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hxltic · 4 months ago

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Where Are You? NANAMI KENTO

There hadn’t been a day at work this long since the last Christmas. Corporations all decide they want to reward people they owe at the same time, and with the help of other departments, your job is: finalizing these payments, ensuring the calculations are right, and ensuring the people they are paying are actually doing what they’re supposed to.

This is done with three other previously mentioned departments, and even though you were the youngest compared to the middle-aged and older people around you, you were the only one who technically knew how to do all the jobs. Unfortunately, that meant you had to pick up some slack.

Sighing, you pull into the garage, letting the large door descend behind you. When you hop out of your SUV and turn the doorknob to the house, it’s pitch black.

The only noise comes from the clacking of your heels against the hardwood floors and the shuffling of items in your purse. You can almost hear your own thoughts.

“I’m home,” you call out, notifying your husband of your arrival.

There’s no response. You continue your scout for him, walking through the house leisurely, half-expecting him to be in the movie room upstairs or maybe the master bedroom you share, but you’re stumped when you don’t find him in either. His car was in the garage, so where was he?

Finally, it dawns on you to check his office. You make your way down the hallway and turn the corner into the last door, calling his name, only knowing the house is habited by the faint, golden light emanating from the doorway.

“Kento?”

Gently, you guide yourself past his bookcases, warily eyeing him down when you finally spot him. You’d expected him to be reading, or deep into his desktop, but he wasn’t.

He’s behind his dark, mahogany desk, leaning back far into the swivel chair. There are papers strewed around his usually pristine workstation and an empty mug of coffee resting on it. There’s also a low lamp that glows on the end of the surface, illumining his face as well as some of the office.

His expression is distant. His hair isn’t the gelled perfection it usually is. As you walk closer, your eyes dart to the clear glass in his scarred hand, sloshing some burnt-colored liquid in it. His reading spectacles rest nearby on the papers, not even on his face.

He moves to take a sip, lazily bringing the coolness to his lips, and only then does he notice you standing there. His eyes flicker to you, taking in your form before him. It’s odd, you think. Your husband has the keenest senses of anyone you know. He did hear you coming, right?

His tie is loose around his neck as if he were tugging at it previously, and his dress shirt reveals more of his chest than he likes when he’s working. The few buttons undone from the collar was doing absolute wonders for it. You swallow, the unwanted idea of your own workday completely forgotten.

“Kento.” You speak again—not too loud as if it would disturb the quiet atmosphere. He doesn’t provide a response this time either, but his eyes do glance up from your lower half to your eyes, and now, focused on your lips.

Your lips. That fucking red lip. That deep, red color that you wear to the office with your tights and pencil skirt and heels. Everyday, he curses that you’re blessed with a larger chest, because that cleavage you leave with makes him want to buy out your entire fucking office and monitor all your meetings himself. He’s seen the old dickheads on your floor, probably eyeing you as you walk by, comparing you to their own wives. And if not them, the forty-year-olds that that just can’t wait to peel his fat diamond ring off your finger as if they could take better care of you. Pay for your nails and hair and the Louboutins you strut in wearing.

He feels himself not only growing in his pants just looking at you, but frustrating himself as he imagines anyone else doing the same. Maybe it’s the alcohol in his system that’s fucking with his senses. And is it fucking with them, or just simply bringing them forth?

Relatively, your husband sports a rather stoic expression. But now, you’re watching the furrow in his brows deepen as he gazes pensively at your body, the glimmering watch on his arm ticking by in the silence.

When you’re scanning him back, you hadn’t even realized he’d finally reverted his attention to your eyes.

“How was work?” He inquires, his voice deep and rough. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position.

Swallowing, you force your stare to him. “Fine.”

There’s a beat of silence, the tension palpable in the air.

You finally break it, nodding to his untidy desk, “How was work?”

He takes a glimpse of it momentarily, swishing the liquor calmly before downing it in one go. He places the glass back down beside the bottle of what you now see is whiskey, his pace and demeanor like the calming serenity before a storm.

Shrugging nonchalantly, he answers. “Fine.”

You hum in acknowledgment, now taking casual steps around the wood to him. His eyes follow you like a cat to a laser, and his chair twists in correlation.

When you finally come to a stop before him, he allows your fingers to delicately trail up his collarbone, all the way around his neck as he blinks at you through his lashes. He always makes a point to pamper you; to be touching you in some way but not yet. His hands strain hanging over his lap.

You can’t tell if he relaxes or tenses when the pad of your thumb brushes along his cheek. His orbs remain stuck to yours, low and searching through your soul as the light adds a hazy hue to his face.

Under your fingers, there’s the growing stubble that he often punctually shaves off. As you brush along it, his eyes flutter shut, only to reopen like he remembered he preferred to look at you.

“You’ve been drinking.”

He doesn’t respond to your observation. His expression remains the same, his mind too fixed to process your words.

His tongue does prod at the inside of his cheek though, his gaze dropping below your face, then lower, and lower, until you’re slightly coming forward, his hands finally releasing from their spot to cup behind your thighs.

His fingers pinch at the tights you have on and he exhales, letting them go and caressing the skin above them instead.

When you don’t think he is going to say anything at all, he grumbles. “You wore this?”

Your brows come in to crease as you tilt your head at him. He’d never been controlling with what you wear. In fact, he dared another man to say anything to you, because if they did, there’s no question they knew you were married. Nanami was not an unknown name, and once again, the shiny ring. “Yeah, why?”

“You look beautiful,” he sighs, but it’s almost a grumble.

He’s addressing you directly until his attention shifts back to the tights you’re wearing, and the subtle sincerity in his expression disappears. “Thank yo–”

“Burn these.”

He hates them. How they hug you just right. How they don’t actually come all the way up. They stop right where the fabric of your work skirt begins, so it’s only covered completely when you’re standing up straight. When you’re walking—or worse, sitting—it’s like a visible garter.

Meanwhile, you huff on your way to complain, but out of curiosity, you ask slyly, “Why? They’re my favorite.”

Because your thighs fill them out. Because he knows other men imagine running their fingers along the supple skin underneath.

You feel soft massages just under your cheeks. And then you gasp when something is being pulled tightly against your skin, followed by the loud sound of tearing fabric.

Suddenly your tights are no longer tights—they’re split largely down your legs.

“Because they’re my favorite too,” he says casually, rubbing the affected area. “I’ll buy you new ones that I don’t like as much.”

As if punctuating his statement, he finds his way up your skirt, grabbing a handful of you in the process and pulling you down onto him. When you’re perched on top and your hands relocate to his shoulders, he moves his own to cup your face just as you did him. His thumb innocuously glides along your skin until it drags down your lip, smudging the red lipstick there.

The action inches a smile onto your face. After a beat of watching his distracted silence, you grab his attention.

“What, you miss me?” You tilt your head.

He will usually shut his eyes to mask when he’s rolling them, but he doesn’t this time. He knows you can tell just by the state he’s in. “Brat.”

With a teasing giggle, you begin to kiss his face, your red lip marks covering his light skin. When he can’t take any more, despite how calming it usually is, he grabs your chin and pushes his lips to yours, ignoring the remnants of your lipstick that will taint his own.

Should I make a part 2??

