#employee 404

[squuote]

*SLAMS THIS DOWN WITH BRUTE FORCE okay placing this here!!! getting truly silly with it now

alt version that i think is more fun

[saywhat-politics]

As President Donald Trump's anti-DEI agenda comes to bear on NASA, we're getting a revealing look at what his administration considers to be too woke: women.

In a directive sent out just days after Trump's inauguration, NASA personnel were commanded to excise all mentions of anything "specifically targeting" women on the space agency's public websites, 404 Media reports.

"Per NASA HQ direction, we are required to scrub mentions of the following terms from our public sites by 5pm ET today," the directive reads. "This is a drop everything and reprioritize your day request."

The list of verboten terms includes "DEIA," "accessibility," "indigenous people," "environmental justice," and finally: "anything specifically targeting women," such as "women in leadership, etc."

Speaking anonymously to 404, a NASA employee confirmed that leadership were serious about the changes.

"We were absolutely required to scrub all DEI related or DEI adjacent topics and terms from all external websites by 5pm the 22nd," the employee said.

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

FYI artists and writers: some info regarding tumblr's new "third-party sharing" (aka selling your content to OpenAI and Midjourney)

You may have already seen the post by @staff regarding third-party sharing and how to opt out. You may have also already seen various news articles discussing the matter.

But here's a little further clarity re some questions I had, and you may too. Caveat: Not all of this is on official tumblr pages, so it's possible things may change.

(1) "I heard they already have access to my data and it doesn't really matter if I opt out"

From the 404 article:

A new FAQ section we reviewed is titled “What happens when you opt out?” states “If you opt out from the start, we will block crawlers from accessing your content by adding your site on a disallowed list. If you change your mind later, we also plan to update any partners about people who newly opt-out and ask that their content be removed from past sources and future training.”

So please, go click that opt-out button.

(2) Some future user: "I've been away from tumblr for months, and I just heard about all this. I didn't opt out before, so does it make a difference anymore?"

Another internal document shows that, on February 23, an employee asked in a staff-only thread, “Do we have assurances that if a user opts out of their data being shared with third parties that our existing data partners will be notified of such a change and remove their data?” Andrew Spittle, Automattic’s head of AI replied: “We will notify existing partners on a regular basis about anyone who's opted out since the last time we provided a list. I want this to be an ongoing process where we regularly advocate for past content to be excluded based on current preferences. We will ask that content be deleted and removed from any future training runs. I believe partners will honor this based on our conversations with them to this point. I don't think they gain much overall by retaining it.”

It should make a difference! Go click that button.

(3) "I opted out, but my art posts have been reblogged by so many people, and I don't know if they all opted out. What does that mean for my stuff?"

This answer is actually on the support page for the toggle:

This option will prevent your blog's content, even when reblogged, from being shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models.

And some further clarification by the COO and a product manager:

zingring: A couple people from work have reached out to let me know that yes, it applies to reblogs of "don't scrape" content. If you opt out, your content is opted out, even in reblog form. cyle: yep, for reblogs, we're taking it so far as "if anybody in the reblog trail has opted out, all of the content in that reblog will be opted out", when a reblog could be scraped/shared.

So not only your reblogged posts, but anyone who contributed in a reblog (such as posts where someone has been inspired to draw fanart of the OP) will presumably be protected by your opt-out. (A good reason to opt out even if you yourself are not a creator.)

Furthermore, if you the OP were offline and didn't know about the opt-out, if someone contributed to a reblog and they are opted out, then your original work is also protected. (Which makes it very tempting to contribute "scrapeable content" now whenever I reblog from an abandoned/disused blog...)

(4) "What about deleted blogs? They can't opt out!"

I was told by someone (not official) that he read "deleted blogs are all opted-out by default". However, he didn't recall the source, and I can't find it, so I can't guarantee that info. If I get more details - like if/when tumblr puts up that FAQ as reported in the 404 article - I will add it here as soon as I can.

