rest on either side of the chair, effectively caging you in as he leans over to type on the keyboard.

“You just need to go into this menu,” he says, his voice low and calm. He types swiftly, his fingers dancing over the keys. “Then, adjust the settings here. See?”

You nod, trying to focus on his explanation, but the closeness is overwhelming. You can feel the warmth of his body, his head so close to yours.

It’s hard to concentrate when you’re not even breathing.

His voice is soft and steady, his breath warm on your skin. You watch his hands move expertly, typing commands and making adjustments with practiced ease. Your heart is pounding so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it.

“And here, you can add some reverb” he continues, “See how that changes the sound?”

No, not when he’s this near.

You nod, feeling a bit dazed. He tells you to try it yourself, and you reach for the adjustment, your hand hovering uncertainly over the controls. Woozi lets go of the mouse and places his hand over yours, guiding it to lower and raise the equalizer. His skin is soft and warm against yours, and the contact almost makes you melt on his chair.

“Like this,” he murmurs, gently moving your hand with his. “Just a little adjustment here and there.”

You can hardly concentrate on the settings, your mind fixated on the sensation of his hand over yours.

You turn your face slightly toward his, and he looks at you, the proximity between you almost intolerable.

Your eyes lock, and for a moment, the world outside the studio fades away. His gaze is intense, filled with something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Woozi’s hand squeezes yours lightly.

You can feel your pulse quicken. His eyes flicker to your lips for a brief second before meeting your gaze again. The moment stretches, neither of you moves, both caught in the electric current that seems to have taken over the room.

Finally, Woozi clears his throat, breaking the spell but not the connection. "There," he says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You’ve got it."

As you try to focus on adjusting the settings, Woozi leaves your hand on the side of yours, allowing you to make the changes yourself. You manage to make the adjustments, and as the sound fills the room, Woozi's voice breaks through the silence. "That's it. You're doing great." he praises.

You swear if he praises you again like that, you’re going to fucking wet his chair. You don’t even notice that you’re biting your bottom lip, too lost in the horniness.

Woozi’s words echo in your mind as you try to focus on the task at hand, but it's hard to concentrate with the way his body looks in the black shirt he's wearing. The fabric clings to him in all the right places, emphasizing his toned physique.

Every movement he makes with his hands, seems deliberate and calculated, and you can’t tear your eyes away.

You force yourself to push the distracting thoughts aside, but it's a losing battle.

Your gaze remains fixated on his hands as he places them on the border of the desk, supporting his body. His shoulders brush against the back of your head, and you can feel his presence looming over you. It’s as if he knows exactly what’s passing through your mind.

He brushes a hand over your shoulder, the sensation lingering even after he presses it between his hands in a gentle massage. You feel his lips tentatively brush against the corner of yours.

Caught off guard, you melt into his touch, your fingers intertwining with his as you lean into the kiss. His lips are soft against yours, a perfect match to the warmth of his touch. But when he catches you melting against his hand, he doesn't pull away. Instead, he turns the chair to face him, his hand sliding behind your neck to pull you closer.

His kiss deepens, and you respond eagerly, your hands sliding to each side of his face before tangling in his hair at the back of his neck. The kiss is desperate, as if you’ve both been holding back.

But when you finally break apart, gasping for breath, you realize that you can’t resist any longer. You get up from the chair, his hands desperately grab your waist, pulling your bodies together

The way he holds your waist makes your tank top bunch up between his fingers, his palms feeling your belly's bare skin. You whimper against his lips, "Hmm, Woozi..."

He pulls back slightly, "Jihoon," he corrects gently, "Call me Jihoon."

Your stomach flutters at the intimacy of calling him by his real name. "Jihoon," you repeat softly, savoring the sound.

He smiles, a soft, almost shy smile that makes your heart skip a beat. Then he leans in again, kissing your cheek, your jaw, and your neck. Each touch of his lips sends you on cloud nine, making you arch against his chest, your hands gripping his bicep for support.

"Jihoon," you murmur again, the name feeling more natural on your lips each time.

His hands move up your sides, sliding under your tank top, his fingers warm against your skin. He pulls the fabric up, and you lift your arms, allowing him to remove it completely. The cool air of the studio contrasts with the heat of his touch, making your nipples harden.

He takes a moment to admire you, his eyes roaming over your body "You're beautiful," he whispers.

You blush, feeling a little shy under his gaze. "You too," you reply, reaching up to touch his face, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw.

He smiles and pulls you closer, his lips finding yours once more. This kiss is deeper, more urgent, as if he's trying to pour all his feelings into it. You respond with equal fervor, your hands exploring the planes of his chest, and the muscles of his back.

Jihoon’s hands move to your waist again, his fingers brushing the waistband of your jeans. He pauses, looking at you for permission. You nod, your breath hitching in the process.

He unbuttons your jeans, sliding them down your hips and letting them pool at your feet. You step out of them, standing before him in just your underwear. He takes a moment to admire you again, his eyes dark with desire, a little hidden under his long bangs.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head. He helps you, tossing it aside. Your hands explore his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his milky skin, the steady beat of his heart.

This time, his hands roam more freely, exploring every inch of your body. His touch is gentle, yet possessive, as if he's trying to memorize every curve, every contour. After all, he doesn't know when he'll be able to touch you like that again. That is, if there is a next time.

You respond in kind, your hands moving over his body, savoring the feel of his muscles flexing under your fingertips.

He guides you toward the couch, his lips never leaving yours. You lie down, pulling him with you, your bodies molding together perfectly. He kisses his way down your neck, your chest, his lips leaving a trail of saliva in their wake.

"Jihoon," you moan, your hands tangling in his hair as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently. The sensation numbs your mind, making you arch against him.

Jihoon makes you relax on his couch, but you suddenly become very aware when his fingers slide your panties to the side, moistening his fingers with your lubrication. He opens his eyes to watch you squirm as your pussy sucks his finger inside without effort. His cold finger fits perfectly inside you, and you can feel him teasing to put another one. You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your moans.

He laughs softly, taking your hand off your mouth. "The studio is soundproof. You can moan as loud as you want."

You mentally thank him because with his fingers now perfectly entering and leaving you, a loud moan escapes your mouth, and the sound of your wet pussy isn't discreet. You're loving the intense gaze he has on you, like you're about to be devoured. He tries to kiss you, but you can only moan as he fingers you.

Jihoon curls his fingers on your g'spot, repeating the motion again and again. You let out a strangled moan, squirming under his touch. "Don't do that, or I'll mess up your sofa," you warn, your voice shaky with pleasure.

He looks at you from under his bangs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I don't care about the sofa," he murmurs, pressing a hand on your lower belly to intensify the curl of his fingers.

The added pressure makes you scream, "Please, please!"

Jihoon smirks, his fingers moving faster inside you. "Please what? Tell me what you need," he demands, his voice commanding.

"Please, Jihoon, I need more," you gasp, your body arching against his hand.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "More of what? My fingers? My mouth?" he asks, his tone teasing.

"Both," you whimper, feeling desperate for more of his touch.

Jihoon chuckles, his lips brushing against your ear. "Greedy, aren't you? But I'll give you what you want," he promises, his fingers curling and pressing against your g'spot with relentless precision.

You cry out, your body trembling. "Jihoon, I'm going to—"

"Do it," he whispers, his calm raspy voice making you bite your bottom lip. "Come for me."

Your hands clutch at the couch as Jihoon's head moves from above you to between your legs. The moment his tongue touches your clit, you can't hold back, and you come almost immediately.

He stops for a moment, just to admire the sight of you arching your back on his couch, his fingers deep inside you, all wet as you roll your hips on them, moaning in his studio, naked. He never thought it would happen, but he isn't complaining.

You discover he's stronger than you thought when he holds your hips down to keep you in place before he devours your pussy. You roll your eyes at the sensitivity and the sight of his fangs tickling your skin, making you giggle between moans.

The scene is completely sinful. You prop yourself up on one elbow and hold his hair up to see his face, flushed but with closed eyes, all concentrated on giving you pleasure. You find it incredibly cute, and you can't help but praise him.

"Jihoon, you're doing so good," you murmur, your voice trembling. "You're so focused, it's amazing."

In response, he sucks your clit inside his mouth, making you pull his hair a little. He hisses softly, and you quickly apologize. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

He looks up at you, a playful glint in his eyes. "It's okay," he says, his voice slightly rough. "I like it."

You can't help but moan louder as he resumes his attention to your clit. His fingers continue their relentless rhythm inside you, and you feel the pressure building again.

"Jihoon, please," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hold.

You gasp, and Jihoon stops, making your head fall back as you whine, your orgasm interrupted. He kneels on the couch, lowering his sweatpants and underwear to his thighs. You shake your head, saying, "I want you to take it all off."

He smiles, obliged, then comes completely naked over you. You spread your legs for him, wide, and he slides his cock between your folds, eliciting a whine from you. Still supporting yourself on your elbow, you grab his hair, pulling it slightly, earning a moan from him.

As your tongues wrap around each other, his cock slides inside you, and you open your mouth in a silent moan, your back plopping on the couch. He moans at the sensation of your gummy walls wrapping his cock, sucking him in welcomely. He also smiles, finding your reaction endearing.

Jihoon rolls his hips slowly, letting you adjust to the fullness of his cock. The slow stimulation draws moans from your lips, and you gasp, "Not only do you make amazing music, but you fuck so damn good too."

Jihoon lets out a genuine laugh, his breath warm against your skin. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, so shy, and you pull him back, wanting to see his eyes. He glances at you, amusement shining in his gaze.

"You really know how to flatter a guy," he chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

You laugh with him, the sound mingling with the intimate atmosphere around you. "It's true," you say, your voice lighter.

Jihoon shakes his head, still smiling, but the moment of levity shifts as he feels your walls tighten around him. His smile fades into a look of intense pleasure, his face contorts, and he starts to moan, the sound vibrating through you.

"Oh, God," he groans, his hips picking up a rhythm that makes your breath hitch. "You feel so good."

The sounds of skin slapping, your moans, and the low hum from the computer rendering the music become the backdrop to your intense session with Jihoon. Your breasts bounce with every thrust, and your hair spreads wildly across the couch. He can feel your wetness around his cock, spreading to his thighs and the couch. You brace yourself with one hand on the couch's arm, your lips plump and sensitive from the kisses and bites.

Jihoon closes his eyes, focusing solely on the sensation of your pussy. If he keeps looking at how much pleasure you're experiencing, he might come too soon. But you can already sense his cock throbbing inside you.

"Open your eyes," you urge him, catching on.

He opens them, sulking a bit, and you give him a devilish smile. You lick your fingers, sliding them down your body to circle your clit, doubling your pleasure and his. His mouth falls open at the sight.

"Fuck, nooo..." he mumbles, watching your every move.

You revel in the sight of his abs flexing, showing that his orgasm is near. Sensing his impending climax, Jihoon pulls out, giving himself a moment to regain control. When he's ready, he slides back in, making you arch your back and curl your toes, triggering your orgasm instead.

You smile at his audacity, and he grins, seeing that his tactic worked. "F-fuck you… I'm cumming, Jihoon," you warn, closing your eyes as the pleasure builds.

He speeds up his hips, making you stop breathing for a second before a deep moan escapes from your chest. You feel yourself clenching and unclenching around him, your body shuddering as you reach your peak. Panting hard, Jihoon pulls out just in time, spilling his cum on your belly as he strokes his cock. His body trembles, and his eyes lock with yours, his bangs falling over his forehead.

Jihoon takes a long look at your spent body, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "How about a nap before dinner?" he suggests softly.

You close your eyes and nod, feeling the exhaustion settling in. "Right..." he murmurs, getting up from the couch.