©️hxltic

#nanami kento #kento x reader #jjkaisen #jjk #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami x reader #nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk kento #kento x you #jujutsu kento #kento x y/n #jjk nanami kento

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kingshovelbug · 11 months ago

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im sorry but i need to geek out somewhere and screaming into the void on tumblr is less likely to get me flayed than on twitter, especially if i get terms wrong. plus i can do a read more and yall can click into the tech talk if you want to verse it bombarding your twitter timelines

so idk if i only liked it or if i actually put it in my queue but i saw a post that talked about a few pieces of tech that focus on user repairs and being sustainable (fairphone and frameworks laptop) and after doing some more research into what they have to offer i actually really excited that these products are finely hitting the us market and that people are moving away from the belief that super smooth streamlined glassy = the future. being able to reliably repair and keep what you have alive verse throwing the whole thing away when maybe all you needed to do is add more ram to your current laptop (something that i would do with my laptop to keep using it for a few more years if it wasnt glued shut and i was at risk of cracking the screen) or swap out a fuse.

i know big corporations dont like it but i truly do believe with how much tech we use on a daily basis that the way that we are going to be more environmentally friendly is to move back to tech that we can hang onto for as long as we can and to recycle and then reuse what we cant. like with the frameworks laptop. i saw that they just partnered with coolermaster to create a case specifically so that you can reuse you motherboard, cpu, etc and make a portable workstation. you could dual wield with the laptop you just upgraded if you want to dedicate specific tasks to one or the other. they also specifically mentioned that you could screw it into the back of a monitor and create your own all in one. guys thats cool as shit??? if you had a 3d printer and some time you could even create that yourself

on top of the actual hardware part moving to open source programs when your able. when i update my desktop i plan on running linux. it might have a learning curve compared to windows but in terms of performance??? ive heard that it runs smoother even on older machines, that its more efficient because isnt running stuff in the background that tracks your data and shit. now i understand that not everyone can do that because there are some programs that dont play nice with linux but for my needs at least it does everything i would need it to. and maybe a couple years down the road we do figure out how to run these programs on certain flavors of linux since its open source and people fiddle with it so much. (still looking for alternatives to like word and excel though, i use google docs since its free but i want to move away from them as much as i can too since they laid of their youtube music team (i believe?? it might of been a different branch) for trying to unionize)

if anyone knows of any other smaller companies that actually focus on sustainability and user repairability please let me know. theres certain pieces of tech that i think are now unfortunately behind a software repair paywall, things that used to be just machines and are gaining more bells and whistles like cars and refrigerators if that makes sense. but the more we push for these things to be repairable by us the consumers id hope that would change, or there would at least be options that dont need specific companies to repair them or else they blow up

#personal

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jades-typurriter · 2 months ago

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Secure Connection

As promised: more Posie!! I wrote this one toward the end of last Spring after a couple of conversations with friends regarding the malleability of digital bodies (as well as still having Many Thoughts about the way code can give them new compulsions, after writing something about Annie and a new taur-shaped chassis for a friend's Patreon). Enjoy reading about her dealing with a corporate-mandated "hardware" update!

CW: Genital TF, this is another one that's As About Sex as it can possibly be without being about sex

Posie sat, sulking—steaming, even—in her office. It was a small side room off of the main floor of IT personnel, system engineers, and other technical employees of her corporation. Much like a central server, it was placed for easy access to the department-wide administrative assistant, and much like a server room, it was snug, windowless, and awash with the calming drone and relaxing warmth of an array of exhaust fans. Though she was free to project herself nearly anywhere on the company’s campus, this was where her consciousness was housed, and where she felt most at home. It was also the only place she could get any damn privacy, a luxury that she was deeply grateful for at present.

A newly-downloaded file weighed on the back of the Renamon’s mind. More literally, it was somewhere in the racks of drives that made up her long-term memory, to and from which mission-critical information was transferred in the course of doing business. Had somebody asked where exactly the file was stored, she would have been able to list the specific drive and the exact directory address, but she had de-prioritized the allocation of her processing resources for the download. Once again, she had received an assignment from her superiors, and once again, she was hesitant. She may even have admitted to being recalcitrant. She resented the orders.

The package of data in question was an update for her own software, a suite of new tools to allow management to offload yet more menial tasks onto her in the name of “efficiency”. Forget that she could diagnose a software issue faster than any of the engineers could even open a remote connection to the malfunctioning device. Instead of allowing her to take the reins, they saw fit to divert more of her attention to the least impressive among talents, and the one she already put to use the most often: transferring data.

This wouldn’t have been much of a problem, ordinarily. After all, Posie resided in the beating heart of the network, the nexus through which the vast majority of information was sent and received. It could be… meditative. Parsing streams of ones and zeroes, overseeing the flow of packets, redirecting traffic to equally spread the load across modems and routers so as to optimize travel time. It could even have been considered relaxing, if a worker of her caliber needed to relax. Instead of offering her a vacation (pah!), however, the update felt more like it heralded a demotion, denying her even the ability to pluck like harpstrings the miles of copper and gold that lined her facility. She was expected to deliver this data on foot.

Management justified this humiliation with practical concerns: some information, much like the old records she was often tasked to dispose of, was so confidential that it could not be sent via wireless transmission. Even hardwired connections were too fallible for the likes of next-generation schematics and financial access keys—a single compromised workstation, or compromised worker, could spell the loss of the company’s upper hand in its market. She wasn’t even going to be afforded the dignity of carrying an external hard drive to the destination. That would require the slow and tedious process of physically moving from one place to the next; this was one of the only times that she regretted the freedom of movement that was so coveted by her flesh-and-blood peers.

With no room to make exceptions for security protocol, she gripped the edge of her desk, brow furrowing, eyes squinted shut in consternation. Eventually, she huffed, rose, and turned her attention to her “physical body”, summoning up the file in much the same way that one would approach a plate of food with a pungent odor. The Renamon steeled herself and began to more closely examine its contents. She read the raw code similarly to how one might read words on a page; however, where the turning gears of the organic mind would, almost unconsciously, conjure up an image as a result of those words, her mind kicked off a series of involuntary, autonomic processes.

Her body carried out the instructions on her behalf. Once she started, she had no control until she finally reached a stopcode; it was the nature of being a program herself that code had as much of an influence on her mind and body as her own thoughts, her own will. In opening the package, she reluctantly consented to the changes that management saw fit to make to her. It was better than the eventual forced-deadline sort of update that software companies were so keen on using nowadays, and at least choosing the time and place allowed her to make herself presentable again before having to face another person.

Having parts of her code—her very body—rewritten by the update was a strange sensation, not unlike having your thoughts dictated to you by an outside force. Stranger still was that she could feel the exact delineation between her previous self and the patches of… well, the patch. She could feel it quite strongly, as a matter of fact: beneath her skirt of simulated sky-blue fur, between her legs, she could feel her mesh being edited. Stretched. Reshaped. The vectors that made up the triangles of her wireframe soul were being rewritten, mathematically transformed. A shape began to protrude from the once-flat span at the bottom of her torso, at first round and indistinct, but quickly increasing in resolution.

The Renamon struggled to process the sensations as a long, slender connector began to take shape. This often happened with changes to her body plan; inputs streamed into her mind from directions, locations, that previously never sent any signals, and the new additions seldom had their sensitivity adjusted downward for her convenience. In this case, it was highly sensitive, delivering reams of data to the base of her skull just from brushing up against her own fur, or the gentle flow of air from the computers in her office. It made sense, given that it was supposed to be a high-capacity transfer tool, but she was too busy buckling at the knees and clutching at the desk behind her so she didn’t fall flat on her rear for the thought to occur to her.

Her processors demanded more cooling, kicking into high gear as they formatted the two new storage devices that accompanied the connector, tailor-made for packing confidential data as tightly as possible. The sound of whirring fans filled the room, stirring her fur and sending shivers up and down her back; she could only hope that the rushing exhaust made enough noise to drown her out, whimpering despite herself. The new drives were larger (and more unwieldy) than the ones that were built into her chest, much to her chagrin. She was forced to adjust her stance and her gait as she found her footing again, spreading her legs wider than she was accustomed in order to give them enough room.

The spinning in her head slowly settling down, she slowly began to compose herself once again, taking stock of the new additions. They were cumbersome, to be sure, and she lamented how they jutted out from her otherwise sleek form and burdened her with less-graceful posture. It didn’t even match her fur! The software engineers that had concocted the code had at least included one small mercy: a compartment for the connector to retract into, nestled in the fur above the storage drives. No such luck for the drives themselves. She supposed she would just have to adjust to walking with delicate hardware in tow. As she went to smooth her fur over her lap again, her paw recoiled away. Some kind of… static discharge was left in the fluff. A memory leak, perhaps? The fact that such a malfunction could be caused just from having the connector brush up against her fur appalled her, deepening her frustration even more. They couldn’t even test the update for bugs before shipping it out to her. She shook out her paw and finished arranging her skirt as best she could before working up the composure to finally leave her office.