Edit, tumblr has updated their help page for the option to opt-out of third-party sharing! It now states:

The content which will not be shared with our licensed network of content and research partners, including those that train AI models, includes: • Posts and reblogs of posts from blogs who have enabled the "Prevent third-party sharing" option. • Posts and reblogs of posts from deleted blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from password-protected blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from explicit blogs. • Posts and reblogs of posts from suspended/deactivated blogs. • Private posts. • Drafts. • Messages. • Asks and submissions which have not been publicly posted. • Post+ subscriber-only posts. • Explicit posts.

So no need to worry about your old deleted blogs that still have reblogs floating around. *\o/*

But for your existing blogs, please use the opt out option. And a reminder of how to opt out, under the cut:

The opt-out toggle is in Blog Settings, and please note you need to do it for each one of your blogs / sideblogs.

On dashboard, the toggle is at https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/blogname [replace "blogname" as applicable] down by Visibility:

For mobile, you need the most recent update of the app. (Android version 33.4.1.100, iOs version 33.4.) Then go to your blog tab (the little person icon), and then the gear icon for Settings, then click Visibility.

Again, if you have a sideblog, go back to the blog tab, switch to it, and go to settings again. Repeat as necessary.

If you do not have access to the newest version of the app for whatever reason, you can also log into tumblr in your mobile browser. Same URL as per desktop above, same location.

Note you do not need to change settings in both desktop and the app, just one is fine.

I hope this helps!

[rika-mmendmethings]

Interdimensional Epiphany l Rafayel

CHAPTER 1

Summary: A fortnight of compensated leave from your company was supposed to be a rejuvenating experience. Things take an unexpected turn when Rafayel, your choice of ML, starts becoming self-aware. His love knows no bounds, not even interdimensional ones.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For the prologue, currently none. Though story has major character deaths, subdued manipulation, heavy angst with a happy(?) ending, slight yandere themes, fluff, did I mention angst?

Word count: 1.9k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: This series is something I wrote after being inspired by Error 404 by @ittybittyfanblog. It circles around the idea of a self-aware Rafayel and the worlds he'd cross to be with the reader. This series is my spin on what could've happened with the deleted Reddit user and their self-aware Rafayel from chapter four of Error 404. However, keep in mind the plotline is entirely different. Lmk if y'all want me to add you in the tag list for this.

The multiple keys in your keychain jingled as you hurried to unlock the door to your apartment. Once inside, with the door securely shut behind you, you let out a triumphant whoop and began dancing in celebration. A wide grin spread across your face as you kicked off your heels, nearly tripping over your own feet as you made your way to your couch. When your back hit the soft plush you exhaled a euphoric sigh, feeling an overwhelming rush of dopamine fill your senses.

The reason for your happiness? A whole sum of two weeks granted as compensatory leave to your department. You and your colleagues had been working your butts off the entire march. With the financial year coming to an end, your procrastination was also forced to come to an end as you stayed up for hours preparing yearly, monthly, quarterly, and god knows how many more reports. But alas, your efforts paid off and the higher-ups were impressed by your teamwork and immaculate results and awarded your entire department a two-week reprieve.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to worry about the work that would inevitably pile up upon your return. All you knew was that in the present moment, you were practically given a corporate boon and god forbid if you don’t live it up to the fullest. You squealed again, kicking your legs like an ecstatic newborn. You stood up, stretching your arms above your head before skipping to the kitchen.

As you poured yourself a glass of juice and grabbed some leftover takeout, your mind wandered to how your life might begin to mend itself again. Not that it had ever been truly broken, but the past month had been hard enough to make you feel as though you were constantly on the edge. You loosened your tie and sank back onto the couch, blissfully relaxed, your legs casually draped over the table in front of you.