You miss the warmth of his body immediately and let out a small whine. He chuckles, "I'm coming back," he assures you as he grabs a box of Kleenex and brings some tissues to clean you up. Gently, he wipes your belly and between your legs, his touch tender.

"I'm glad we finished some songs," he teases, his eyes twinkling. "You don't look like you could continue... at least not today."

You scoff, too tired to come up with a witty response. Jihoon starts dressing you, carefully slipping your top back on, your panties, and leaving your jeans off so you can nap comfortably. Once you're settled, he dresses himself quickly.

From the corner of the studio, he fetches a thin blanket draped over a poltrone. He covers you with it and then lays down beside you, pulling you close.

"You really wore me out," you murmur, a hint of amusement in your voice.

He grins, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Likewise," he says. "But it was worth it."

You let out a contented sigh, feeling more relaxed than you had in a long time. "I can't wait to hear how the songs turn out," you confessed, your voice growing dreamier with each passing moment.

Jihoon hummed in agreement, his fingers resuming their soothing motions on your back. "Me too," he murmured. "But for now, let's just enjoy this."

And so you did. Wrapped in each other's arms, you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, you snuggle into him, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you towards sleep.

2K notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

"Efficiency" left the Big Three vulnerable to smart UAW tactics

Tomorrow (September 22), I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. Tomorrow night, I'll be in person at LA's Book Soup for the launch of Justin C Key's "The World Wasn’t Ready for You." On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

It's been 143 days since the WGA went on strike against the Hollywood studios. While early tactical leaks from the studios had studio execs chortling and twirling their mustaches about writers caving once they started losing their homes, the strikers aren't wavering – they're still out there, pounding the picket lines, every weekday:

https://www.cnbc.com/2023/08/09/how-hollywood-writers-make-ends-meet-100-days-into-the-writers-guild-strike.html

The studios obviously need writers. That gleeful, anonymous studio exec who got such an obvious erotic charge at the thought of workers being rendered homeless as punishment for challenging his corporate power completely misread the room, and his comments didn't demoralize the writers. Instead, they inspired the actors to go on strike, too.

But how have the writers stayed out since May Day? How have the actors stayed out for 69 days since their strike started on Bastille Day? We can thank the studios for that! As it turns out, the studios have devoted so much energy to rendering creative workers as precarious as possible, hiring as little as they can getting away with and using punishing overtime as a substitute for adequate staffing that they've eliminated all the workers who can't survive on side-hustles and savings for six or seven months at a time.

But even for those layoff-hardened workers, long strikes are brutal, and of course, all the affiliated trades, from costumers to grips, are feeling the pain. The strike fund only goes so far, and non-striking, affected workers don't even get that. That's why I've been donating regularly to the Entertainment Community Fund, which helps all affected workers out with cash transfers (I just gave them another $500):

https://secure2.convio.net/afa/site/Donation2?df_id=8117&8117.donation=form1&mfc_pref=T

As hot labor summer is revealed as a turning point – not just a season – long strikes will become the norm. Bosses still don't believe in worker power, and until they get their minds right, they're going to keep on trying to starve their workforces back inside. To get a sense of how long workers will have to hold out, just consider the Warrior Met strike, where Alabama coal-miners stayed out for 23 months:

https://www.thenation.com/article/activism/warrior-met-strike-union/

As Kim Kelly explained to Adam Conover in the latest Factually podcast, the Alabama coal strikers didn't get anywhere near the attention that the Hollywood strikers have enjoyed:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvyMHf7Yg0Q

(To learn more about the untold story of worker organizing, from prison unions to the key role that people of color and women played in labor history, check out Kelly's book, "Fight Like Hell," now in paperback:)

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Fight-Like-Hell/Kim-Kelly/9781982171063

Which brings me to the UAW strike. This is an historic strike, the first time that the UAW has struck all of the Big Three automakers at once. Past autoworkers' strikes have marked turning points for all American workers. The 1945/46 GM strike established employers' duty to cover worker pensions, health care, and cost of living allowances. The GM strike created the American middle-class:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-18-uaw-strikes-built-american-middle-class/

The Big Three are fighting for all the marbles here. They are refusing to allow unions to organize EV factories. Given that no more internal combustion cars will be in production in just a few short years, that's tantamount to eliminating auto unions altogether. The automakers are flush with cash, including billions in public subsidies from multiple bailouts, along with billions more from greedflation price-gouging. A long siege is inevitable, as the decimillionaires running these companies earn their pay by starving out their workers:

https://www.businessinsider.com/general-motors-ceo-mary-barra-salary-auto-workers-strike-uaw-2023-9

The UAW knows this, of course, and their new leadership – helmed by the union's radical president Shawn Fain – has a plan. UAW workers are engaged in tactical striking, shutting down key parts of the supply chain on a rolling basis, making the 90-day strike fund stretch much farther:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2023-09-18-labors-militant-creativity/

In this project, they are greatly aided by Big Car's own relentless pursuit of profit. The automakers – like every monopolized, financialized sector – have stripped all the buffers and slack out of their operations. Inventory on hand is kept to a bare minimum. Inputs are sourced from the cheapest bidder, and they're brought to the factory by the lowest-cost option. Resiliency – spare parts, backup machinery – is forever at war with profits, and profits have won and won and won, leaving auto production in a brittle, and easily shattered state.

This is especially true for staffing. Automakers are violently allergic to hiring workers, because new workers get benefits and workplace protection. Instead, the car companies routinely offer "voluntary" overtime to their existing workforce. By refusing this overtime, workers can kneecap production, without striking.

Enter "Eight and Skate," a campaign among UAW workers to clock out after their eight hour shift. As Keith Brower Brown writes for Labor Notes, the UAW organizers are telling workers that "It’s crossing an unofficial picket line to work overtime. It’s helping out the company":

https://labornotes.org/2023/09/work-extra-during-strike-auto-workers-say-eight-and-skate

Eight and Skate has already started to work; the Buffalo Ford plant can no longer run its normal weekend shifts because workers are refusing to put in voluntary overtime. Of course, bosses will strike back: the next step will be forced overtime, which will lead to the unsafe conditions that unionized workers are contractually obliged to call paid work-stoppages over, shutting down operations without touching the strike fund.

What's more, car bosses can't just halt safety stoppages or change the rules on overtime; per the UAW's last contract, bosses are required to bargain on changes to overtime rules:

https://uaw.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/Working-Without-Contract-FAQ-FINAL-2.pdf

Car bosses have become lazily dependent on overtime. At GM's "highly profitable" SUV factory in Arlington, TX, normal production runs a six-days, 24 hours per day. Workers typically work five eight-hour days and nine hours on Saturdays. That's been the status quo for 11 years, but when bosses circulated the usual overtime signup sheet last week, every worker wrote "a big fat NO" next to their names.

Writing for The American Prospect, David Dayen points out that this overtime addiction puts a new complexion on the much-hyped workerpocalypse that EVs will supposedly bring about. EVs are much simpler to build than conventional cars, the argument goes, so a US transition to EVs will throw many autoworkers out of work:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-09-20-big-threes-labor-shortages-uaw/

But the reality is that most autoworkers are doing one and a half jobs already. Reducing the "workforce" by a third could leave all these workers with their existing jobs, and the 40-hour workweek that their forebears fought for at GM inn 1945/46. Add to that the additional workers needed to make batteries, build and maintain charging infrastructure, and so on, and there's no reason to think that EVs will weaken autoworker power.

And as Dayen points out, this overtime addiction isn't limited to cars. It's also endemic to the entertainment industry, where writers' "mini rooms" and other forms of chronic understaffing are used to keep workforces at a skeleton crew, even when the overtime costs more than hiring new workers.

Bosses call themselves job creators, but they have a relentless drive to destroy jobs. If there's one thing bosses hate, it's paying workers – hence all the hype about AI and automation. The stories about looming AI-driven mass unemployment are fairy tales, but they're tailor made for financiers who get alarming, life-threatening priapism at the though of firing us all and replacing us with shell-scripts:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

This is why Republican "workerism" rings so hollow. Trump's GOP talks a big game about protecting "workers" (by which they mean anglo men) from immigrants and "woke captialism," but they have nothing to say about protecting workers from bosses and bankers who see every dime a worker gets as misappropriated from their dividend.

Unsurprisingly, conservative message-discipline sucks. As Luke Savage writes in Jacobin, for every mealymouthed Josh Hawley mouthing talking points that "support workers" by blaming China and Joe Biden for the Big Three's greed, there's a Tim Scott, saying the quiet part aloud:

https://jacobin.com/2023/09/republicans-uaw-strike-hawley-trump-scott/

Quoth Senator Scott: "I think Ronald Reagan gave us a great example when federal employees decided they were going to strike. He said, you strike, you’re fired. Simple concept to me. To the extent that we can use that once again, absolutely":

https://twitter.com/American_Bridge/status/1704136706574741988

The GOP's workerism is a tissue-thin fake. They can never and will never support real worker power. That creates an opportunity for Biden and Democrats to seize:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/18/co-determination/#now-make-me-do-it

Reversing two generations of anti-worker politics is a marathon, not a sprint. The strikes are going to run for months, even years. Every worker will be called upon to support their striking siblings, every day. We can do it. Solidarity now. Solidarity forever.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/21/eight-and-skate/#strike-to-rule

#pluralistic #strikes #uaw #labor #automakers #big three #big car #eight and skate #work to rule #tactics

4K notes · View notes

spicybunni · 10 months ago

Note

I needed to get this off my chest. If you’re willing to write for dad Heisenberg that is. I assume we all agree that Karl is pretty much a lycan or can become one. So how cute yet creepy would it be if fem reader woke up scratching and entering her child’s bedroom only to see glowing eyes(much like Karl’s) in their baby’s crib. Their baby being part lycan has been on my mind for some time. And we need more Heisendad.

FATHER'S EYES (Karl Heisenberg x Fem!Reader)

Awww Heisendad sounds so good in theory but it doesn't align with my headcanons of him. 😭Which is why this was so fun to write! I kinda switched some things round but I hope you like it, tbh writing this made me so sad for Karl??? I don't know why?? 😭💕

WARNINGS ⚠️: POST PARTUM PANIC / BABY MISSING FOR A MOMENT / FLUFF

The sounds of scratches and floorboards creaking woke you up. The sounds in question could be heard in the hallway connecting your room to the nursery. You checked the dinky clock next to your bed. It was 2:30 in the morning. You rub your eyes, attempting to wake yourself and see what your baby is up to.

Post partum has been kind to you in many ways, but with sleep? Not so much. You were always a light sleeper to begin with. But after giving birth to Lord Heisenberg's child you were always on alert yet exhausted for sleep sometimes. Karl offered to be with you and try to help with your adjustment to motherhood. You refused his offer, needing time away from his factory and robots and just....him. The factory was no place to raise a child, and with his devotion to Mother Miranda's experiments, he would not be able to provide you proper care. He understood your reasons and offered a alternative, a cabin near the village rather than staying in a rusty room in his factory. It was away to where you had privacy to raise your child, but close enough if you needed help from anyone.

It has been 8 months of you bonding with your baby. Setting routines and observing how your child is growing. Ever since the birth you were worried they would come out with powers. So far, nothing you could notice had come up. But Mother Miranda still has yet to be convinced otherwise.

You walked down the hallways towards the nursery room, the scratching noise you heard stopped as you approached the doorway. You didn't even hear the usual baby whines or coos that you're used to walking in on.

Your eyes widen at the room before you, covered in small scratch marks and toys thrown everywhere, but your baby is nowhere to be found.

Blood turning cold and adrenaline pumping. Calling out your baby's name as calm as you can before panicking and searching everywhere for them. But what mother wouldn't? You can't find them anywhere in their crib or the entire nursery. You rush to your bedroom and search for something that might help you.