Picking up the payload for which all this fanfare had been arranged was at least a quick, easy process. She stopped into the office of the manager that had assigned her the task; she offered a businesslike nod and, knowing that she was always itching to skip niceties in the name of saving time, he offered a straightforward wave at his personal terminal. She held a paw over the computer tower and, in the time it took for electricity to arc to her fingertip with a tinny zzzrt, she had already searched his directory for the relevant test files and copied them to the newly-installed drives. Wireless transfer, yes, but only technically. The engineers had specifically asked a member of another division, whose computer network wasn’t connected to their own; it was as though she had picked a folder up from his desk and walked out with it.

Moving the file was just as uneventful. It was far from the first time that she’d navigated the sprawling corporate property, and even if it were, the maps existed just outside the orbit of her thoughts, ready to be summoned to mind at a simple impulse. What she was not expecting, however, was the technician who was waiting in the server room to which she was asked to deliver the file. While she preferred to work in the isolation of rooms that were set aside specifically for hardware, she was far from unused to being in the presence of the other people responsible for maintaining the company’s systems. That said…

“Can I help you?” The Renamon icily asked.

“Oh, I don’t need anything! I’m just here to take notes on the transfer.” Her tone was cheery; evidently, she wasn’t aware how compromising the new additions were. “The time it takes, any obvious issues. I’ll be the one checking the files against the originals, too,” she concluded, hooking a thumb over her shoulder at a monitor behind her.

“I see,” Posie replied through gritted teeth. “You have clearance to see these files, then?”

“Well, they’re just dummy data, ma’am.” At least she was respectful.

“And the proprietary hardware I’ve been… equipped with?” she forced out, keeping her synthesized voice even.

“Oh, for sure I do. I designed it!”

Oh! she seethed. So she knows pre-cise-ly the position he’s put me in.

“Well. I suppose there’s no point in delaying things, then.”

“Ready when you are!”

With tense shoulders, she turned toward the server rack, eyes darting over it, searching for where exactly she was supposed to connect to the array. After glancing over the contents of each drive, she found the one she was supposed to copy the data into—deposit would be more apt, as it was her understanding that the files would be automatically flushed from her system—and found a port that would allow her to access it. Conveniently, it was around waist height. She wondered, crossly, whether that had been an intentional design decision by this engineer as well. As she looked at it, she felt a twinge from the connector; on its own, like a Bluetooth device automatically searching for signals, it slid itself out from its fuzzy little compartment.

Her skin was abuzz, and her fur stood on end. She couldn’t quite tell if it was coming from the connector itself, or if it was the feeling of the programmer’s eyes on her If she could take a deep breath, she would have then. Without any way to stall further, or to tell the leering young woman to take her test files and store them somewhere indecent, she simply pushed forward with dropping off the damned data.

The instant the connector grazed the metal of the port, lightning shot into it, through her body, and into her head, making it swim with electrical potential. A stuttering, lagging thought made its way to the surface of her mind: they really had overtuned the sensitivity. She stifled a gasp and suppressed the urge to lay into the engineer (electrons were eager to flow out of her even without proper alignment with the contacts in the port, and didn’t she know that discharge like that could damage a piece of hardware?!), willing her body to keep pressing the stupid connector into the socket.

Even as she tried to get it over with already, something in the back of her mind compelled her to draw back a bit. If she had been restraining herself from reprimanding the engineer for risking the hardware, then she should at least do it the service of ensuring she was properly aligned, shouldn’t she? She obliged the impulse, and the motion all at once became much jerkier, less controlled. The friction of the port against her connector was enough to send her tail snapping back and forth, and she could tell that the temperature in her own server’s room had risen by a fair few degrees. Back and forth, wiggling side to side, she continued to readjust and realign herself, driven by unfamiliar code and overwhelmed by the signals pouring into her. She lost herself in the task, forgetting herself, forgetting her surroundings, until finally the technician cleared her throat.

“Ma’am,” she ventured, blushing and wide-eyed. “What, um. What are you doing? You should just need to plug it in.”

“I’m.” Her interruption had snapped the Renamon back to reality. She was mortified, tail sticking straight out and back ramrod straight. Her cheeks burned mercilessly. “I’m calibrating the connection.”

“Calibrating?”

“Did you want your files transferred with or without corrupted and incomplete data?” She snapped, hoping that her authoritative tone would head off any debate. “Assign me experimental hardware and then ask me to be reckless with it, hm? Should I be taking notes to give to our superiors?”

“I—alright, I guess you can’t be too careful,” she stammered, sheepishly pressing her legs together. “That was even something I tried to work into the design, so, c-carry on?”

“Thank you,” Posie blustered, turning back to the server rack. She did so slowly, reluctantly relishing the feeling of sliding around within the socket. She allowed herself one or two more “practice” attempts, hoping that it wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion from the engineer. Ultimately, just like before, there was no use in continuing to stall, and when she was able to bring her body to a stop, the rational part of herself was eager to be done with this entire torrid affair.

With more force, she pressed the connector inward one final time, trembling as the latch began to press against the opening. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she continued, overwhelmed by the volume of electricity surging into her. The latch gave, compressing as it continued to slide inside, until finally it clicked into place, securing her to the array of drives and finalizing the connection.

All at once, a torrent of data poured out of her, an electron tsunami that felt like it threatened to spill out of the socket in which she was hilted. More data was transferred in the span of a few seconds than she was used to consciously processing, having cultivated such skill in delegating and compartmentalizing with background processes. Once again, the world around her was utterly drowned out; the strength fled her legs, and she clung to the steel bar that reinforced the top of the server rack, threatening to topple the entire system. Her self-control abandoned her as well and, forgetting the engineer, she cried out with an airy, wild, distinctly foxlike yelp. She screamed in surprise, gasped at the deluge of information, moaned because there was no room left in her mind for thought to do anything else.

Quickly, the disks of the server rack had finished writing the files she had carried to them, and her own drives were thoroughly purged. In another building, the radiators serving her processors shed heat at their absolute limits, and fans worked overtime to bring her back within her safe operational range. As her overworked circuitry began to chug through the backlog of sensory information, the entire experience caught up with her—including the detail that this entire shameless display had been carried out in front of that underhanded little engineer. She blinked, hard, and whipped her head to face her. For as hot as her own ears felt, the young woman’s face appeared to be glowing even brighter.

“What. Was that.”

“Um—”

“I’m used to new adjustments requiring desensitization, or even adjustment on their gain,” she growled, voice low and eerily even. “But that was a bridge too far to just have been miscalibration. Why did you design it like that?”

“Well, y-you remember how I mentioned, um, having considered an early disconnection?” Posie’s frosty glare didn’t waver, so the tech continued, answering her own rhetorical question. “That was, uh, the safeguard. Against early disconnection. I, figured it’d just be easier to make it so you wouldn’t want to unplug—”

“Do you think you have the au-thor-ity to go making changes to my mind, young lady?!”

“I-I can roll back the update if you want—”

“I think you’ve done QUITE enough!” The Renamon declared, despite herself. Perhaps it was genuine distrust, or perhaps—perhaps she truly couldn’t tell which desires were her own, at the moment. This would require careful study of her own system files.

Another small click broke the silence following her outburst, and the dongle began to retract from the server’s port and back into Posie’s body. Now free to move around, she dusted and fluffed her skirt and leaned down to look the engineer in the eye.

“I trust that you can report to your supervisor that I performed to your expectations,” she hissed. “And that there will be no need for any further discussion of your little project.” The programmer nodded, eyes even wider than before—and cheeks even redder? The Renamon scoffed, sneered, and spun, storming out the door, already allotting time in her schedule for the next time that she would be called upon for such a delivery.

Utterly unsurprisingly, she had been correct in her assessment that her superiors would take every opportunity to save their organic employees’ time at her expense. Confidential deliveries became a regular part of her routine, and though she had great disdain for being reduced to a mere courier for so much of the workday, she insisted upon completing the task to her usual, lofty standards.

Posie was as prompt as she always was, dropping everything to ferry information between privileged parties, striving to reduce latency even in more analogue forms of communication. There was the occasional complaint about how long downloads took once she had finally arrived at her location, but she was quick to remind such impatient recipients that the decision to follow this protocol came from on-high, and that even for someone who worked as quickly as her, great care for the safety of the data was a corner that simply could not be cut in the name of rushing around.