March, you concluded, had been the most unlucky month of your life. The first week had started with a quarrel with your parents when they demanded you book an immediate flight and come to your hometown immediately. You understood their feelings — they hadn’t seen their only daughter in five years — but you couldn’t just abandon everything and disappear. You had responsibilities, and no matter how much you missed your mom’s homemade pickles or your dad’s clueless grocery runs, you couldn’t drop everything for a visit. That’s what you told them, but it only led to their anger.

The second week of March brought more frustration when you were handed the work of an employee who had left the company abruptly. Internally cursing him and taking an oath to meet him in hell, you ended up shouldering his share of projects as well.

In the third week, an issue with your Sodexo meal card arose, and while you reported it to your manager, you knew it wasn’t going to be a priority for him, considering the mountain of tasks he already had to juggle at year-end.

But the final week of March truly tested your patience. In addition to the looming deadlines, your boyfriend of two years, Tyler, was giving you a migraine. He knew how packed your schedule was and had seen how much the month had already drained you, yet he still managed to pick fights over matters you thought had been long settled.

Love and Deepspace.

When you and Tyler had first committed to each other, you had sat him down and clearly explained how your love for otome games wouldn’t interfere with your relationship. What you sought in fiction was vastly different from what you needed in real life. As a self-identified "men-are-disgusting" type, you had always trusted your parents to help you understand the difference between right and wrong, and to guide you toward the right kind of person. When Tyler came into your life, he seemed to check all the boxes: good-looking, smart, organized, and a great companion. So you took a chance on love.

But over the past few months, things had taken a turn for the worse. You began to notice how inconsiderate Tyler could be toward your feelings, and how little effort he seemed to put into the relationship. On top of that, he began to criticize you for being a “merch-collecting freak” and for not knowing how to invest your money. The irony wasn’t lost on you, especially since the only "merch" you collected were plushies and a few rare 4-star banner posters — things you bought with your hard-earned money, and that you had every right to spend as you pleased. You dismissed his behavior for a while, but it all came to a head one day when you came home to find him tearing up your posters in a fit of spite.

You confronted him, demanding to know why he had destroyed your things, and his response —“You don’t need otome games when you have me”— was the breaking point. In that moment, you realized that you couldn’t even keep your own interests around him without facing ridicule. That day, you made a wise decision. You slapped him across the face and, with the help of some neighbors, you kicked him out of your apartment, officially ending the relationship once and for all.

You didn’t regret your decision one bit. Aside from the moments with him that were genuinely worth feeling sad about, you surprisingly didn’t miss him much either. It seemed that, subconsciously, you had been prepared to leave him the moment his behavior began to shift. Setting your empty utensils aside, you sprawled out on your stomach, unlocked your phone, and opened the app that had, in many ways, saved you from what could have developed into a toxic relationship.

“Some long for longevity… before fading to dust. Some long for eternal sleep…” you belted out the theme song, singing at the top of your lungs as you pressed enter. You recited aloud the random information on the white loading display: “Lemuria is an ancient, marine civilization recorded in legends. Its unique, advanced technologies are difficult to use.” You paused mid-sentence, tilting your head slightly as a thought struck you. “Does that mean Lemuria’s technologies would be far more advanced than ours if it actually existed? I’ll have to ask Reddit later.”

The game opens with a silver-haired man rubbing his chin in thought, donning a brown sweater and black slacks. It seems Sylus has decided to greet you today. He’s recently become your main choice after Rafayel in the game, but the others hold a special place in your heart as well, so you always ensure to include them when selecting who you want to meet at Destiny Café. You quickly navigate to the agenda to claim your night-login stamina before it expires. However, when you return, you’re met with a ‘failed to connect. Retry or return to login’ pop-up. You press ‘retry,’ glancing over your shoulder to check if your router’s LED lights are blinking as they should.