The cabin had an installed emergency line that connected to the factory. Karl respected your boundaries, but as the mother of his offspring, he had the bare minimum duty to protect you and offer safety from a distance. You've never had to use it for these past months. Now you were struggling to remember where you had put that damn button. You had lit a lantern to get a better view of your stuff.

You almost didn't hear it, but you heard the cry of your baby finally. But it came from neither your room or the nursey. The sound came from downstairs. Quickly abandoning your search that panic button, you fly to the staircase, looking down into the living room to see if you could spot your child anywhere. Nothing still, but you hear those coos, so they must be down there. Rushing down the stairs with the lantern in hand, illuminating your way.

Was this possibly just a result of a growth spurt and they're able to leave the crib now? All the possibilities were fluttering through your mind. but what you came to see was beyond any expectation you had.

There in the corner near a window, you find the child's father, holding them safe in his arms. Lord Heisenberg was rocking them and whispering random nonsense to keep them quiet. They were slightly illuminated by the moonlight shining through the window. He see's the light of the lantern and turns to you. A few things were different from his normal attire, no hat, no glasses, and no hammer. He smirks at you, leaning down to the baby again.

"It looks like we woke mama up, shame on us." The baby giggles at the sound of their fathers voice.

"M-My lord! What are you doing here?!" You approached them both, setting the lantern on the coffee table to the side. You go to reach for your baby to see that they're alright. But what caught your attention was the two glowing eyes that were fixed on you. Covering your mouth, keeping the gasp in that would've escaped. Instead making you shudder at the sight. There were a few dark veins showing around their head too but they didn't show any discomfort or pain...It was a small transformation they had done while in the crib, frustrated their tiny hands and legs weren't strong enough to maneuver over and come to you. So they manifested the strength that had always been within them.

"They're fine (Y/N), just a few minor growing changes...They have awakened some lycan traits. Guess there's no need for further proof the kid is mine.." He tried to humor you, but you were in any mood but to be humored right now. You glance to him unamused and back to your child.

You stare wide eyed at them in your arms, those matching eyes with their father next to you. Bringing their head to the crook of you neck, in an embrace to hide your look of bewilderment. Was this the development that you worried would come? How do you go about child rearing from here?

There was another pending question on your mind though.

"But...What are you doing here?" You looked up at him again from your thoughts. He was looking down at both of you with something akin to proudness.

"If you really thought I was going to abandon you two here without any protection then you're just as dumb as the average villager here. I have this place under a monitor in case of emergencies. I saw them crawl out of the crib and you weren't waking up at all. Figured you could use some ...guidance in this area. Unless you have experience with human mutagens in toddlers." He says the last part mockingly. Of course you don't. You realize he would be the only one that could possibly help you in this situation.

Wrapping his arm around your back, he leans down and pecks the side of your forehead. Karl's golden eyes regard you warmly. You've done a great job in raising his child, but now he must help you.

"Come. Let's go to back to sleep, (Y/N)...Let's raise our child together."

#resident evil village #re8 village #resident evil 8 #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenburg x reader #karl heisenberg imagines #resident evil village imagines

413 notes · View notes

troythecatfish · 6 months ago

Text

“Palestine Action carried out four different operations against Israeli linked targets to mark 107 years since the Balfour Declaration

The group stole busts of the first Israeli President, Chaim Weizmann, from Manchester University, sprayed a key institute at Cambridge University which works with the Israeli military, while also targeting two prominent Zionist organisations: the Britain Israel Communications and Research Centre (BICOM) and the Jewish National Fund (JNF).”

Source: Mintpress

“An anonymous group in Ottawa, Canada, have launched a campaign to sabotage the production of engines for Israeli fighter jets

"We cut the wiring inside all of the heat pumps on the Gastops roof, locked them out with official Ministry of Health and Safety lock-out tags, shut off the gas, broke the handles for their systems, and cut the lines to their backup communication system on the way out" the unidentified group said. The activists who targeted the factory left a note stating that a campaign has been launched to force the company Gastops to sever its ties to Lockheed Martin and halt the use of their sensors in F-35 fighter jets that are used to bomb Gaza.”

Source: Mintpress

329 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 1 month ago

Text

There are situations in which tariffs are a useful tool to address a trade deficit, or to protect key sectors of a country’s economy. Then there are situations where you accuse a bunch of penguins on an uninhabited island of currency manipulation. Guess which one we’re living in?

This is the takeaway of the manifold tariffs announced by President Donald Trump on Wednesday afternoon. In addition to the penguin-occupied Heard and McDonald Islands, the tariffs target the British Indian Ocean Territory, whose sole occupants live on a joint US-UK military base on Diego Garcia island. Yes, the United States is levying reciprocal tariffs against its own troops.

And then there are the tariffs against countries that have actual goods and services on which US consumers depend. China: 54 percent. Vietnam: 46 percent. Cambodia: 49 percent. South Korea: 25 percent. No corner of the US consumer economy will go untouched. Prices will rise. The stock market is spiraling. A recession looms. The tech industry will be turned upside down. Mark Cuban, noted billionaire, is encouraging people to stockpile consumables before it’s too late.

It’s reckless, it’s absurd, and it’s also everything Donald Trump said plainly he would do on the campaign trail. True, he didn’t telegraph how misguided the methodology would be—you can read about it more here, but suffice to say it’s thoroughly detached from the realities of international trade—but he loudly, repeatedly promised to tariff his way to glory.

The stated goal is to return manufacturing jobs to the United States, which is a bit like resurrecting the dodo. The US still manufactures plenty of goods; it’s second only to China in annual output, according to the World Bank. But many of the industry’s jobs have been replaced by automation, a bottle you can’t re-cork. And higher domestic labor costs mean US-made products will inherently be more expensive, a trade-off American consumers have consistently rejected. All of this was already true in Trump’s first term. It’s even more so now.

And let’s say a plurality of companies did decide to reshore or set up factories in the United States. The timeline for those decisions and implementation is measured in years, if not decades, and follow-through can be spotty. (Just ask Foxconn.) So what happens in the meantime?

The rationale has all the weight of a soap bubble. There isn’t a world where the US suddenly manufactures all the items the country has decided to target. There’s a 47 percent tariff on Madagascar now. Do you know why the US has a trade deficit with Madagascar? They produce vanilla; we don’t. Unless we’re suddenly setting up vanilla assembly lines in Ohio, that’s not changing.

But maybe Trump’s so-called Liberation Day is all just a master negotiating ploy. “Everybody sit back, take a deep breath. Don’t immediately retaliate. Let’s see where this goes,” said Treasury secretary Scott Bessent on CNN Wednesday. “Because if you retaliate, that’s how we get escalation.”

It’s an interesting tactic, to start a bar brawl and ask everyone not to punch back in case someone gets hurt. It’s not working. China has already vowed to retaliate; the EU suggested that it could as well. (New Zealand is officially chill.)

Set the economics of this aside for a moment, though. The insult on top of that looming injury is how sloppy this all is. It’s the same blunt-force destruction that DOGE has implemented within the US government, that Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has imposed on the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, now projected on a global scale. Yes, Elon Musk and DOGE have taken a blowtorch to federal agencies. But the tariffs are a helpful reminder that it's Trump who's fiddling while it all burns.

It’s the instinct to measure wins in units of pain and suffering. It’s an assumption that the only way to help yourself is to hurt other people. This is just what America is now.

The optimist’s case is that this is all a feint, that other countries will capitulate or at least make enough of a show of it that things will go back to normal. Seems unlikely. First of all, they’re already doing the opposite, all apologies to Bessent. But even if they weren’t, even if this is just posturing from the US, that posturing has consequences. Whatever equity the US has built up over the last century as a reputable trade partner has been largely wiped out by a businessman-president best known for his bankruptcies.

And then there’s the pessimist’s case, which also seems increasingly like the realist’s. The US is barreling toward a recession for no good reason, and dragging the world—and a few thousand penguins on remote Antarctic islands—down with it.

91 notes · View notes

fatcatlittlebox · 3 days ago

Text

I go back to this shot so many times because I think it captures so many themes central to this show and central to Halbrand and Galadriel's relationship. It is at once intimate but also cosmically symbolic, like so many of Tolkien's themes are. It's why it recurs so often (as I have touched upon in previous metas). They are sleeping. It's a simple but powerful image. The words Galadriel says from the beginning -- Evil does not sleep. It waits— have added meaning. Here, we see "Halbrand" sleeping. We later find out that Halbrand is actually Sauron. Does that mean he was pretending here? It's a mystery but I think there are enough visual clues to support that this was real. This was Sauron’s reset to factory settings. As I have said before, his meeting on the sea with Galadriel was baptismal. He was reborn. Which echoes the foundational Tolkien belief that "nothing is evil in the beginning." Meaning that the races of Middle Earth and humanity in ours have the potential for good. And everything that happens, with the person and identity that Sauron tries to manifest as “Halbrand” from this point forward is not a lie. But an extension of this. He's sleeping. “Halbrand” is a dream. A dream that ended when evil awoke.

And as an aside it’s worth noting these lines between Arwen and Aragorn in FOTR:

Arwen: Do you remember when we first met?

Aragorn: I thought I had wandered into a dream.

Arwen: Long years have passed. You did not have the cares you carry now. Do you remember what I told you?

Aragorn: You said you’d bind yourself to me. Forsaking the immortal life of your people.

That's why the raft scene is so important. And it’s call forward to Aragorn and Arwen. Also you never see Sauron asleep again. It could be just a throwaway coincidence if not for the fact that we actually do see Sauron awake when others are sleeping, either seething in his nefarious plots or rage-brooding throughout the night.

Even though dreams are no more real than illusions, they reveal truths, not lies. Because it is the realm of the subconscious. Our true selves as we are or who we wish to be. Our unexpressed desires or the fulfillment of unrequited hopes. In this moment, emphasized by two separate visuals, both Halbrand and Galadriel are sleeping. They are not just bound by fate and the vow they enacted in the midst of the storm. They are bound in this dream.

This idea is revisited again and again in season 2. Often I'm struck by the look on Elrond's face during this exchange. It's not the look of distrust or disappointment.

In this brief instant, Elrond is moved with sorrow for his dearest friend, for her broken heart. He cares deeply for Galadriel. You can see that he feels the depth of her pain and mourning for the love that she lost. In a way, it is a prescient moment because his own future will be marred by such bitter loss and tragic love that may or may not be the fruit of this doomed pairing. Still, Elrond's words are not judgement. Just truth. Elven memories do not dim. And so Galadriel will always be haunted by it. Which is why Elrond tells her, sadly: "He never left." In that memory of a dream, Halbrand survives. His mark is there. And when Galadriel reaches for Elrond to ground herself, he only provides a comforting pat and firmly releases her hand. I think part of it is a juxtaposition to Sauron. Where in the past, she instinctually reached for Halbrand and he grasped her in return, never intending to let go. She is brought back to the moment where they were at their closest point, where everything seemed to align perfectly. A memory perhaps tinged with the temptation and regret over having not reached for Halbrand as she may have desperately desired. And you see Elrond witness it right in front of him! When Galadriel’s mind wanders into a daydream, you can see Elrond's grief. And also, I think the other part of it is the symbolic gesture underscoring that Elrond cannot pull her from this dream. He cannot liberate her. No one else can. Because he, Halbrand, never left. So Galadriel must summon strength and clarity to let him go. To walk away.

Because I think Sauron left a part of himself in this dream. If we revisit this shot where Galadriel has fallen. Seemingly "asleep" -- you see the impression of a figure next to her. As I said before, I think this is meant to suggest that not only was someone there, but that someone is still there. In the dream world or even the unseen one. In that place where elven memory does not fade with the good borne of their shared dream: hope, loyalty, bravery and love. In contrast, you see Sauron watching. Because evil is awake. And Sauron is waiting.