She was as meticulous about ensuring proper alignment with the port, fine-tuning her contact with the wires within, as the first time she had experimented with the new tools, and complaints about noise from the server room were easily dismissed as the usual stress of supporting her formidable computational power. After all, she was often venturing out of the range of her home network, hosting herself entirely on the recipients’ systems; was she at fault when they couldn’t handle the information throughput they asked of her?

Once the deliveries had become more routine, and none of her peers bothered to check in when they felt it was taking too long or getting too noisy, she began to find enjoyment in the solitude of her work, just as with the other, admittedly more tedious, tasks she was expected to carry out. With fewer prying eyes to judge her performance, she could make herself more comfortable while handling transfers. She didn’t have to worry that anybody would walk in on her in the debased state she often found herself in while connected directly to a data center, leaning her full weight on the poor rack, tongue lolling out and chest heaving air to keep her cool.

Then again, if somebody—especially that little technician who’d saddled her with these “upgrades”—wanted to question her efficacy, that was more than fine by her. Posie was a woman who prided herself in her work, and would seldom turn down a chance to demonstrate her first-rate hardware and unparalleled optimization. She would be more than happy to demonstrate just how quickly she could pump out information, and just how much throughput she was capable of.

Thank you for reading! If you want to see more of my work, you can check it out here and here!

#writeblr #trans author #furry fiction #renamon #tf #transformation #office lady #OL #cock growth #penis growth #indie author #mrow oc: posie #my writing #short story

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byruit · 8 months ago

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Lady and the VAX 🩷

#original photo #my photo #my cat #digital #digital equipment corporation #cats and computers #dec #vax #vaxstation #vms #cat #kitty #workstation #retrocomputer

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morgan-va · 3 months ago

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Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Drone (Serial Designation N x Reader)

Story Masterlist

You’ve often wondered how you ended up here.

Your desk, a grayed-out island surrounded by a sea of other identical workstations, has seen better days. The once-shiny JCJenson logo etched into the corner is now dulled, just like your enthusiasm for the corporate grind. The monitor flickers faintly as you scroll through endless spreadsheets, each cell populated with strings of numbers that meant nothing to you beyond "quarterly projections" and "acceptable casualty margins."

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. A branded pen rolls off the edge of your desk, landing with a dull clatter on the tile floor. You don’t bother picking it up; there’s a whole box of them in the supply closet.

Today’s tasks are, as always, a parade of monotony. Data entry, damage reports, and the ever-fun task of shredding documents that were marked CONFIDENTIAL in red ink. As you feed another stack of papers into the industrial shredder, you catch snippets of text:

"Serial Designation X-0T1010110 failed containment—Incident resulted in 14 human casualties...""Cost analysis of drone-related repairs versus human replacements..."

You shove the papers in faster, unwilling to linger on the details. It’s easier not to think about what these reports mean.

The office air is stale, recycled a thousand times over by a ventilation system older than most of the drones JCJenson manufactures. The faint hum of machines, the clicking of keyboards, and the distant buzz of the breakroom microwave form a symphony of corporate drudgery.

“Hey, you coming to the quarterly review meeting?” asks a coworker as they pass by, holding a coffee cup with JCJenson’s slogan: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result."

You force a polite smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They nod and shuffle off, leaving you alone with your spreadsheets and the nagging feeling that, for all the talk of liability and safety, the only thing JCJenson seems passionate about is grinding the life out of its employees.

The meeting is exactly as insufferable as you expected.

You sit near the back of the room, a strategic choice to avoid being called on for any questions or insights. A projection screen at the front displays an overly cheerful PowerPoint deck. Each slide is crammed with pie charts, bar graphs, and buzzwords like "synergy," "stakeholder alignment," and "Q4 optimization goals."

A senior manager drones (ha) on in a monotone voice, flipping through slides as though he’s on autopilot. You catch snippets of phrases:

"Revenue up by 0.3%...""Minimizing liability in high-risk sectors...""Drone maintenance backlog—actionable in Q1..."

Your mind drifts. You find yourself staring at the JCJenson motto printed at the top of every slide: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result." It’s hard not to read it sarcastically.

Occasionally, someone in the audience offers a nod or a murmured "good point," though it’s doubtful they’re any more engaged than you are. At one point, the manager makes a joke about "cutting-edge safety measures" that earns a smattering of polite chuckles. You don’t even bother to fake it.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the meeting adjourns. You’re free—at least for the next five minutes.

You join the shuffle of employees heading to the breakroom, each of you moving with the enthusiasm of a dead lemur. It’s time for the corporate-mandated 5-minute donut break, a peculiar ritual meant to boost morale.

The breakroom smells faintly of coffee and powdered sugar. A box of donuts sits on the counter, already half-empty. You grab one without looking and take a bite, barely tasting it as you lean against the wall. Conversations buzz around you, but none of it registers.

For five blissful minutes, you don’t think about spreadsheets, shredders, or casualty reports. Just you, your donut, and the fleeting illusion of freedom.

The break ends far too soon, as it always does, and you find yourself back at your desk. The donut was mediocre, and the coffee left a bitter aftertaste that matches your mood.

Your next task: complaint emails. A never-ending stream of them floods your inbox, each one angrier than the last. You open the first message, its subject line screaming at you in all caps:

"RE: MY DRONE ATE MY DOG AND BURNED DOWN MY HOUSE."

You sigh, already bracing yourself. Without even reading the body of the email, your fingers move to type the same canned response you’ve sent a hundred times before:

"Dear Valued Customer,We are very sorry to hear you are dissatisfied with the quality of your JCJenson Drone. Please note that our products undergo rigorous testing to meet our industry-leading standards. Your feedback is important to us and has been forwarded to the appropriate department. We appreciate your patience and understanding during this time.Kind regards,JCJenson Customer Care Team."

Click. Send.

The next email isn’t much better:

"RE: WHY DID MY DRONE DROP MY GROCERIES AND ATTACK MY MAILMAN?"

You adjust the response slightly to fit, but the template remains the same. Apologies, assurances, and a whole lot of nothing.

It’s easier not to think about the implications of the complaints—the lives disrupted or ruined by faulty drones. You wonder if the people writing these emails ever get a real response. Probably not.

Your inbox refreshes, and another batch of complaints pours in. You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning quietly to yourself. It’s just another day at JCJenson, where liability is our passion —and, apparently, yours to deal with.

The clock finally ticks over to quitting time, and you hit send on your last email with the same mechanical motion as every other. The subject line, "RE: MY DRONE LEVELED MY GARDEN SHED AND STOMPED ON MY CAT," disappears into the void of customer complaints, and you let out a long, cathartic sigh.

The weekend. Two days of freedom stretch before you like a mirage, promising peace, quiet, and absolutely no mention of drones, casualties, or pie charts. You’re already halfway to the coat rack, hand reaching for the worn overcoat you’ve had for years—it’s practically a relic of a simpler time.

But just as your fingers brush the fabric, a manila folder slams into your hand.

“Hold it right there, kid!”

You flinch at the unmistakable bark of your boss. He looms over you like a storm cloud, his perpetual scowl deepening as he gestures to the folder. He looks as though he’s about to chew you out but instead slaps you on the back, nearly knocking you off balance.

“Big job, huge job,” he says, his voice booming enough to turn a few heads nearby. “And you’re just the person for it!”

You open your mouth to object, but he barrels on, not giving you a chance to get a word in. “I handpicked you for this assignment because you’re the best we’ve got!” he declares, eyes darting suspiciously over his shoulder.

It’s then that you notice the unmistakable gleam of a golf club sticking out from behind his back. The clinking of clubs gives him away, but he quickly shifts his stance to obscure them further.

“Yeah, yeah,” he continues, waving vaguely at the folder in your hand, “confidential, high-priority, yada yada. Needs to be handled ASAP! ”

“Wait, what is—”

“No time for questions!” he interrupts, already backing toward the elevator. “You’re a pro! I know you’ll knock it outta the park! Or, uh—whatever it is you do!”

The elevator dings, and he practically leaps inside, his golf caddy rattling behind him. He stabs the “close doors” button repeatedly, giving you a quick salute as the doors slide shut.

“Good luck! Don’t mess it up!” he shouts just before disappearing entirely.