This time, when the game reboots and you log back in, you’re greeted by the purple-haired man who somehow manages to climb his way onto the first place among your lead choices even after new releases. You are one of those players who had been in the fandom just some time after the game released officially and Rafayel has been your choice of ML ever since, though you do get bias-wrecked by Sylus every so often. You smile, not at all bothered by the shift in characters, and admire his ‘asymmetrical romance’ outfit, paired with a big, vibrant red bow. Rafayel suddenly closes the distance between you and the screen, leaning down so that his eyes meet yours although it feels far from mere programming.

His mystical eyes are wide, holding a strange clarity, as though he’s uncovered something. His soft features are lit up with eyebrows arched and full lips drawn in a small part. He tilts his head, seeming momentarily stunned. You wait patiently, suspecting the devs may have added a new update for how characters interact with you. You would have missed it had you not been paying close attention, but you distinctly hear him whisper "beautiful," clear as day.

A soft pink blooms on your cheeks, and you flinch slightly, caught off guard by the timbre of his voice and the unexpected compliment. You wonder why the word didn’t appear in the captions but brush it off as a possible glitch. Unable to resist, you flick some stray hair away from your face and respond cheekily, “I know, right?”

You could have sworn you saw the faintest quirk of his lips as he stepped back, but then again, your brain is frazzled from overwork, and you wouldn’t trust it for opinions at this moment. You still have a daily task remaining, so you select "Quality Time" and set the timer for 30 minutes to work with him. You position your phone upright, supported by a cushion, and gather the utensils to take them to the dishwasher.

After putting your overcoat, bag, and other items in their proper places, you shake your shirt off your shoulders, deciding to freshen up for the evening. Had you been more observant, you might have noticed an unusually flustered Rafayel, his eyes fixed on you as you walked past the living room and toward your bedroom in just your bralette and pencil skirt.

When you slip out of his sight, he sets down his fountain pen and leans toward the screen once more. His iridescent irises, the color of dusk, shift around your living room, watching with a kind of unrestrained curiosity. They take in the unfamiliar world with the weight of a thousand unspoken questions, their intensity hidden behind lips that are pressed in quiet contemplation. Long, pale fingers, hesitant yet deliberate, tap softly against the unyielding glass that separates him from whatever lies beyond it.

He listens, the faint sound of your footsteps growing nearer, and in an instant, he straightens up. With a swift motion, he grabs his pen, resuming his drawing as though he had never strayed from his post. Later, he tells himself. Later, when you aren’t around, he will unravel the mystery of what this all means.

You emerge from the bathroom, hair damp from your shower, and sink into the sofa, still wearing your pajamas, a packet of chips resting on the table in front of you. His gaze drifts to you every now and then, some sort of fascination blooming in the quiet chambers of his heart for how your existence goes against everything he knows. You sometimes catch his gaze and before you start to ponder about it, he unwillingly utters words that feel like metal on his tongue — words that you’d consider entirely normal — words that would show in the captions. He clicks his tongue in distaste, not liking being pressed into speaking phrases that don’t truly belong to him — just empty lines, part of some programmed response. Yet, despite this reluctance, it doesn't stop him from continuing to steal glances at you, as if something distinct about you holds his attention despite himself.

And for the first time in months, he lets his phone beside him ring, despite the familiar caller ID—his miss bodyguard’s. The world around him — around you — seems to fade into the background, and for a fleeting moment, he is wholly, silently present in this strange, ordinary space that feels anything but ordinary.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[libraford]

Just got the 'congrats, you're now a part time permanent employee' email with 'here are some training videos that were due in 2024.'

Click on video.

404 error.

[wibben]

404

It's supposed to be Higuruma's day off, but he just couldn't help himself.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x fem. reader

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, sexual tension, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, oral sex (f. receiving), hr violations, improper use of a desk, boss-employee power imbalance if that bothers you, grey sweatpants should be their own warning

↳ wc: 9.2k

↳ notes: wouldn't catch me letting him leave the house looking like that, that's for sure. higuruma you get back inside right now.

The office felt quieter without him in it.

Not just quieter – wrong.