#saurondriel #haladriel #charlie vickers #morfydd clark #sauron x galadriel #halbrand x galadriel #my edit #trop analysis #haladriel meta #saurondriel meta

83 notes · View notes

fanfoolishness · 1 month ago

Text

Here’s a lovely article summing up some of the conversations that happened at last week’s PaleyFest Severance event in Los Angeles, which I attended. However! I also took copious notes because I figured a news article wouldn’t post everything. Here’s what I got, largely paraphrased because I couldn’t write fast enough to get verbatim quotes. Buckle up, this is going to be long!

Watching the finale on the big screen? Utterly insane. Every shot was gorgeous. We had screams almost every time a new character showed up for the first time; uproarious laughter at almost everything Milchick did; shrieking when Lorne kicked Drummond’s ass; howling when Mark Scout accidentally kills Drummond because of the severance transition or when he and the nurse had a screaming match. I know it must have been so gratifying to the cast and team to hear us all losing our minds, especially since they never got to do any premieres between covid and LA fires.

Ben Schwartz (Jean-Ralphio Saperstein from Parks & Rec) was the moderator for the discussion after the episode. We had in attendance Adam Scott, Ben Stiller, Dan Erickson, Patricia Arquette, Tramell Tillman, Britt Lower, Dichen Lachman, Sarah Bock, Zach Cherry, Jen Tullock, Michael Chernow, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson, and Gwendoline Christie. How insane!

Ben introduced each person, but when he got to Tramell Tillman no one came out. “Uh, bathroom?” Ben asked. The other Ben (Stiller) shrugged and said maybe, then mentioned that Tramell had a hard time coming out of being Milchick at the end of S1 and they found him working in a shoe store. (What the hell?) So he warned us Tramell might not be joining us.

Of course, like 10 seconds later Tramell Tillman snuck out into the audience accompanied by like. A 60-person marching band playing the Kier hymn. Because OF COURSE HE DID. He twirled with his baton and white gloves in and out of the aisles while all 3300 of us gave a standing ovation and cheered and shouted our heads off.

Ben Schwartz had a massive stack of prepared questions. He’d toss a paper aside once he was done with it. Of course, being a huge nerd sitting in the back I’d brought binoculars and could see what they looked like. Each page had a massive Lumon logo on the back.

Q: How does it feel to have the episode out in the world without having to keep it secret?

Dan: I don’t know who I am without secrets.

Patricia: I don’t know, I almost preferred the secrets. I liked you all being confused and afraid.

Dan mentioned that Drummond’s accidental death in the elevator had been pitched as a joke when they were all exhausted at the end of the night, and everyone was like “that’s what we’re doing.” Ben Schwartz: “hell yeah!”

Ben Stiller loved hearing and seeing our reactions in the theater. Watching it with us was so special — “to hear real laughs! It’s so exciting for us!”

Q: What was a small writing choice that wound up having a big influence on the show?

Dan: Milchick appeared in the pilot and we weren’t sure about him. We knew he would be like Cobel’s right-hand man, but weren’t sure if he was going to have much of a role after that…

Tramell Tillman got up and stalked halfway off the stage, then came back and sat down, giggling.

Dan (continued): But then he read the line for “You and Petey were one of my favorite office friendships,” maybe in the audition? And it was so good we knew we had to do more.

Dan started talking about the boring basement job he had at the door factory that inspired the idea for severance, but then got a wary look, casting his gaze over the massive theater and its box seats. “I’m worried my old bosses could be here… they might cap me like Lincoln.”

Ben Schwartz’s eyebrows flew up. “Like, Lincoln? Abraham Lincoln? That is too soon, man!”

Q: Are there things on the show you’re planning but haven’t done yet? Like seeds? Don’t tell me what they are, just if they are.

Dan: YESSSSSS. Multiple.

Q: Adam, how did you prepare for… you know… the defiant jazz dance party? You go from Milchick dancing as smooth as silk, my man is going for it, and then… you. What is the thought process?

Ben Schwartz said he was blown away by Adam’s acting in the scene with the Marks conversing with each other. “You had me. How did you prepare?”

Adam made tapes with his phone at home at first. He was dreading the scenes somewhat because there was a fear it might not work. He was most excited for the part in the conversation where oMark “kinda fucks up, gets a little condescending — he gets her name wrong, pushes too hard.”

Ben Schwartz pounced on Britt with a super complex question that could be summed up as what is her process for getting into each character — Helly, Helena, Helena as Helly, Helly in the OTC? Britt got a look like a deer in the headlights and said Zach was gonna answer for her.

Zach: Shrugs. Says for Britt it’s all about vibes. Pulls a pack of trail mix out of his pocket and starts eating it. Then reads off the ingredients and nutritional information. WHY I don’t know but it was cracking my shit up! Britt and Zach then said they had their own podcast starting up about food.

Britt pointed out that Helena hates eggs. However, Helly says the egg bar is actually good. Helly likes eggs. Pro-egg Helly!

They talked about the “cool shit” in Britt’s performance of Helena pretending to be Helly, and Britt and Ben Stiller talked about how impressive the fans were in finding all of the little flourishes she had put in — the computer button being hard for her to find, the shift in her face in the tent with Irving (fuck I loved that so much, so good).

Q: Sarah, you were 15 when you shot season 2. What was it like to be in a position of authority over these characters - and actors - who were much older than you?

Sarah: it was scary! John Turterro was soooo tall.

Sarah was asked what Ms. Huang might be like in regular high school. Sarah suspected she would still be in band so that she could play her theremin, but she wasn’t sure if she would have friends — “she might need to work on her social skills.” However, she would definitely have a better time than being at Lumon.

They talked about Dichen’s beautiful Gemma standalone episode and if it was hard having to play 5 innies (Cold Harbor, fear of flying, Christmas, dentist, Ms. Casey). Dichen said it was fairly easy since the crew in hair and makeup and wardrobe did so much wonderful work for each character and she couldn’t really take so much credit for it herself.

Britt, Adam and Dichen talked about filming the final scene. Adam said it was heartbreaking because they were all exhausted and Dichen was really pounding at the door for hours. Britt talked about the love “triangle” but said “If you know me, I love talking about shapes” and compared it to more of a tetrehedron or hexagonal shape. She also wondered if it might be love at first sight for Gemma and Helly! (Hell yes, I love that energy!)

Dichen does think that Gemma was able to make sense of it and understand what happened. She knows she’s severed, she knows her Mark would never not listen to her like that, she’s able to put it together and at the end she’s screaming in desperation to try and break through that barrier, but sadly fails.

Jen and Michael talked about how Ricken and Devon should totally have a multi camera sitcom of their antics.

Jen was asked why does Devon trust Cobel? Jen’s response was that she is tired of getting angry emails in her inbox about the subject! Per Jen, Devon doesn’t trust Cobel “farther than she can flick her.” But with everything happening to Mark, Mark being in danger, and Gemma being alive, this is Devon’s “flip a car moment” -- she knows it’s this plan or no plan and so she’s going fully ahead.

How did Devon and Ricken meet? At a key party! j/k, they said it’s private. Jen said their relationship was clearly lived in and that Devon and Ricken are well past the point where they fart in front of each other.

Q: Michael, we’ve seen a lot of Ricken with others. What is he like when he’s alone without anyone to impress?

Michael: Michael suspects he’s anxious and worried, and does care a lot about what other people think. He’s kind of lonely, and there’s a real void he’s trying to fill. He really enjoyed Mark and Ricken getting along in episode 7.

Zach’s turn for a solo question. He holds up his bag of trail mix and the audience goes wild.

They spoke of how Zach is a comedian and was very excited at getting to do the romance work with Gretchen, as this is something he hasn’t been asked to do before. Ben Schwartz said he loves getting to see comedians kick ass at dramatic roles. The proposal was beautiful, but they then veered into wondering what the sexual differences between iDylan and oDylan might be, LOL.

Zach said that filming both writing and receiving of the letter was an exciting challenge, but enjoyed acting the receiving of the letter most of all.

Everyone agreed that Drummond was scary! Darri was asked for his thoughts on his character. He said Drummond was clearly not the nicest person, and the real him was the monster in the hallway, attacking Mark. He despises many people, thinking they’re beneath him. Darri said that he really loves this cast and it wasn’t fun to be such an asshole to Tramell. (Well, it was a little fun.)

For the fight scene, Adam really did get hurt when his head slammed into the wall. He was supposed to get his arm up as part of the choreography, but it got stuck and his head hit the wall hard. Ben Stiller was immediately worried and had him checked out, but once it became apparent Adam would be okay, Ben said “Well, it looked great!”

Gwendoline LOVED the fight scene. She wasn’t going to do more combat after Game of Thrones, but when Ben Stiller had this fight scene, she had to do it. “And I found I still have a blood lust.”

Tramell was asked about Milchick in last season vs. this season. He’s moved up, he’s in charge now. Tramell said as anyone who’s been in middle management knows, that just means now you get more shit from both above and below. Milchick’s a very ambitious man and in service of Lumon. But we’re seeing more humanity in him. When he received those paintings -- “Nightmare fuel!” said Tramell.

Q: Of all the Milchicks we’ve seen -- manager, employee, telling himself to grow, dancing and having fun -- which is closest to the real Milchick?

Tramell, with a knowing, ominous smile: “I don’t think we’ve seen it yet.”

The audience: “WHOOOOOOOA.”

Q: Patricia, how much of Cobel’s backstory did you know before? Did you know she was a genius?

Patricia (loftily): Well, yes.

Q: What do you think was Cobel’s final straw to turn on Lumon --

Patricia (in Cobel’s measured voice): Did I?

Q: What are Cobel’s fun days like? What does she do on her days off?

Patricia said Cobel plays with her dolls and makes her cookies, which aren’t the best. Ben Stiller points out she also de-ices her stoop.

Q: Gwendoline -- what the fuck is with the goats?

Gwendoline: “Everyone’s a goat! No, I can’t say.” She found a huge liberation in not being given anything at all. She also discussed how much she loved the show prior to being cast in it. She would pause the frames and try to zoom in on Adam Scott’s hairline to see if she could spot a wig. She would draw the shades and tell her dogs to be quiet while she watched it.

Once she actually got to set: “I was pathetic. I was a fool. A gibbering wreck. I was over-excited at the vending machine.” She swooned over Britt, had jelly legs around Adam Scott. “The show is so original and has so much depth of heart, it’s a dream.”

They closed out the evening by Ben Stiller and Adam Scott thanking the audience for being there with them, as it was so rewarding to see how the fans really got to respond to the episode.