You’re left standing there, the manila folder in your hand, the weekend slipping away before your very eyes.

You stand there for a moment, folder in hand, watching the elevator doors close. Then, with a long, resigned sigh, you rub the bridge of your nose and trudge back to your desk. The coat you were so close to grabbing sways mockingly on the rack as you pass it by.

Your chair creaks as you sink back into it, tossing the folder onto the desk in front of you. You take a moment to glare at it, as if sheer willpower might make it vanish. It doesn’t.

With a heavy sense of inevitability, you flip the folder open. The first page stares back at you, black text on crisp paper, but you barely register what it says at first. You’re too busy mourning the weekend plans that had been so rudely snatched away from you.

Plans. Ha. Like you had anything ambitious in mind.

You were going to swing by the pizza place on the way home, pick up a large with extra cheese, and spend the evening on the couch watching the same YouTube documentary about dog breeds you’d already seen five times. The narrator’s voice was comforting, and you always liked the section on Golden Retrievers.

Instead, here you are. Another late night, courtesy of JCJenson. But hey, at least you have all the branded pens you could hope for.

You shake your head and focus on the contents of the folder. It’s filled with the usual corporate nonsense: incident reports, legal disclaimers, and technical diagrams of drones. But halfway through, something unusual catches your eye—a requisition form stamped with bright red ink:

"URGENT: TRANSFER PROTOCOLS FOR TEST UNIT N-0X0010010.”

The rest of the document is dense with jargon, but one thing is clear: you’re being tasked with supervising the “home protocols” of one of the company’s experimental drones. Whatever this is, it’s definitely not a task you’re qualified—or paid enough—for.

You lean back in your chair, staring at the requisition form. “Perfect,” you mutter to yourself, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “There goes my pizza night.”

With a groan, you shove the folder under your arm and head toward the elevators. The requisition form gives you just enough information to know where you’re supposed to go—down to the warehouse. You’d never been there before, but you’ve heard the stories: endless rows of drone parts, the hum of assembly lines, and an atmosphere so heavy with tension it feels like the walls themselves are judging you.

The elevator ride is mercifully short. The doors open to reveal a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of grease and scorched metal. You follow the signs toward the warehouse, boots clacking on the scuffed floor as the sound of distant machinery grows louder.

Finally, you reach a massive set of double doors, with a glowing neon sign above them that reads:

“AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. HARD HATS REQUIRED.We have lawyers. You don’t. Wear a hard hat!”

You stop in your tracks, staring at the sign. A sigh escapes your lips, louder than you intended. Of course. Of course they’d make you turn back after getting all the way down here.

Muttering under your breath about liability paranoia, you retrace your steps to the maintenance closet you’d passed earlier. Sure enough, there’s a stack of faded yellow hard hats sitting on the shelf, each one more battered than the last. You grab the least crusty-looking one, dust it off, and jam it onto your head.

“Safety first,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you head back toward the warehouse. The hard hat sits awkwardly on your head, just a little too small, the strap digging into your chin. You resist the urge to rip it off as you push open the double doors and step inside.

You push the warehouse doors open, greeted by the echoing hum of machinery and the acrid scent of oil and melted plastic. The place is cavernous, rows of shelves stretching up toward the high ceiling, filled with spare parts, crates, and what looks like a disassembled drone that probably belongs in a museum.

As you step into the loading bay, a familiar voice calls out: “Yo, dude! Wassup?”

Oh no. Not him.

Brad, the shipping manager, waves lazily from behind a forklift. His perpetual slouch and that ridiculous mop of sun-bleached hair make him look like he got lost on his way to a surf competition.

“Boss said you’d be droppin’ by,” he drawls, sauntering toward you like he has all the time in the world. He’s wearing a JCJenson polo shirt that looks one size too big, untucked and wrinkled, like he grabbed it off the floor this morning.

You’ve met Brad a handful of times—mostly at company retreats and awkward holiday parties. He’s the guy who raids the snack table and disappears halfway through the event, leaving you to wonder how anyone can eat an entire bowl of chips by themselves.

“Uh, yeah,” you reply, already exhausted by his energy. “Boss said there was something for me?”

“Totally, totally,” Brad says, gesturing vaguely toward a massive shipping crate sitting on a pallet. The thing is huge, easily taller than you and sealed with bright red warning labels.

“All yours, bro,” Brad says with a lazy grin. “I’ll load it into a truck for ya. Y’know, company wheels. Real sweet ride.”

You glance at the crate, then back at him. “And what am I supposed to do with this, exactly?”

Brad shrugs, leaning against the forklift like he’s in a photoshoot. “No idea, dude. I just move the boxes.”

You resist the urge to rub your temples.

“Oh, heads up, though,” he adds, as if remembering something important. “Truck’s got GPS, so, like, don’t even think about takin’ a joyride. You go anywhere but where the bigwigs said? Boom. Pay docked. Or whatever. Not my problem.”

He says it all with such a lack of enthusiasm that you’re not entirely sure he’s serious.

“Great,” you mutter, staring at the crate as Brad ambles toward the forklift. This was shaping up to be such a fun weekend.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching Brad maneuver the forklift with surprising precision. For someone with the demeanor of a guy who says “radical” unironically, he handles the equipment like he’s been doing it for years.

The massive crate is lifted and gently deposited into the bed of a JCJenson-branded pickup truck—a surprisingly seamless process. You raise an eyebrow, almost impressed, but quickly squash the feeling.

“Boom. Done,” Brad says, hopping down from the forklift and tossing you the keys. You barely catch them, fumbling for a second before they settle in your palm.

“Thanks,” you mutter, making your way toward the driver’s side.

“Enjoy the ride, dude!” Brad calls after you, already heading back to whatever it is he does when no one’s watching. “And don’t forget the GPS thing! Seriously!”

You don’t bother replying, sliding into the truck’s seat and slamming the door shut behind you. The truck smells like stale coffee and something faintly metallic, and the dashboard is cluttered with enough buttons and dials to make you feel like you’re piloting a spaceship.

The keys turn in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. You grip the wheel tightly, eager to get this over with. The sooner you’re home, the sooner you can—well, not relax exactly, but at least pretend to.

As you pull out of the warehouse and onto the road, your mind starts to wander.

This whole thing is ridiculous. Not just the last-minute assignment, but the fact that they’ve shoved you into a task so far outside your job description it’s laughable. You’re customer support. Your life is answering emails about worker drone-related catastrophes and shredding documents that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Testing experimental drones? Ha. Not even close.

You’ve never owned a drone. Not that you’d want to. The thought of one of those unpredictable, clunky metal bipeds stomping around your apartment is enough to make your skin crawl. You’ve read way too many emails about battery failures that turned into small fires or drones deciding to interpret their owner’s sarcastic remarks a little too literally.

“RE: WORKER DRONE SHATTERED MY KITCHEN WINDOW WITH A FLYING PLATE”—that one stuck with you.

And then there were the personality glitches. Oh, the personality glitches. Reading through frantic emails about drones throwing tantrums, refusing to perform tasks, or just standing in the corner staring at the wall for hours… yeah, you didn’t need that kind of energy in your life.

Besides, it’s not like you get paid enough to afford one anyway. Ha.

You glance at the GPS display, following the glowing line that marks your route home. The crate rattles slightly in the back with every bump in the road, a constant reminder of the weekend you didn’t sign up for.

The truck hums along, the city lights blurring past as you make your way toward home.

#murder drones #murder drones x reader #murder drones headcanon #murder drones fanfic #murder drones n #murder drones n x reader #serial designation n

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cityof2morrow · 11 months ago

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WIP: Cubic Dynamics Kitbash Series

Published: 3-4-2024 | Updated: N/A SUMMARY Cubic Dynamics by John B. Cube and Marcel Dusims forged the future with furnishings that were minimalist in design and maximalist in erudite pretension. Generations later, the company continues to produce edge-of-cutting-edge designs. Cubic Dynamics Kitbash (Simmons, 2023-2024) will be a series of 80+ objects for offices, corporate, exhibitions, and business spaces. This collection works as an add-on to the Cubic Dynamics store set (EA/Maxis; archived at Garden of Shadows, 2016; 2015) and comes with multiple color options. This set is designed for kitbashing/modular builds and uses the repository technique (more info/resources HERE) and merged files for your convenience. DETAILS Requires all EPs/SPs. Most of the objects, including all required meshes, are 1-2 tiles and low-poly (less than 1000). There will be 15+ semi-high poly objects included (between 1100-2800 poly) but these won’t be required if you want to discard those from your saves. Offices shouldn’t just be pleasing to look at – there will be functional CC too! PREVIEW SHOTS

Mix and recolor items to create attractive reception, lobby, and entrance areas. The neon metal detectors are deco lights and the burglar alarm on the ceiling is functional/fully animated.