The kind of wrong that wasn’t loud or obvious, but insidious, creeping in through the cracks of routine and settling heavy in your chest. The walls hummed faintly under the fluorescents, the air stagnant and too still, like a room that hadn’t been lived in for a long time. Nothing had changed – your desk was still tucked into the corner of his office, the blinds still tilted to let in those pale, anemic slants of morning light, the coffee machine still wheezing dutifully in its nook. But the balance was off, something fundamental had been knocked out of place.

All because Higuruma had taken the day off.

You should have been glad. You had been glad when you first suggested it – flippant and teasing, after catching him pinching the bridge of his nose for the third time in an hour.

"Take a day, Higuruma. The firm won’t fall apart without you. I’ve got it!"

You hadn’t expected him to actually listen. He never did before. But now, knee-deep in briefs that refused to organize themselves, picking at the plastic lip of your highlighter just to have something else to do, you found yourself regretting it. The absence of him pressed against your ribs like an itch you couldn’t scratch, and you couldn't quite eschew ‘I'm glad he's resting’ from ‘how dare he leave me here alone’. It wasn’t that you couldn’t work without him. You were perfectly capable – good at your job, in fact. You’d fought tooth and nail to carve out your place here, earned every ounce of the trust and respect Higuruma placed in you. The firm didn’t need him today. You didn’t need him today.

But the office felt empty without him anyway. And maybe that was the problem – because Higuruma wasn’t loud, or particularly overbearing, but he had a way of filling up a space without you noticing. Not in big, sweeping ways, but in the quiet, unassuming things you hadn’t realized you’d come to expect. The soft clatter of his pen against his desk as he mulled over a case. The steady tick of his keyboard, the shff of paper sliding against paper. The occasional, absent-minded hum as he read through a deposition, too lost in thought to realize he was doing it. Or the cup of coffee he’d nudge across your desk with his knuckles, sweetened with sugar and a subtle wink conveying: I see you’re about to lose it, so here. Or one of his deadpan jokes that landed so poorly it looped back around to being funny and – against your better judgement and exacting standards for comedy – always managed to make you snicker. And even the way he’d check in – “How are you holding up? Fine? Good!” – just before a fresh avalanche of paperwork from his own arms threatened to swallow you whole.

It was ridiculous, really – how easily you’d come to calibrate yourself around his presence, the rhythm of his movements, the weight of his sighs, the rare, reluctant chuckle when something you said actually managed to slip past his exhaustion.

Without him here, the space felt unmoored, and you a slack-sailed ship set adrift in uncannily still waters.

You leaned back in your chair, twirling your pen between your fingers, glaring at the door as if sheer force of will might conjure him into existence, a punching bag for you to gripe at.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. You huffed, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling, restless energy thrumming under your skin. It was ridiculous. He’d taken one measly day off – his first in who-knows-how-long – and you were falling apart like he’d abandoned you in the wilderness with nothing but a stapler and your wits.

The coffee wasn’t helping. You’d long since crossed the threshold into over-caffeinated jitters, and restless energy crawled up your spine like ants.

And for the first time, work wasn’t enough to occupy you. The murmur of voices in the hallway barely registered – just another piece of the building's white noise, slipping between the rhythmic tap of your keyboard and the distant shrieking tantrum of the printer. You paid no mind to the shuffle of footsteps or the scrape of a chair. Until they stopped right outside your door. You snapped upright, spine un-shrimped and pencil straight, fingers hovering over your keys, suddenly alert in a way that felt completely ridiculous. It wasn’t like you’d actually been waiting for something to happen. It wasn’t like you’d been hoping—

A knock. Sharp, perfunctory. And then, before you could do so much as blink, the door creaked open, like permission was an afterthought. Higuruma’s head poked around the frame. “Excuse me, I have an appointment…”

All dry humor and faux seriousness, low and familiar as the tone but underscored with a lopsided smile meant just for you, and whatever tension had been sitting squarely between your shoulders unraveled like an unfurled lily returned to water.