Sorry for the long-windedness, but I wanted to make sure I got as much as I could for posterity 🙂

#severance #severance season 2 #severance spoilers #cold harbor #Britt lower #Adam Scott #dan Erickson #Ben stiller #Ben Schwartz #olafur darri olafsson #gwendoline christie #Jen tullock #Michael chernus #Tramell Tillman #Sarah bock #Patricia arquette #Dichen lachman #Zach cherry

77 notes · View notes

agentaace · 1 month ago

Text

ITS CHILD LABOR AND EXPLOITATION ALL THE WAY DOWN FOLKS

This post is about Severance the TV show

!MAJOR SPOILERS!

the reveal that theyre raising/killing baby goats- nope, they're sacrificing kids. for the company. and the innies are equated to children so often, like when mark s says something like "we're not children we didn't do anything wrong" when theyre in trouble for bullshit reasons like not obeying your supervisors, or when areghabi says that mark's innie, at 2 years old, is basically literally a baby and that outie mark did not get his consent to be born and then used like a tool, when helly says her outie dresses her like a doll, when helena berates helly for trying to be an individual from the person who created her (literally the speech from matilda: "i'm smart, you're dumb, i'm big, you're little, i'm right, you're wrong), when dylan's adjective of utmost sincerety is "awesome", when cobel force-parents mark in both innie and outie form, when milchick distracts them with toys, flashy lights, silly dances, and animated cartoons to keep their attention, when they take them on a fun lil camping trip with marshmallows and read them a goosebumps novel, when devon and ricken infantilize mark s. on sight, when devon's pregnancy and childbirth is such a huge part of the narrative, when the first other example we see of severance is for childbirth too. and when mark scout gets frustrated at mark s for having his own priorities and says "he's a fucking child!" in a derogatory but not literal manner.

and then harmony fucking cobel and her horror show of a childhood. a townfull of child factory workers, drugged with ether fumes to forget whatever awful shit they experience but still alert enough to work an assembly line, all before the tender age of eight. and here i will also just link a fantastic post, because it says it way better than me but TLDR; the factories probably were producing something other than ether, which means the ether vats' primary purpose was to cause this primative severance. also, imogene was likely a child factory worker whom kier married because he saw her as pure/innocent. this is based on the embodiment of woe being a girl half the height of a normal woman, miserable, and is pictured wearing a wedding dress/white lingerie (in the waffle party + irving's dream).

this is a cult that believes humans are slaves to the four tempers, but that children are innocent. childlike innocence and ignorance is the ideal, because kids don't know better and won't put up as much of a fight if they don't know what they're missing! its a form of ironclad control over members of the cult company. its doctrine is so effective because theyve never been exposed to outside ideas, which is why the innies are then so enraptured by ricken's dumb book

ms huang! ms child labor herself!!!! people keep asking her why she's here, "why are you a child?", is she okay, etc., and she always seems politely baffled. like she's thinking "why wouldn't a child be working for a corporation with absolutely no systems in place to keep her safe from abuse?" because she doesn't fucking know better. and they're doing the exact same grooming that they did to harmony with the wintertide fellowship and sending her away to boarding school, comoletely uprooting her, without any warning, pushing her to devote her life to kier. she's not allowed to question it, disobey, or even have any opinion on it at all because "i make the decisions. you do not." (to quote helena, who was also definitely groomed into believing that about her agency as a child.) and i KNOW that eustice was excited to eat those marshmallows! milchick made her throw them in the fire! jail for ten million years!

which brings me back to gabby! this woman was severed to experience labor and the pain of childbirth in the stead of the wife of a senator. so gabby has lived for a total of maybe one week, three different times, three childbirths. like gemma, she doesn't experience a gap between these and literally doesn't rest between birthing. she was born innocent and pregnant and she was made solely to reproduce like livestock. fuuuuuuuuck that. thats a pregnant child. thats a fucking child.

innies are kids being born straight into the lumon world, obedient and pliable blank slates, raised and trained one purpose, used as tools for as long as they're able to be used, then eventually gently led into "retirement" and down a hallway they'll never come back from. but we won't call it death because killing is wrong. they use euthanasia on the baby goats (kids), not bullets. theyre lambs raised to be sacrificed. the work is mysterious and important. may kier's mercy follow you into the eternal dark.

they've clearly perfected the process. but literally why the hell are they doing any of this

children irl should also probably unionize

#severance #severance spoilers #helly r #mark s #miss huang #eustice huang #harmony cobel #lumen

93 notes · View notes

lsunstreakerl · 2 months ago

Text

return of some darkbull? if anyone is still wanting them? 1.7k, Max POV, takes place post-kidnapping.

Hi! Darkbull content! if you don't know what that is, definitely don't start here lol. mature content here as well, although nothing particularly explicit.

Max can feel Charles' eyes on him from across the room, hot on the back of his neck.

He leans further into where Daniel's arm is draped across his shoulders, tilting his head back in a casual movement that pulls at his necklace, thin gold chains pressing into the skin of his throat.

Daniel's arm tightens, and Carlos hooks their ankles together from his other side. Oscar is sitting in front of him, leaning back in his chair just enough to cut off Charles' line of sight.

Carlos traces his fingers firmly along the inside of Max's wrist, where he knows there's another tracker embedded deep into his skin, a small bump of reassurance. He focuses back in on the drivers briefing, making a mental note about a kerb change as they start asking questions.

Normally Max would have some of his own- and he did- but he's not interested in asking them. He'd written them out beforehand instead, spread them between the other three to ask for him. They'll take note of the answers as well, and go over it later when Max is less... distracted.

The briefing is over soon after, and Max is sandwiched between Carlos, Daniel, and Oscar on the way back to hospitality, already getting lightheaded at what's ahead of him. Seeing Charles throws him off, wiggles into his brain and has to be dragged out forcefully.

The sooner the better.

------

Daniel falls back onto the bed, spreading his legs to make space for Max to drop on top of him, impatiently pressing their hips together as he mouths at Daniel's neck. Carlos is wrapping his hands around Max's thighs, thumbs pressing deep circles into muscle and fat. Oscar's fingers curl in the limited space between Max's skin and his necklaces, tugging sharply.

Max whimpers, cuts off as the metal presses briefly into his airway before Oscar lets go.

His hips grind down into Daniel, and Carlos is working at his jeans, sliding them down off of his legs.

Oscar's grin is audible in his voice.

"You want us to mark you up again?"

Daniel is hard underneath him, and Carlos leans down to nip between his shoulder blades. Max's head is going fuzzy.

"Yes- yes, want you to- please-"

Oscar tugs at the chain again, and Max cuts off with a high pitched whine, eyes rolling back into his head as Daniel's hands grip his hips, rolling him down. There's so many hands on his skin, pressing on him and moving him around, and Max falls into it.

He's happy to let them do whatever, as long as he's nice and worn out when they're done, too exhausted to think about the upcoming race, or Charles, or really anything.

He knows they'll get him there.

------

"Max, did you hear any of what I just said?"

GP sounds chastising, and Max winces, guilty.

"Something about the car?"

The flat glare he gets in response is a pretty good indication that he's gotten himself in some hot water.

"Jesus, okay. Wrap it up mates, we're done for now. You-"

He gently flicks Max on the forehead.

"-are in trouble. Come on."

Max drops his head down, not meeting GP's eyes.

"GP-"

"Nope. You didn't listen to us, I'm not listening to you."

A hand ruffles his hair.

"And I think you know how this works by now."

Max follows quietly down the hallway into the small kitchenette, eyes on the ground. He should've just paid attention- now he's going to be stuck floaty and useless, dragged around the factory by whoever decides they want to have some Max Time.

"Max."

GP's voice is gentle, and Max looks up.

"Do you want to just take the pill? Or do you want the smoothie?"

Max hates taking pills- it reminds him of fingers pinching his nose until he was forced to open his mouth and gasp, cold rings pressing onto his tongue as he gagged.

"Smoothie."

Max watches as GP measures out the powders. He's smooth and methodical about it, hands steady. Max knows now it's because he's been doing it for years, but it reminds him of GP at the pitwall, knowing exactly what buttons to hit to get Max what he needs.

He props his face against his palm as the blender runs, fidgeting with his necklace. The bracelets are cool against his wrists, and as much as he hates feeling lost and unmoored the way he knows he's about to- the feeling of being grounded when it's over is downright euphoric.

GP shuts the blender off, pouring the drink into a glass cup. He slides it across the table at Max, watching him thoughtfully.

"Do you want your ears pierced?"

Max takes a few sips, trying to taste the medication, but he can't pick up on it. Red Bull has always been better at that than Charles ever was.

"Do you want my ears pierced?"

Max doesn't particularly mind either way- hadn't thought about it until now. Does GP mean just one? Multiple? Max has seen some crazy ear piercings before.

He takes a few more long sips, letting it settle as GP leans against the table, deep in thought.

"I might. It would match well, with all the other jewelry."

Max is halfway done.

"I know the FIA is lenient with me, but I'm not sure if they'll be that lenient."

Max hadn't meant to be funny, but GP snorts softly anyways.

"They will. Let me think about it, run it by Christian and the others."

GP talks about it as easily as he talks about a change to the car- something to run by the team, to get approval on a modification.

Except it's not a modification to the car, it's a modification to Max. He'd be freaked out if he hadn't already somewhat accepted that he's Red Bull's to use and adjust and take until they're satisfied.

They'd saved him, raised him, saved him again- he owes the team everything. They can have whatever they want from him. It's the least he can do in return.

He finishes off the last of the smoothie, blinking when GP's hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"There we go, atta boy. I'm going to drop you back off with the engineering lads again, and you're going to do what they ask you to do this time, got it?"

Max nods, lightheaded when he stands, leaning against GP for support as he starts walking them down the hall.

The engineering team is good. They don't give as clear instructions as strategy does, and they don't work seamlessly together as well as the mechanics do, but once they get a system figured out it runs smoothly.

Max loses track as they're walking- he blinks and they're halfway across the factory campus. He's leaned into GP's side, eyes hazy.

------

They're in front of a door. The engineering door, Max thinks. He's not entirely sure. He's leaning against someone as they walk inside- GP, he realizes- and then he's being passed off into someone else's hands, GP stepping away.

"Alright, you lot know the rules- be gentle, keep him supervised, message me if you drop him off at another department. If anything comes up call me. The other boys are in media obligations, but they should be back in a few hours."

There's a chorus of assents, and Max blinks as a hand runs gently across his lower back, someone pressed up behind him. GP has left, he thinks.

"Alrighty Max. We're going to try going over the planned upgrades one more time..."

------

"Oh, sweetheart."

Max is kneeling in Christian's office, head pillowed on his thigh. Daniel crouches down in front of him, running a hand through his hair.

"You got passed around today, didn't you? Poor thing. What'd he do?"

The last sentence must be directed at Christian. Max doesn't know what Daniel's talking about- couldn't pull his memories from earlier today if he tried. It's all a hazy, jumbled mess.

Christian hums, leg flexing under Max's head as he rolls his chair back slightly.

"Wasn't paying attention in an engineering meeting, sounds like. GP made the call."

Daniel laughs softly, tapping his fingers against Max's cheeks so his mouth drops open, thumb pressing along his bottom lip.

"Well now he's really not paying attention."

"He's all yours. I assume the other two are back as well now?"

Daniel nods, hooking his fingers behind Max's teeth and gently tugging him forward in his chest. Max's head spins.

He's in Christian's office, he's pretty sure.

"We'll take care of him."

Theres warm hands helping drag Max to his feet, supporting him against his side as they make their way down the hallway.

Cafe, lounge, meeting room, meeting room-

Where did they come from, again?

Factory testing rooms, design rooms, elevators.

Max is leaning against someone.

"Danny?"

The arm around him squeezes.

"Hi baby. We're almost back upstairs."

Elevator. Second floor third floor fourth floor-

Max's head is spinning. His throat is dry, and he's kind of turned on in a weird, distant way.

The elevator dings, sliding open as Daniel tugs him over to a hallway door, flashing a badge as the door unlocks.

They're back home- Max hadn't realized. He's not sure where they came from.

Oscar and Carlos are making out on the couch, and Max gets so caught up watching them he forgets anything else- his thoughts are only interrupted by Daniel's low whistle as the two of them break apart.

"Hot as it is to watch the two of you hate fuck after any kind of media, I have a very agreeable Maxy here with me, and I can think of a few things he likes...?"

Oscar swings his legs off of Carlos' lap, slinking over to grip Max's chin, leaning in and kissing him. Max gasps into it, and his legs would've buckled if not for the way Daniel is supporting him- Oscar kisses like he's trying to prove something, takes and takes and takes, doesn't even leave Max with air in his lungs.