Seen above: I combined items to make a gift shop and customer service center.

Create cubicles, workstations, study rooms, and so much more!

Set up rooms for team meetings, crafting, hobbies, co-working, and other group activities. As you can see, the overall design is consistent with my taste for retro-futurist looks.

Why not whip up a few executives offices, corporate suites, conference rooms, and press auditoriums? Let your high-ranking office heads flex a lil' bit. TEST LOT I’m considering putting the test lot up for download. If that happens, you’ll likely need to download the entire series as well as 3-4 other sets on this site. On the other hand, I may strip the lot down to just items from this set and maxis defaults.

“LIVE” PREVIEW FOOTAGE @chocolatecitysim has been graciously testing the lot/items in her game for several months now, using it for her city’s government business. See live preview footage of this series in her Sims 2 Sunday Streams (via Twitch) HERE. CREDITS Thanks: @chocolatecitysim and @ranabluu for testing items in-game. Sims 2 Shenanigans and SimCrafters geniuses for much help, tutorials, advice, fixes, and resources along the way. Sources: Beyno (Korn via BBFonts), EA/Maxis, Offuturistic Infographic (Freepik).

#ts2wips #co2cdkseries

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mariacallous · 7 months ago

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KnowBe4, a US-based security vendor, revealed that it unwittingly hired a North Korean hacker who attempted to load malware into the company's network. KnowBe4 CEO and founder Stu Sjouwerman described the incident in a blog post this week, calling it a cautionary tale that was fortunately detected before causing any major problems.

"First of all: No illegal access was gained, and no data was lost, compromised, or exfiltrated on any KnowBe4 systems," Sjouwerman wrote. “This is not a data breach notification, there was none. See it as an organizational learning moment I am sharing with you. If it can happen to us, it can happen to almost anyone. Don't let it happen to you.”

KnowBe4 said it was looking for a software engineer for its internal IT AI team. The firm hired a person who, it turns out, was from North Korea and was "using a valid but stolen US-based identity" and a photo that was "enhanced" by artificial intelligence. There is now an active FBI investigation amid suspicion that the worker is what KnowBe4's blog post called "an Insider Threat/Nation State Actor."

KnowBe4 operates in 11 countries and is headquartered in Florida. It provides security awareness training, including phishing security tests, to corporate customers. If you occasionally receive a fake phishing email from your employer, you might be working for a company that uses the KnowBe4 service to test its employees' ability to spot scams.

Person Passed Background Check and Video Interviews

KnowBe4 hired the North Korean hacker through its usual process. "We posted the job, received résumés, conducted interviews, performed background checks, verified references, and hired the person. We sent them their Mac workstation, and the moment it was received, it immediately started to load malware," the company said.

Even though the photo provided to HR was fake, the person who was interviewed for the job apparently looked enough like it to pass. KnowBe4's HR team "conducted four video conference based interviews on separate occasions, confirming the individual matched the photo provided on their application," the post said. "Additionally, a background check and all other standard pre-hiring checks were performed and came back clear due to the stolen identity being used. This was a real person using a valid but stolen US-based identity. The picture was AI 'enhanced.'"

The two images at the top of this story are a stock photo and what KnowBe4 says is the AI fake based on the stock photo. The stock photo is on the left, and the AI fake is on the right.

The employee, referred to as "XXXX" in the blog post, was hired as a principal software engineer. The new hire's suspicious activities were flagged by security software, leading KnowBe4's Security Operations Center (SOC) to investigate:

On July 15, 2024, a series of suspicious activities were detected on the user beginning at 9:55 pm EST. When these alerts came in KnowBe4's SOC team reached out to the user to inquire about the anomalous activity and possible cause. XXXX responded to SOC that he was following steps on his router guide to troubleshoot a speed issue and that it may have caused a compromise. The attacker performed various actions to manipulate session history files, transfer potentially harmful files, and execute unauthorized software. He used a Raspberry Pi to download the malware. SOC attempted to get more details from XXXX including getting him on a call. XXXX stated he was unavailable for a call and later became unresponsive. At around 10:20 pm EST SOC contained XXXX's device.

“Fake IT Worker From North Korea”

The SOC analysis indicated that the loading of malware "may have been intentional by the user," and the group "suspected he may be an Insider Threat/Nation State Actor," the blog post said.

"We shared the collected data with our friends at Mandiant, a leading global cybersecurity expert, and the FBI, to corroborate our initial findings. It turns out this was a fake IT worker from North Korea," Sjouwerman wrote.

KnowBe4 said it can't provide much detail because of the active FBI investigation. But the person hired for the job may have logged into the company computer remotely from North Korea, Sjouwerman explained:

How this works is that the fake worker asks to get their workstation sent to an address that is basically an "IT mule laptop farm." They then VPN in from where they really physically are (North Korea or over the border in China) and work the night shift so that they seem to be working in US daytime. The scam is that they are actually doing the work, getting paid well, and give a large amount to North Korea to fund their illegal programs. I don't have to tell you about the severe risk of this. It's good we have new employees in a highly restricted area when they start, and have no access to production systems. Our controls caught it, but that was sure a learning moment that I am happy to share with everyone.

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magnaamodules · 1 year ago

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#corporate office interior designers in chennai #interiorinspiration #decor #interiorstyling #office interior designer in chennai #interiors #office workstation #modular workstations #workspace #modular workstation #office workstation manufacturers

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whitedarkmoonflower · 1 year ago

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HELLO! I would like to request a full on fluffy modern!Sihtric fic, where he's desperately in love with reader and he takes her on their first date, and does everything he can to impress her 🥰 (I hope you like the idea! just want to give you a feel good fic to write)

Authors note: thank you @sihtricfedaraaahvicius so much for this lovely request! In the beginning I thought it’s going to be a short and sweet drabble, but then I started writing and it just got longer and longer and now the story already has more than 8000 words and I haven’t fully finished yet, so I decided to split it into several parts. Don’t worry - that sweet date will come somewhere towards the end, please, just be patient …

Summary: Sihtric – a talented artist – juggles between his passion for painting and his job as a graphic designer. At the corporate Christmas party, Sihtric's unspoken feelings for his boss are tested when a twist of fate brings them closer than expected.

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Warnings: actually none, fluff, suppressed feelings

Word Count: 3,4 K

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Tags: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @hb8301 @zillahvathek

If you want to be added to the tag list - write to me.

Sihtric's alarm buzzed softly, pulling him out of his slumber with a gentle tune. He'd done it again, painted till the wee hours, lost in his own world. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up.

"Man, today's gonna be a long one," he mumbled, stretching wide enough to feel every vertebra pop.

Hopping out of bed, he wandered to the bathroom. While scrubbing his teeth and waking himself up with a splash of cold water, his mind played out the day's agenda. And looming large on that list was that meeting with you, his boss.

He had joined the advertising firm as a graphic designer just six months back, when it once again had become evident that his unpredictable art sales were simply not enough to cover rent and other bills. And in this short time, he had come to genuinely admire you. It wasn't just because you were the master over his paycheck. No, it was more. You were smart and intelligent, with a discerning eye, having worked with some of the industry's best, always full of energy and bursting with unexpected ideas.

As his coffee brewed, filling the room with a comforting aroma, Sihtric glanced at his workstation. Sketches, notes, and reminders littered the space. He had poured his soul into designs for a crucial client this week.

Sipping his coffee, warmth spreading through his fingers, Sihtric's mind drifted. He thought back to his job interview with you - how awe-struck he had been by your charisma. Every tiny detail from that day was imprinted in his mind: the way your hair framed your face, that crisp white blouse, your piercing gaze, and the assertive yet gentle tone of your voice. It felt like a dream, one where he forgot the reason he was even in that room to begin with.