Relief washed through you, unreasonable in its enormity, such a thin and frayed lifeline tossed down into the well of your boredom. You tsked, air sucking between your teeth as your incisors caught and imprisoned your bottom lip, barely biting back a grin.

“Schedule’s packed, I’m afraid,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “Get out of my office.” Higuruma scoffed, stepping inside fully and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Your office?” “You’re not here, are you?” You gestured vaguely to the empty space he usually occupied, tilting your head. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smirk, but instead, he just exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“Relax,” he said, waving a lazy hand. “Just forgot something.” And as he did so, you found yourself stuck there, pinned by a gravity far different than the tedious duty that bound you before. Maybe you were truly driven to madness through sheer boredom, because what you saw could not possibly be your Higuruma. Gone was the usual sharp, severe silhouette of a three-piece suit, the crisp lines and muted ties with their perfect Windsor knots, the clean-shaven jaw that usually looked carved from marble. This Higuruma was softer. Messier. He looked comfortable. And that was jarring in and of itself. His hair was tousled, fluffy, strands dragged slightly out of place like he’d raked a hand through it exactly once before stepping outside. He was wearing glasses – since when did he wear glasses? – thin, wire rimmed things perched on the roman bridge of his nose, lending a velveteen boyishness and charm, an age-defying panacea. And the scruff – God, the scruff – rough and dark along his jaw, prickling up over his cheekbones, dusting the hollow of his throat, suggesting carelessness or exhaustion, maybe both, but it forced you to trace this new and unexpected feature with far too much fascination.

You swallowed. Okay. Fine. Whatever. But it was his clothes that struck the killing blow. The black sweater was simple, plain, but the way the fabric clung, stretched over his shoulders and arms, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strong sinewy forearms bared to your gaze and the chilly office air that raised goosebumps and fine dark hair alike was what made it noteworthy. Sneakers, scuffed and worn, suited for morning runs you knew he didn’t partake in. And then… the sweatpants. Oh. God help you. Grey sweatpants.

Soft and loose, they hung low on his hips, one size too large, the drawstring tied in a bow that felt obscene in its innocence; the drooping loop just begging to be caught on your crooked finger and tugged. The heathered fabric skimmed over his thighs, and every shift and step sent a ripple through the material, drawing your gaze against your better judgement to the unmistakable, undeniable, print beneath. They were absolutely shameless. And so was he for wearing them. And so were you for looking. Your brain crashed. Buffered. Blue screened. For a moment you forgot how to breathe. The brain function required for such automation went to worthier endeavors – like the slow shift of your knees to lock together, squishing your thighs shut beneath your desk as if the physical wrist-slap of no, bad, down girl! would silence the overwhelming yes, oh fuck yes! crowing in your head.

“... What are you doing here?” you croaked.  

“Nice to see you too,” he said, dry as ever, though the switchblade flick of his eyes over his shoulder was undeniably humored by your apparent lack of manners. “Don’t worry, I’m still technically ‘relaxing.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. As if that were the problem.

“But I couldn’t stop thinking about that book I left here,” he continued, sifting through a neat stack of binders. “Figured I’d swing by and grab it.”

His words went in one ear, whistled through the cavernous cavity that became your skull, and out the other.