When he pulls away Max tries to chase him, whimpering softly when Oscar's hand wraps lightly around his throat. He doesn't press down- he'd never bear down on Max like that. He knows Max doesn't like it, the same way he knows Max really likes just having a hand there.

He's not a fan of being choked. The idea of it it, however-

That, Max can get behind.

#darkbull verse #ficlet #a little bit of this #a little bit of that #a little bit of implications

69 notes · View notes

hamsternella · 9 months ago

Note

hi!!! I have a request if you want too ofc!!! I’ve always thought of a reader who used to be in a relationship with ford before him being sucked up in the portal..and finding out that he was back?? It would be heavy angst with supreme fluff I think, I love how you write Ford in your other posts 👀

I'm sorry for my delay; I had a couple of problems BUT HERE IT IS. I hope you like it.

He's back

cw: stanford pines x reader, angst, fluff

It was déjà vu. Flashing lights, burned out outlets and the bustle of the masses. Communal fear; the terror of shadows devouring the streets as the gloom spread down every avenue—it had been a danger to set foot outside, but you risked it. One hand clinging to the edge of your robe, and the other holding a flashlight that barely worked without flickering; but with its mark referring to its recent departure from the factory, it was now the only thing that could keep your head attached to the last ounce of sanity.

You had not traveled back in time. You were still in the same Gravity Falls. Cars were ascending into the sky, darkness was taking over the town, and the stars were shining brighter than ever. Your own body had begun to rise; the lantern ended up somewhere unknown as you had to clutch both hands to the nearest lamppost, avoiding biting your tongue as you returned to the ground with the sting of cement against the skin of your legs.

You missed the exact moment when you had begun to cry—it was of no great importance. You tried to stand up, you tried to take deep breaths, and you tried to search for God between prayers; but nothing seemed to quell the urge to gouge your eyes out with your fingers. You were in denial about discovering what lay beyond the darkness when the light bathed Gravity Falls. You felt sick.

Your heart felt like it was about to burst in your chest; the nerves swirled in your stomach like an uncomfortable tingle. The world was spinning, and you didn't know if it was your head or if the event would repeat itself. Three times. Three times it would be. Now it was only two.

Two times.

How many more years?

Could it be?

?̸҇̿͑͆̇͗̐̏̎͗̚̚ɯ̵҇͂͑͐̽͐̊̀̈́ı̷̷̣̒͂̍́̌͊̌̓̈͐́͋̃͌̇̆͋͊̋̈́̎̚͡͠ɥ҈̄́̀̌̄͆̌̏́͐̍̅̆͞ ǝ̴̉͂͆̾͌͗͂̇̄͋͠q̵̍͋̈̀̉́̆̍̽̿̓̄̆͊̚̚͞ ʇ̵̐̅̓͐͗͂̐͒̌̐̽̆̕ı̷̴̣̉͊̃͆̉̐̇̽͛̎͐̓̃̽̏̓̋̋͗̔̾̀͌̕͞ p҈̌̿̃̅̐͐͂̚͞ן̵̛͊̓̋͊̓̀͒̈́̈n҈҇̾̔̄̈̋͗̽̚ơ̵͐̄̂̽̊̑́͂̚̚Ɔ̸̿̒͐̆̉̈́̈̄̍̋̕

Getting to the Mystery Shack was less complicated than you had imagined. The wooden signs —now scattered in the mud; hanging from the trees, among their branches— were helpful in reaching the shack. You barely reacted when a government special forces car (what were they supposed to be doing in Gravity Falls?) honked its horn, forcing you to jump to the side of the road. After it followed a whole line of armored vehicles. You didn't know what to think—there was nothing to do about it.

There was nothing you could do. Why were you there?

It had been difficult for you to return home to put on your shoes. Now they were ruined: muddy and the laces were wet with dirty water. You knew your socks were soaked through, and possibly your robe was the only thing halfway presentable. And for what? Who were you thinking of surprising? Stanley Pines, perhaps? The man you hadn't seen for a little over thirty years; or maybe his workers, who were the only people able to orbit around him. You had never gone to see him after ʇ̵̛̅̀̓ǘ̴̋́͛̃͝ǝ҉҇̏̂̉p҉̔̋͞ı҉̛̓̋̑̚ɔ̸̛̍̏̚ɔ̵̽̃͑́͠ɐ҉̓̍̚͠ ǝ҈͑̽̆͝ɥ̸̇̿͗͗͝ʇ҉҇̐̎̅ that day.

You lost the order of your thoughts —too confused on their own— as soon as the dome of trees was behind you. The sun rising behind the cabin blinded you for an instant, and too tired, perhaps even surrendered to the possibility of turning around and going back the way you came, you still tried to shield your eyes from the light. It was an instant. You let out a sigh caught in your chest, gathered your breath, and through silent tears you thought you heard a distant whisper.

Then it was a murmur.

Then it was a scream.

Then there were several. And they were all your name.

The tears, once small pearls hanging from your eyes, were now a torrent of bitterness and confusion twisting your gesture. They seemed to be born from a fresh wound in your heart; and it deepened as your arm fell limp to the side of your body, leaving you at the mercy of a blurred figure beyond what your imagination could trace. It was like a black blob, too big to be ɹ̴̊̑̃̅͝ǝ҉̈̊͛͡ɥ̵̛̐̿̊d̴͋́̕ı҈̿̍́͝Ɔ̶͑̆͒̌͞—but too small to be a black hole. Still, the way it approached and dominated your field of vision, eating away at the stability of your heart and the rhythm of your breathing, made it feel like one. Maybe this was the end of you. Maybe he was back.

You tried to swallow the rest of your tears, preparing both —weak— fists in front of you. Ready to fight. You mustered up the courage you needed, closing your eyes with the thought that if you avoided looking at him, possibly your death would be quicker. Maybe there would be mercy. Maybe the cut in your stomach wouldn't hurt, and when your organs fell out of your body you wouldn't have to see red bathing your feet. Nor were you going to see the world fade away; and you hoped much less was yellow covering your vision. Metallic taste, smell of meat and viscosity of guts and viscera. All the senses in an expression of his love for human carnage.

And the pain was going to be the least of it.

The impact came with the sound of hurried footsteps, and the scratchy texture of fabric that made you frown. The warmth of an embrace enveloped your body, and the fussy sensation of a breath on your neck made you bristle from head to toe. You opened your eyes a little at a time; gray and white invading your vision. Gray hair. There was a lot of gray hair. There was also the smell of gunpowder, dirt, dust and dampness—perhaps another musk you didn't recognize. And yet you cried again.

You clung to the body of a dead man; to the memory of a missing person. You wrapped your arms around the body of the man you had forgotten the color of his eyes or the sound of his voice. But there he was: crying like you, maybe worse, and with the clumsiness of a baby coming into the world—coming home. You dug your nails into his back, your gaze lost in the sun hanging in the firmament and the morning breeze freezing the wounds on your legs. Old, tired legs.

How the years go by.

You felt joy with those hands caressing your hair. You wanted to close your eyes again, but you feared losing the moment in another nostalgic and painful dream. You feared losing him. Losing—

"Ford," voice broken, tired. The voice of someone in fear, "I thought you were... I thought for a moment, Ford, that maybe... maybe you were..."

You thought you heard him mutter a 'no' so faint that it ended as a windblown sigh. Instead, Ford shook his head, beginning to push his body away from yours. You held on tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck. It was your turn to shake your head.

"Your eyes—I don't want to see them," you said. "I don't want to see your eyes, Ford."

"But I need to see yours," he replied softly. "I missed them... I missed you."

He was crying again.

"I missed you so much," he continued. "You don't know how much I have... This has been torture—without you, without your voice."

His voice was barely a plea that made your heart bristle.

"So let me see them; I need to know this is real."

"I don't want to find out you're not my Ford," you said. "What if you are him? What if you're playing with me?"

"He's not here," he shook his head. His hands began to stroke your back. "He can't hurt you, dear. Not here. Not with me here..."

"You left me," you interrupted him. "You left me, Ford. You went through the portal and left me. I've forgotten the color of your eyes—I can only remember the yellow; the long pupil, the smile... I don't know what I'm going to do if it's not you."

"But it's me. It's only me."

You let his hands pull your body away from his, and with the fear of one who searches in the gloom for a monster, you guided your eyes to his. You found a look full of tenderness and longing; a wrinkled face, tired and wet with tears. You couldn't control the impulse to bring one of your hands to his cheek, tracing the path of a fresh tear until it was lost beneath your palm; his face resting squarely against it, making him close his eyes with pleasure at the caress.

"It's only you," you whispered. You saw him nod, and then you released the sigh you had been holding in your chest. "It's finally you... I've been waiting for you all these years, Ford. Although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't waiting for something like... you know."

"I understand," he replied softly. "He's lied to me and terrorized me too; in places you couldn't possibly imagine, telling me horrendous things... Telling me that he had—he had killed you, God."

You smiled ruefully, holding his gaze when he opened his eyes.

"But then I saw you standing here," he continued, "and I thought maybe I might be delirious. I kept dreaming of you; of tracing you in drawings, in my head, everywhere... I didn't want to forget you. I didn't want you to turn to dust."

"I had forgotten your gaze," you replied. "I had forgotten your eyes—their color, their shape. All I could think of was the yellow glowing in the dark, and the pupils..." You swallowed your words, too overcome by the feeling of bitterness in your chest to continue. It took you a moment to catch your breath. "To see them again, after all these years, Ford... They are so beautiful. You are so, so... I don't know. I've just missed you so much. I think you get an idea of how much I do," you laughed through your tears, next to him.

Silence enveloped you both, barely interrupted by the murmur of wind and birds. The breeze swirled the earth and leaves, wrapping your feet with a shiver to your neck, where Ford's hands were now resting. You brought yours over his, drawing them to your lips for a kiss. You traced scars with caresses; you covered the roughness with the softness of your affection, and listened intently to his breathing quicken. You thought you could hear his heart beat out of control under your charm.

In an instant his hands cradled your cheeks; his fingers rested softly on your skin, brushing your earlobes, tickling you. You closed your eyes, drowning in the darkness, guided by the light pressure of a warmth foreign to your body. You rested your arms on his shoulders, barely catching his breath on your face as you sensed the awkwardness of shy lips seeking yours between kisses along your skin. On your forehead as a blessing, on your eyelids to drink away your anguish, on your nose to lighten your own nerves, and then on your lips; perhaps to savor the thousands of words you didn't know—those that might come to Ford's aid in understanding how much you needed him these thirty years, and how much you were going to keep longing for him now that you had felt his warmth again.

You let his body collide with yours, and barely interfered with the wildness of his own need for you. You didn't stop his arms when they wrapped around you awkwardly; nor did you utter a complaint when the kiss deepened with a pair of choked whimpers that died in your mouth. You let yourself be drowned by a show of affection too abrupt, too old—needed and almost forgotten. You savored Ford with the rage of an affair stuck in the past, and with the pent-up love of years of not having seen him. Of having believed him dead.

As the air thinned you parted. You still held him in your embrace, searching with your misty eyes for his. But there he was: flushed, visibly embarrassed, but there he was. Ford was still there. Still alive—back at home, with you.

"Don't look at me so intensely after such a disastrous kiss," he suddenly muttered.

"Do you feel embarrassed?" you asked under a chuckle. "And what do you call a disastrous kiss?"

"A kiss I practiced in my sleep and could never put into practice... until now."

This time you had to let out the laugh you'd been hiding. Ford covered his face, red as a tomato. He tried to explain himself but found it impossible; all his words choked, too garbled.

"It's like you're that boy who had barely made it to Gravity Falls," you tried to articulate. "Too many dreams. You've always been one to dream a lot."

"I could meet you in those dreams," he whispered. "You've always lived in my mind, along with them."

It was your turn to blush. Ford chuckled.