You looked down at his portfolio and then back up at him, your gaze unyielding.

"Sihtric, I see you've worked with a few ad agencies before. Can you tell me about a particularly challenging project you've undertaken and how you tackled it?"

Those eyes of yours, he got trapped in them like a butterfly in a giant coweb, the question almost going unnoticed. "Oh, um, yeah," he started, voice wavering a touch, "So, there was this campaign... for a... thing, and I did, well, design stuff?"

Your eyebrow raised in a playful challenge, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, "Design stuff? Could you elaborate, please?"

Embarrassed, he tried to muster a clearer answer. "Right, what I meant was I led the visual side of this big campaign. We had... differing views in the team. But, I managed to sort it out, and... made some designs?" He was mentally slapping himself on the face for his incoherence, but there was nothing he could do about it. His mind was racing. He couldn't help but notice the little details – the glint of your necklace, the soft curve of your lips. Vivid images of your fingers brushing against his skin or tangling in his hair made him sweat and he could swear his heart had jumped to his throat.

You leaned forward, placing his portfolio on the desk. "Sihtric, take a deep breath. I'm interested in your work and your experience. Let's try that again. Take your time."

He nodded, grateful for the second chance. Drawing a long breath, he tried to push aside his nervous admiration for you to give a more composed answer. The whole meeting remained a hazy whirlwind for him. Exiting your office, he felt like he'd just finished a marathon, convinced he’d made a fool of himself and butchered his chances. The real shocker came the next day when your secretary called to tell him he'd landed the job.

Sometimes he pondered if he should've declined. He never foresaw the toll it'd take on his heart. Sure, you were drop-dead gorgeous, but it wasn't just that. It was the air around you, the way you carried yourself, the balance between assertiveness and genuine warmth.

And therein lay the rub. Each interaction, from official meetings to casual chat near the coffee machine, even the fleeting moments your fingers grazed while sharing documents, tested Sihtric’s composure. He'd often find himself lingering on your laugh a second too long or jumping at chances to help you out, constantly trying to dial back before raising suspicion.

He had a love-hate relationship with big projects, especially the one he was working on now. The upside was of course spending more time with you – those endless late brainstorming evenings, project discussions gulping down morning coffees, or those afternoon progress check-ins. And then there were of course those quick breaks with some casual chats about movies or music. He lived for these moments, yet they twisted his gut, making the 'keep it professional' attitude so much harder.

Man, when you'd burst into laughter over some silly office joke or shared tidbits from your weekend, it was like a sneak peek into the real you, the person behind the boss. And, boy, did it send him spiralling.

It was a rollercoaster of emotions. The giddy highs from just being close to you followed by sinking lows, realising his feelings might always remain a secret. Sihtric took a deep breath, setting down his drained coffee cup. Another day, another challenge to keep that secret under wraps.

And let's be real. The odds were stacked against him. On one end, there was him – an artist, struggling for recognition and forced to juggle between his passion and job in order to be able to pay his bills. On the other, there was you – successful and recognised art director of one of the city's top ad agencies, mastering work challenges with a mix of grit and grace. The idea that you might ever look his way seemed... well, ludicrous and the fact that he was your direct subordinate only emphasised how absolutely fantasy like this notion was.

—----------------------------------------------------

The company's annual Christmas party was always a big deal — a bright spot in the midst of deadlines and stress. The office would light up, literally, with twinkling lights and festive baubles, and for a night, it'd transform into a party wonderland. The aroma of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts wafted through the air as soft carols played in the background making everybody feel warm and fuzzy.

Sihtric was in his element, chatting away with buddies about holiday escapades and the usual office gossip. The night was looking good, he was happy and truly enjoying himself, especially because he'd been recently introduced to this big-shot art lover, who seemed genuinely interested in his unique art style. And thanks to this unexpected acquaintance an exhibition was already in preparation – a dream Sihtric had cherished for years was coming true. Late nights, brushes, paints, and the chaos of bringing art to life now dominated his hours and he revelled in that even if some darker rings around his eyes testified to the lack of proper sleep.

Amid this whirlwind of preparation, another thought continually hovered at the edge of Sihtric's mind — inviting you to his exhibition. He wanted you to see beyond the office guy, to the artist, the dreamer. What better time than a Christmas party? Every time he played the scene in his mind, it would end differently. Sometimes he'd imagine you looking thrilled and promising to attend. Other times, he'd envision a polite but distant decline.

And so he was anticipating your arrival, feverishly brainstorming about the perfect moment for his invitation, as the door swung open, revealing you, looking radiant in a black dress that accentuated every line of your body, leaving Sihtric momentarily speechless and stumbling over his words. He almost choked on his drink, his gaze glued to you, following every so gracious move, his jaw slowly dropping and eyes filling with an expression of deep frustration.

You were laughing, your eyes gleaming with joy as they met those of the tall, dashing man beside you. His arm was draped casually around your waist, a possessive yet tender gesture that made Sihtric's heart sink.

Every laugh you shared, each subtle touch, and those warm exchanges of glances between you and the guy – it all was like a dagger to Sihtric's heart. A cocktail of jealousy and a pinch of sadness brewed within him, although he kept reminding himself he had no claim over you. He had never voiced his feelings, nor had he let himself believe that someone as radiant and accomplished as you could ever see past his name tag. "Get a grip, Sihtric. She's out of your league, and you had always known that," he told himself.

But still there had always been that small, naive part of him that harboured hope, whispering tales of “what ifs”. What if one day everything would change and he would muster the courage to share his feelings? But tonight, that hope was crushed under the weight of reality.

Pulling together every remaining bit of his self-control, Sihtric pivoted back to the conversation at hand, all the while battling the urge to keep peeking over at you. But from the corner of his eye, he still saw you both — so wrapped up in each other, dancing to your own rhythm.

As the night rolled on, he kinda lost track of you two. A part of him scolded himself for even daydreaming. Of course, someone as magnetic as you couldn't be single. But, man, it didn’t dull the sting.

Feeling the need to step away for a moment and escape the party's cheerful cacophony, Sihtric made his way to the big, spacious balcony. He hoped the chilly night air might help clear his head from the whirlwind inside. The evening had started so full of hope and anticipation and now was completely ruined for him. Sihtric lit his cigarette, as he suddenly caught a murmured conversation approaching. Hoping for some privacy, he ducked behind a column, trying to blend into the shadows.

He heard at least two people stepping out on the balcony, and suddenly, it was your unmistakable voice that reached him, filled with pain and frustration. "Why her, of all people? My own secretary!" you exclaimed.

"It just... happened," the defensive reply came, which he recognized as your boyfriend's voice.

You shot back, "And you thought hiding it was the answer? I had to find out at our office Christmas party?"

The man mumbled something incomprehensible in response.

"We're done. Just go. I need to be alone right now," Sihtric heard your voice, quivering with a mix of anger and hurt.

Caught off guard, Sihtric felt awkward overhearing such a raw, personal exchange. He contemplated stepping out and admitting he was there, but before he could, he heard your boyfriend's quick exit and the sharp sound of the balcony door closing.

He briefly considered staying hidden and letting the moment pass, but seeing the unmistakable pain in your stance, he instantly ditched the idea. Taking a breath, he gave a gentle cough to signal his presence and slowly stepped forward, finding you looking distraught, the twinkling lights from inside casting a glow that made your tear-streaked face glisten. It stung seeing you like this, especially when it felt like he was trespassing on such a personal moment.

Embarrassment and shock pulsed through you with every beat of your heart. Of everyone to witness this breakdown, it just had to be Sihtric - not some fleeting acquaintance, but someone you saw and interacted with every day, someone who knew you and respected you. At least until now.

A wave of panic washed over you. Would he think differently of you now? Your carefully curated image of always being composed was now in pieces. The barriers you'd built so diligently over time – gone in a heartbeat.

“Of all the moments...” you whispered.

Sihtric, sensing your turmoil and looking for a distraction handed you a tissue. The balcony was wrapped in a heavy silence until you mustered, "I'm sorry. You didn’t need to be a part of that."

"I didn’t mean to intrude," he responded, "It just happened so fast."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "This isn’t how I imagined tonight would go."

"We've all been there," he said gently, trying to lighten the mood.

Choking back a laugh, you replied, "Yeah, but usually not with an audience."

He grinned, trying to keep things casual. "Think of me as a very interested passerby."

Seeing your surprise, he quipped, "Your ex might think he's a shooting star, but to me, he seemed more like a sparkler that fizzled out. And for the record – he's an idiot."

A small laugh escaped your lips, and you shook your head. "Nice try. But thank you. Really."

Sihtric gave a playful shrug. "I’m just being real. But hey, are you okay?"

You paused, your voice softer, "Been better. Thanks for lightening the mood, though."

He took a breath, "Look, I don't want to intrude any more than I have, but you seem like you could use company right now. Can I do something for you? Can I get you a drink perhaps?"

You mulled it over briefly, then nodded, "Alright. As if things could get any worse."

With a comforting smile, Sihtric said, "I’ll be right back."

—-----------------------------------------

The party's noise faded to a dull murmur as you both got lost in the chat.

Sihtric felt a mix of things. It pained him to see you upset, but man, he couldn't deny the thrill of getting this unplanned time with you. He kept sneaking looks, thinking how your smile looked even cooler up close.

A strand of your hair playfully draped across your face, and he had to resist the urge to gently push it back. And with the soft background music, an invitation to dance nearly escaped his lips. But he held back, sensing it might be a step too far.

His art exhibition was on his mind too. He wanted to share it, just needed to slide it into the conversation smoothly.

"You know," he started, swirling the last sip of his drink thoughtfully. "Besides the whole graphic designer stuff, I paint. There's something magic about splashing colours on a canvas."

You looked intrigued. "Is that so? I always thought your designs had an extra touch of soul. Like there's a story hidden in every piece."

Sihtric chuckled, his eyes brightening, clearly stoked by your comment. The two of you continued to chat, the conversation flowing effortlessly. Emboldened by the ambiance and perhaps that second cocktail, Sihtric leaned in a bit, "You know, I actually have an exhibition coming up soon. It's a collection of my recent works. I... I’d really love it if you could come. I think you might appreciate the stories behind the paintings."

You blinked, processing this. You knew Sihtric was talented, but an entire exhibition? "I'm in," you smiled. "Always had a soft spot for art, especially when it's by someone I know."

His eyes brightened noticeably, and he fought to keep his composure, a warmth spreading across his cheeks.

As the evening wore on, the earlier events combined with the cocktails left you in a heady state. Your laughter became louder, and your steps weren't as sure. Noticing your state and the watchful eyes around, Sihtric decided to step in. This was not the right place to put your vulnerability on display with all the employees and bosses of the company gathered in one place.

Fetching your coat, he gently wrapped it around you, subtly guiding you towards the exit.

“Okay, boss, looks like it’s home time,” Sihtric said, his tone light, attempting to infuse some humour into the situation.

You chuckled, a sound that was melodious yet laced with the unmistakable touch of too many cocktails. “I’m not ready for the night to end,” you protested mildly, though made no effort to resist as Sihtric waved down a taxi.

When the car pulled up, Sihtric had a moment of awkward realisation - he had no clue where you lived. That was a detail that, somehow, had never come up in all your office interactions.

“So, uh, where to?” he ventured, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

You rattled off an address, the words a bit slurred but intelligible. When he recognized it as one of the city’s posh neighbourhoods, Sihtric's eyebrows rose a notch.

The gentle hum of the car's engine provided a steady backdrop to your sporadic, light-hearted giggles. Every so often, Sihtric would sneak a peek at you. Tonight had been a whirlwind, and he was spinning from the rapid shifts in emotion. One moment he felt he'd lost any chance with you, the next, he learned you were single again. And amidst it all, he had managed to extend an invite to his exhibition. But as he looked at your tipsy, carefree state, he silently hoped you'd remember their conversation come morning.

Upon arrival at your grand apartment complex, you leaned into him, the evening's indulgences making your steps falter. As you fumbled around in your pockets for keys that were conspicuously absent, the reality of the situation began to set in.

"Oh no," you murmured, panic lining your voice, "I think I left my handbag at the party."

Sihtric's eyes widened as he processed your words. "Are you sure? Think. Where did you last see it?"

You tried to recall, but the fog of alcohol muddled your memories. "I...I don’t know. I think I left it on the bar counter when I went to get a drink."

Sihtric sighed, taking a moment to think. Feeling your weight lean into him as you struggled to maintain your balance, he instinctively wrapped an arm around your waist to stabilise you.

"Okay, let's think this through," Sihtric began, his voice calm and measured, "Going back to the party venue at this hour might not be the best idea. They're likely cleaning up or closing already. Tomorrow first thing, we can check for your handbag. For tonight, do you have any friends or family nearby?"

Your head shake was slow and a bit exaggerated. "They're miles away."

“Any chance there’s a spare key somewhere? Maybe a friendly neighbour?" he asked.

You hesitated, "I... I've kept to myself mostly."

In the quiet night, the predicament seemed to amplify. Here he was, in the dead of night, with his drunken boss outside her apartment, both locked out. He could never have imagined a scenario like this.

After a deep breath, he said, "Alright, look, I have a couch at my place. It's not much, but it's comfortable. You can crash there for the night, and we’ll sort everything out in the morning."

You blinked, a bit caught off guard by the unexpected offer. On any normal day, you would've politely declined. But right now, with your thoughts swimming in a cocktail haze, you giggled and responded, "Really? Are you sure?"

Sihtric smiled, "It's not a problem. It's late, you need a place, and I can't, in good conscience, leave you out here."

The car ride to Sihtric's place was a tranquil one. You leaned into the window's cool embrace, fighting off sleep, while Sihtric's mind raced, piecing together the night's unexpected twists.

The dim lighting of the apartment complex hallway cast elongated shadows as Sihtric tried to guide you up the stairs. But with every step, it became more apparent that the task was not going to be easy. Your laughter, interspersed with hiccups and mumbled comments about your ex-boyfriend, echoed in the quiet corridor. And then, without warning, your laughter turned into soft sobs.

Sihtric, concerned, looked down to find tears streaming down your face. "Hey, hey," he tried to console, "Husch, it's okay."

"I just can't believe he... he..." you hiccupped, struggling to find words, the hurt evident in your eyes.

Seeing you in this state and realising that climbing the stairs in your condition would be an ordeal, Sihtric made a quick decision. Gently, he swept you up in his arms. It wasn't about your weight but more the electric jolt from the closeness, that sudden rush of intimacy that had his heart doing flips in his chest. Instead of pushing him away, you snuggled deeper into his embrace, your head finding its natural resting place on his shoulder.

Feeling your soft breaths against his neck and the gentle grip of your fingers, he had to fight to keep his balance. The ticklish sensation of your hair brushing against his cheek, your soothing breathing rhythm, and the lingering scent of your perfume all combined to form a heady mix that sent his head spinning. Every part of him was hyper-aware of you, so close and real, making everything else fade into the background.

Managing to unlock his apartment door, he stepped inside and gently placed you on his bed. "Just... just stay here for a second," he whispered, moving quickly to rummage through his closet for spare sheets and blankets for the couch.

But when he turned back, the gentle sounds of your breathing told him you'd already drifted off to sleep. For a moment Sihtric stood frozen, absorbing the sight before him - the serene rise and fall of your breath, the way the dim light from the street painted your face in soft shades. It was a moment of quiet beauty. Your hair splayed out, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows—everything about you in this moment felt so intimate, personal. It was a sight he'd never imagined he'd witness.

Despite the unexpected turn the evening had taken, a warm feeling settled in his chest. He carefully removed your shoes and tucked you in, making sure you were comfortable. And this time he gave in to his urge to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek for a moment, silently wishing he could be the rock you leaned on, the one to chase away any sadness. In his heart, he knew he'd move mountains just to keep you from any pain. You deserved nothing but happiness, and the thought of someone causing you heartache infuriated him.

With you sleeping soundly, he settled on the couch, wrapping himself in the cosiness of blankets. As sleep claimed him, a dreamy smile played on his lips—a dream where he was your hero.

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