"What an old rascal you are when you want to be," you added.

"But it's true!"

You went along with his laughter, losing yourself in the way he looked at you. The sweet way he still loved you.

"Don't ever leave again," you said after a long while. "Don't ever leave me here again, Ford."

"I'd have to be dead to let you go, my dear."

"Or have your memory wiped," you added.

"Oh, that would be impossible. I have a special plate attached to prevent that kind of accident," he explained. "You know—other dimensions and that sort of thing."

"Sure, love," you laughed.

Ford brought one of his hands to his head, rapping gently with his knuckles to rattle the metal. You gasped.

"That's... Let's see," you throat cleared, "I deserve an explanation. Too many kisses but not enough answers, Ford."

"I know, I know," he smiled. "I promise to explain everything. But first a bath... and another hug."

"Another hug," you nodded, laughing softly. "You better never let go of me again."

"Never again."

#fanfic #reader insert #reader #angst #fluff #gravity falls #stanford pines #standford pines #stanford pines x reader #gravity falls stanford #gf stanford #stanford

214 notes · View notes

immortalbumblebee · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 20: Forged in Fire

So two chapters of this series passed 100 notes this week? Holy shit, guys!!! Thank you so much! I've been trying to find as much time for writing between finals, but this is probably going to be the last chapter I publish until the hoidays.

Thank you so much for y'all support. The likes and comments are really motivating.

Content warning for mentions of birth

Masterlist

Working at the factory had become excruciating since you got arrested. Well, it had always been a little excruciating. But it had been especially bad for these past few months once word had gotten out that you’d spent the night at the Enforcer HQ. Your pay had been considerably docked, nearly all your coworkers all but refused to interact with you, and all your supervisors would go out of their way to be right pricks to you whenever given the chance. Morichi had made it clear that you’d almost fully lost your job from the whole kerfuffle.

It was fairly easy to ignore when you were working, primarily just focusing on your work. Sure, your supervisors were bad, but no worse than the chembarons your sort were used to back home. No, what really made it insufferable were the moments between work, like in the dressing room when you could feel your coworkers eyes’ on you, hear their judgmental murmurings.

Finally shedding yourself of the annoyingly stuffy uniform, you couldn’t help but close your locker with a particularly loud ‘slam’. The room grew silent at this, which only worked to further irritate you.

Fuck this

Storming out of the change room, you didn’t even think as you made your way down the hallway and over to the catwalk that led you to the staff entrance. As you crossed the raised catwalk, however, you found yourself stilling as you passed over the main floor underneath. Down there, you could hear the high-pitched hum of the metal on the conveyor lines. Eerily familiar. As you watched the assembly line workers do their work, you found yourself focusing on the metal parts being put together. Long pipes and complex golden mechanisms. All being locked together and assembled until finally…the all too familiar shine of the barrel of an Encorfcer’s gun. Hundreds, if not thousands of them being pumped out of this factory every damn day.

You’d put the dots together after your arrest, when the Enforcers had stormed the fighting ring. The ringing had been too familiar, like a blacksmith recognizing his own maker’s mark.

Zeroing in on the cool, familiar texture of the metal, you couldn't resist the urge to lift one hand. A few pieces on the conveyor belt trembled briefly, then floated effortlessly a couple of inches off the ground. With a subtle flex of your fingers, the metal obeyed—curling in on itself with a sharp, satisfying ‘crunch.’ It was almost as if you were breathing—effortless, instinctive, and perfectly in tune with the world around you.

Shaking your head out of your thoughts, you let the metal fall thoughtlessly back onto the belt and went to continue on your way, didn’t even notice anyone around you as you began to march down the catwalk. That is, until you came crashing full-force into a tiny body. Colliding, you both stumbled back, the impact snapping you out of your daze.

“Oh!” Victoria exclaimed, jumping back. “Terribly sorry!”

“Oh my gods, no. I’m so sorry. I totally wasn’t looking where I was going.” You scan her over, but she looks fine.

“No, no. ‘ts my fault, really!” She waved her hands anxiously, her cheeks flushing. “Are y’alright, miss?”

“I’m fine.” You give her a little smile. “Thanks.”

"N' problem!" she says, just as a few of your coworkers round the corner. The moment they spot you and her standing there, their expressions shift subtly, but it's enough to catch your attention. You can practically hear the hushed whispers starting up behind you as they hurry past, heads down, moving with that practiced air of nonchalance—like they think the two of you are completely oblivious to the thinly veiled judgment they're broadcasting.

“Well now,” Victoria murmurs, “who pissed in their pond?”

“Sorry,” You sigh, lifting your hand to rub the bridge of your nose in annoyance. “Y’may wanna back off from me. Seems like ‘m bit of a social pariah at the moment.”

Victoria shrugs. “Like anyone ‘round ‘ere be given’ me the time of day, anyday? I’m the only foreigner workin’ here, lass. Heard you got yourself locked up?”

“It’s…a long story.”

Victoria seems to think for a moment, looks around (lacking any semblance of subtlety) then motions to the worker’s exit. “Wanna catch a smoke wit’ me?”

As she led you outside, you were immediately thrown off by the unexpected direction she took. Instead of heading toward the usual smoking section, she veered sharply in the opposite direction, heading straight for the bridge. Her pace quickened, and despite your curiosity, you asked her where she was taking you. Without even looking back, she waved you off, offering no explanation.

For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed your mind—was this some sort of twisted trap? Were you walking into some elaborate murder plot? The thought lingered, but before you could give it more weight, she made a sharp turn down a narrow flight of stairs, just as the bridge came into view behind you. You had never taken this path before, and only now did you realize how easily you'd overlooked it. The steps seemed unremarkable, tucked away beneath the looming shadow of the bridge, as if they were meant to be ignored.

The descent felt oddly quiet, the rhythmic thud of your footsteps mingling with the distant hum of the city. After just a few flights of stairs, the air grew thicker with the scent of brine and decay. You reached the bottom and, as you rounded the last corner, the waters of Pilt River stretched out before you. A small, neglected beach lay before you, its shoreline littered with an unsightly amount of garbage. Old, rusted cans, plastic wrappers, and pieces of broken wood jutted out from the dirt, an unfortunate testament to the city’s disregard for this forgotten corner.

Yet, amidst the debris, something caught your eye. Set into the side of a nearby wall, nearly camouflaged by grime and neglect, was a large manhole. About as tall as Vander, if you had to guess. The rusted metal bars that covered the opening were more than big enough for a normal-sized person to slip right through.

“What…is this?” You asked Victoria.

‘M not really sure, to be frank.” She shrugged, wandering closer to the giant manholes. “When I first moved ‘ere, I took it upon m’self to find all the points o’ access t’ the water tha’ I could. Even if I can’ be swimmin’ in it, it’s nice just to be close to it y’know? But these…these stuck out t’ me.” She slipped right through the bars. “This tunnel in particular splits off, say, ‘bout half a mile out? Goes that-a ways,” she points off in the direction of the bridge, “righ’ under the river.”

You followed her lead, stepping easily through the rusted metal bars. The air in the tunnels was thick and stagnant, a foul mix of rotting garbage and something else—something eerily familiar. A few breaths later, the stench hit you like a wave, sharp and unmistakable—the pungent smell of Zaun’s mines. It was the same stench that clung to the clothes of the boys when they came home from work, the same tainted air that swept through the slums and left so many of your people sick every day.

"This... this is part of the Underground’s ventilation system," you said, the realization hitting you as the damp walls closed in. "It must have overlapped with Piltover’s sewage system somewhere along the way, when they were engineering the city. Seems pretty par for the course, doesn't it?"

Victoria wrinkled her nose. "Ventilation and sewage?" she repeated, sounding dubious. "That don’ 'ound righ’."

You stifle a chuckle. "Welcome to life on the other side of the bridge." You paused, eyeing the dark path ahead. "But... Victoria, you’re sure this leads to the other side?”

She nods. “Not far in, I’d wager, but it definitely be lettin’ out on the Promenade. Been there m’self. Tunnels could definitely use some serious upkeep though, I warn. There’ a pretty big leak a good ways in.”

“How many people know about this?” you asked, your mind racing with possibilities.

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Who else would I be tellin’, Lass?"

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Then why show me?"

She shifted uncomfortably, casting a sideways glance at you.

“Well, if I’m bein’ honest…you’re the only one at that factory that treats me as anything more than a stupid immigrant that ‘an’t speak. And I figure, if you e’er need to…y’know, I just figure you’d ‘ave more use for this than me.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt the cogs in your mind clicking into place. A direct tunnel from the Promenade to Topside. The sheer scale of it hit you like a punch to the gut.

"Lady be damned." You muttered under your breath, shaking your head. The magnitude of what you were looking at was sinking in. You raised a hand and let it slide over the worn stone, feeling the miles of metal pipes buried within it. The structure was ancient, far older than anything you’d seen before. It would need significant repairs before being used for anything substantial, but the potential... The potential was enormous.

“Victoria…” you said, your voice low with awe. “You’ve got no idea how big this is gonna be."

Back at the apartment, you’re more than happy to share this news with the guys. You pulled out the old blueprints—dusty, frayed at the edges, but still legible enough to make sense of. They’d been tucked away for years, a relic from when one of you managed to snag them from Piltover’s archives. As you spread the paper across the table, the lines and markings revealed exactly what you’d hoped for: the tunnel on Piltover’s side was labeled as a sewage system, but further down by the shoreline, it merged seamlessly with the ventilation tunnel that led up into Zaun’s upper levels.

The room grew quiet as everyone leaned in, taking in the implications.

“How bad’s the damage?” Vander asked, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence. His brow furrowed with concern. “This girl, Victoria, said there’s a leak?”

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to recall every detail Victoria had mentioned. “I’m not sure exactly. The tunnels are old, and if there’s a leak, it could be a serious issue. But if I can get in there with Connol and some of the other factory folks, we can probably assess the damage and figure out how to fix it.”

Vander gave you a curt nod, but the expression on his face told you he wasn’t completely satisfied. He was always cautious, always weighing the risks.

Silco, ever the skeptic, leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on you. “And your source can be trusted?” His voice was calm, but there was a glint of doubt in his gaze as he scribbled something into the worn pages of his notebook.

You met his gaze, unwavering. “I’d say so. She’s Bilgewater-folk, like me and Ma.” You paused, considering the weight of your words. "I trust her. She wouldn't steer me wrong."

Benzo let out a laugh, breaking the tension that had begun to build in the room. He threw an arm around you in a rough, familiar gesture, his grin wide and infectious. “Trust a gutter fish to be all tricksy-like,” he joked, the teasing tone in his voice lightening the mood. “Good find, Fishie.”

“If we’re able to get this into proper commission, this could change a lot of Zaun’s infrastructure. What if we—” Silco’s words were abruptly cut off as the door to the apartment swung open with a loud crash. The sudden intrusion startled everyone, and you all whipped around, trying to make sense of the noise.

Standing in the doorway, panting heavily and struggling to catch her breath, was Niya. She was disheveled, her work clothes torn and streaked with dirt, as if she’d sprinted across the entire length of Zaun. Her eyes were wide, panic etched across her face.

“What in the blazes—!” Benzo started, his voice rising in surprise and confusion.

Niya barely seemed to hear him as she staggered into the room, clutching her side and gasping for air. “Felicia, she–fuck that was a lot of stairs-she-” She made a sudden gagging sound, her body curling inward as if she was about to collapse. It was clear that she was exhausted, and something about her frantic movements made your gut twist with unease.

“Fel? What’s wrong with Fel?!” Vander sprang into action, running over to help Niya further into the apartment as she continued to hack up a lung. The moment his hands were on her, however, the poor girl all but collapsed into him.

“The baby!” Niya puttered out. “Fel, she-oh geez-went into labour!”

The apartment broke out into panic, all four of you crying out in different voices.

“The baby’s not due for another couple months!” Silco’s voice broke out against the panic.

“Seven weeks, but yeah. I know.” Niya gestured to herself, her breath still ragged. “You think I would’ve run all the way over here if it wasn’t an emergency?”

You felt your heart sink as you moved quickly to support her, taking her into your arms, steadying her as she swayed on her feet. “Niya, where is she?” The urgency in your voice was impossible to hide now.

She wiped a hand across her face, trying to push through her exhaustion. “We were at her place. Had a playdate scheduled. My niece, Skye, she—” She broke off, coughing harshly, and then continued, “She ran to get Dr. Yan.”

“And Connol?” Silco’s voice cut through the room, sharp and demanding.

Niya pointed back toward the door, her body still shaking. “Already ran and got him from Heisen’s factory. He should be with her by now.”

Vander, already moving, was the first to gear up. As he laced up his boots, his expression hardened, a stone wall of determination. His voice dropped into that deep, commanding tone that everyone knew meant business.

“We need to move, now!” Vander’s words were quick, measured. “Min, grab the first aid kit, painkillers, any medicine we’ve got. Benzo, emergency water, towels, matches—now! Move it!”

The adrenaline coursed through you, making everything seem sharper, faster, like your mind was suddenly running in overdrive. Your heart beat heavily in your chest as you sprang into action. Your legs felt like they were moving on their own, each step pulling you closer to where you needed to be. You bolted and grabbed the first aid kit, not bothering to check what was inside as you threw it into an old duffle bag. Then, you started grabbing anything else you could find—rubbing alcohol, numbing ointment, gauze strips, painkillers, and any other supplies that might come in handy.

Benzo was already ahead of you, throwing on his jacket and grabbing the emergency water, towels, and matches, his usual lighthearted demeanor gone. His face was set, and you knew that under all the humor, he was as serious as Vander right now.

“We’ve got that shipment coming in from Noxus tonight.” Benzo mentioned, handing Vander the supplies. “But only one of us has to be there to do the hand-off. I’ll meet you at Con and Fel’s.”

You shake your head, handing Silco your duffle. “Two of us go, just to be safe.

Silco’s sharp mind was already calculating their best route, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head. “Vander, Niya and I can take the path that lets up by Babette’s,” he said, looking over at you all. “If you take the route we take to Lou’s from the promenade, it’ll get you back to their apartment the fastest. Cuts through some of the alleyways, avoids main streets. You’ll be there in half the time than any of the main routes.”

Vander nodded, already moving toward the door. “Good, let’s go!”

***

The tradeoff had taken far longer than expected, and when you finally reached the apartment, Felicia’s piercing screams echoed down the hallway, sharp and urgent even from several doors away. Your steps quickened, Benzo muttering under his breath about the delay as the two of you pushed through the door.

Inside, the tension was palpable. Niya stood near the window, her arms crossed tightly as she glanced toward the bathroom door. The little girl at her side—her niece, Skye—clutched an old book to her chest, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she looked up at you with wide, curious eyes. On the bed in the corner, Violet sat perched beside Vander, her legs swinging back and forth as he played with her and an old stuffed rabbit. The moment you stepped inside, she spotted you, her face lighting up like a candle.

“Auntie Min! Uncle Benzo!” Violet squealed, leaping from the bed and barreling toward you.

“Sorry we’re late!” Benzo panted as he stepped over the threshold, ruffling his hair with one hand. “Damn traders wouldn’t stop haggling, and then someone got knife-happy.”

You shrugged off your jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “I got them to agree to the original price in the end, didn’t I?” you shot back, giving him a sideways glance. “How’s she doing?”

“No major updates yet,” Silco answered, his tone clipped but steady. “But we haven’t had to call in an emergency ride to the hospital, so that’s a good sign—for now.” His eyes darted to the bathroom door before returning to you, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Violet reached you, arms outstretched, and you scooped her up effortlessly, her tiny frame folding into your chest. She wrapped her arms around your neck and squeezed tightly, her happiness contagious even in the heavy atmosphere.

“Auntie Min, look what Uncle Vander gave me!” Her little hands grasped a little golden amulet tied to a thin black cord around her neck. It was a simple piece of jewelry, but you recognized it easily as a bracelet that Vander liked to wear to important events.

“Wow! Look at that!” You smiled, your eyes casting over to Vander with a raised eyebrow. “That was very nice of him.”

Vander, standing nearby with a proud smile, nudged Violet gently and stepped over to the two of you. He wrapped a secure arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer.

"Tell Minnie what I told you when I gave it to you, kiddo," he prompted, his voice warm and encouraging.

"Umm... if I'm gonna be a big sister..." Violet said really slow, her eyebrows all scrunched up like she was thinking hard. "I gotta remember to take care of them. And... this is gonna be a thing that helps me remember!". She leaned back just a little, her face lighting up with a wide, toothy grin as she looked up at you. Her excitement was so pure, so full of love, that it was impossible not to smile in return. That bright smile, filled with so much promise and joy, made your heart melt in a way nothing else could. You gave her a little extra squeeze and a kiss to the forehead before setting her down.

“You’re gonna be a great big sister, Luv,” Benzo replied, stepping in for a quick high-five that made her giggle.

“Is Dr. Yan in there with your parents?” he asked, motioning to the closed bathroom door.

Violet nodded, her bright pink locks bouncing with the movement as she pointed toward the door. “Mommy’s been in there a long time.”

“These things take time, little one,” Silco said gently as you brushed her hair back from her face. You could feel her energy, her eagerness, and a touch of nervousness beneath it all. She clung to you like a lifeline, her small fingers gripping your shirt.

From the corner, Vander cleared his throat, catching your attention. He looked calm but watchful, his hand resting on the children’s book he’d set aside. “Felicia’s tough. She’ll pull through,” he said in his steady, reassuring tone.

Benzo nodded, his jaw tightening. “She’s tougher than most of us, that’s for damn sure.”

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, and the room seemed to tighten with anticipation. The low hum of voices behind the door grew, rising and falling in strange patterns, and then it happened—the crescendo of frantic, desperate cries, followed by an eerie, sudden silence. The apartment held its breath. Time itself seemed to stop. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on that door, waiting for the next sound, the next moment, but it was as if the world itself was waiting to exhale.

And then… the sharp, unmistakable wail of a baby filled the space, raw and full of life. It was a sound so powerful it seemed to shake the air itself.

“Oh, thank the gods…” Niya let out a long, relieved sigh, her head falling forward as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from her shoulders. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion, the tension that had coiled in her body for so long finally unraveling. Skye gently placed a hand on her aunt’s shoulder.

Vander chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that filled the room with warmth. “It’s got a set of lungs, that’s for damn sure.” His voice cracked with genuine amusement, and he gave a small shake of his head, still eyeing the door as though waiting for the next sound, the next sign. Violet, unable to contain her excitement any longer, made a move toward the door. Her small feet pounded against the floor, eager to see her new sibling. But before she could take another step, Vander was there, quick as ever, sweeping her up into his arms with a gentle but firm grip. "Not yet, kiddo," he said, his voice soft but clear. "You’ve gotta wait for your parents to let you in on their own time. Okay?" Violet pouted slightly, her small lips curling into a frown, but she nodded, her eyes still trained on the door.

And wait you all did, for yet another set of long moments, Felicia’s cries now replaced with that of the infant. The rest of the group tried to busy themselves as best as they could—Benzo and Skye even began washing some of the dishes that had been left in the sink, their clattering almost a distraction from the tension hanging in the air.

Violet, content to be held by Vander, made faces at him, trying to distract herself. Conversations about business and idle chatter filled the gaps between those breaths, but none of it mattered. Not really. You couldn’t escape the waiting, the anticipation. Everyone in the room had been drawn into the same orbit, eyes occasionally drifting toward the door, hearts waiting for the next moment to arrive.

And then, with a soft creak, the door to the bathroom opened. The room fell utterly silent, as if the very air had been sucked out of the space. All eyes turned toward Connol, who stood in the doorway.

He looked dazed, weary, his face a mix of exhaustion and elation. His hand rubbed over his face, as if to wipe away the tension of the past hours. For a split second, panic flared in your chest—something about the way he looked, so tired and worn, unsettled you. But then he looked up at all of you, his eyes catching yours, and he smiled.

“It’s a girl!”

The apartment erupted in a wave of cheers and clapping, the tension finally breaking as everyone poured out their relief and joy. Vander and Silco both lunged at Connol, enveloping him in an enthusiastic embrace that was almost too aggressive for the moment, clapping him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him over. Connol, despite his exhaustion, laughed, wrapping his arms around them in return.

Violet, who had been playing with Vander, was suddenly all movement. She wriggled free from Vander’s grasp and darted across the room, her small legs carrying her quickly toward her father. Connol, still smiling wide, scooped her up into his arms, pressing a kiss to her hair and snuggling her closer to his chest. She giggled, the joy on her face as radiant as his.

“Are they both okay?” Silco asked, his voice a little rough with concern as he gripped Connol’s shoulder tightly.

“They’re fine! Perfectly fine!” Connol grinned, shifting Violet to his hip as he addressed the room. His voice was brimming with pride. “Yan wants to keep the baby in an incubator for a few days just to be sure, that’s where she is now. She might have a little trouble breathing, but…” He paused, looking down at Violet, then back at the others. “They’re both going to be okay.”

Violet’s eyes widened, her small hands tugging at Connol’s shirt. “Can I see Mommy now?” she asked, her voice filled with the kind of innocence and urgency that only a child could muster.

From behind the bathroom door, Felicia’s voice echoed out, soft but clear, though tinged with exhaustion. “You promise to be gentle and careful, sweetie,” she said. “Especially around the incubator.”

Yan poked his head out from the bathroom, his weathered face creased with lines that spoke of years spent helping others. He gave the room a reassuring smile. “The bleeding is minimal now, so long as Violet can handle a little post-birth gore,” he added with a knowing chuckle.

“I can handle it! I can handle it!” Violet exclaimed, twisting and wiggling her way out of Connol’s arms before taking off in a full sprint toward the bathroom. Connol watched her with a mixture of amusement and pride, a soft laugh escaping his lips. His eyes softened as he let out a long, weary sigh.

“Seven weeks early…” he muttered, his tone low, his hand rubbing his tired eyes. “I’ll admit, I was terrified.”

Silco, ever the steady presence, gave Connol’s shoulder another pat, his expression serious but supportive. “Yan’s practically delivered every baby in the Lanes for the past 20 years. They were in good hands,” he said, offering his usual reassurance.

“I know, but still…” Connol trailed off, his voice still carrying the weight of the fear he’d carried with him through the night. Then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, he turned his gaze toward Silco and Niya, who had been talking quietly in the kitchen. “Actually, speaking of being in good hands…” he started, his tone shifting to something more deliberate. “Fel and I were talking, and… we want you two to be her godparents. With Vander and Min being Violet’s, it just felt right, you know?”

Niya’s eyes widened in disbelief. She nearly squealed as she stepped forward. “Are… are you serious?” she exclaimed, her voice cracking with excitement. “Oh my goodness, Con! I don’t even know what to say!”

Silco, his usual calm demeanor never faltering, smiled warmly and extended his hand toward Connol. “I think I speak for both of us when I say we’d be honored, and we won’t disappoint. She’s in good hands, I swear it.”

Then, as Connol took his hand into a firm handshake, Silco paused, “Does she, uh…you know, does she have a name?”

Connol’s smile widened. “We talked about that, too. We were waiting to decide when she came out but,” he gave a nod, his expression full of love and certainty. “Powder. Her name is Powder.”

96 notes · View notes