Every synapse in your brain was too busy short-circuiting, trying to reconcile this version of him with the man you thought you knew. This wasn’t the same Higuruma who swept into courtrooms like a force of nature, cutting through the prosecution like a scalpel through tissue. No, this was someone else entirely. Someone devastatingly casual, achingly comfortable, and unintentionally – no, intentionally, it had to be intentional, no one looked that good by accident – sexy. Someone who made coffee in a small, cute kitchen with smushed and tousled bed head, those sweatpants fighting for their life to cling to sharp hip bones, sans shirt, a crescent-soft smile cast over a bare and scratch marked shoulder to sleepily ask whether you liked your eggs scrambled or over easy, or better yet what size ring you wear and you’d be more than willing to drop to your knees yourself— You swallowed the cotton lumps in your throat, your gaze catching on the subtle shift of his hips as he rifled through the papers on his desk. You couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t even pretend to. Didn’t even want to. Every part of your brain pickled in brine at once, one chaotic spiral after another: Why does he look like that? Why does he look better out of a suit than in one? How is that even possible, never mind allowed? Has he always been hot? Your brain screeched, and the death knell rung thrice. Had he been? Surely not, surely you’d have noticed, surely this would’ve been a problem months ago, surely you’re just hopped up on caffeine and jittery, yes, of course—

The tinnitus in your ears reached a fever pitch, and you quickly sniffed, surreptitiously dragging your knuckles beneath your nose with a quick flicker glance down, fully expecting to see a bloody vessel popped from the sheer pressure building in your sinuses.

You were going to die. Right here, at your desk, taken out by the unholy combination of casual clothing and Higuruma Hiromi.

You were devastated.

Why would he think twice about walking into his own office, dressed like he just rolled out of bed and into the middle of some cruelly curated thirst trap? Why would he stop to consider the devastating consequences of soft, messy hair and grey sweatpants on his wonderful, straight-laced, dedicated assistant? You were as much a fixture of the room as was the standing lamp in the corner, without opinion or recourse or stray thoughts that gleefully skipped down paths they shouldn’t.

“So, do you miss me? Check the box for yes or no.”

The question was so offhand, so casual, it felt like a personal attack. Higuruma didn’t even look at you when he said it – just kept scanning the bookshelves behind his desk. Meanwhile, you were unraveling in real-time, layer by secret layer, like some chaotic nesting doll of poorly disguised attraction and absolute mortification. Yes. Yes, I have, you thought miserably, but you couldn’t say that. Instead, you scrambled to pick up a file from your desk and brandished it like a shield. “Well, you left me with a mountain of work, so… maybe a little.” Higuruma finally glanced at you, something knowing flickering behind his gaze before it softened into almost pity – like he actually felt bad for something so frivolous as taking a break.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Consider it character-building.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what people say when they want to justify unnecessary suffering.”

His lips twitched. “And?”

“And I don’t see you suffering,” you pointed out, waving vaguely at the absurdly soft-looking sweater draped over his frame, at the sweatpants hanging loose on his hips. “You look like you just woke up from a nap.”

He grinned, smug and self-satisfied. “It was a good nap.”

You grunted, a syllable that fractured in the middle like a dropped plate. You winced, nodding stiffly, every joint in your body locking into a marionette’s mimicry of calm. Your eyes, however, refused to cooperate. They widened, traitorous and gleaming, glued to him like he was the shiny prize in some deviously deceitful claw machine, just out of reach but taunting you with every twitch of the joystick in your fingers.

Higuruma hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head just enough to make the soft fall of his hair shift against his forehead. His fingers – long, deft, maddeningly precise – trailed along the spines of the books, pausing here and there to linger. It was methodical, unhurried, and utterly oblivious to the fact that every subtle flex of his arm, every shift of his shoulders beneath that infuriatingly soft-looking shirt, was eroding what little coherence you had left.

And those fucking pants.

Did he not have a mother who chastised him for wearing indecent clothing? Or were you just a voyeur? Loose in all the wrong places, snug in all the right ones. The fabric clung, suggested, hinted at truths your mind had no business trying to parse. Every time he moved, the lines and shadows shifted like a cruel optical illusion, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from darting back to them, helpless and hogtied as they betrayed every ounce of professionalism you clung to with blanched knuckles.

Your fingers hovered uselessly above your keyboard, and the sentence you’d been typing devolved into a jagged line of hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. It blinked at you accusingly from the screen, a digital monument to your brain’s complete implosion.

“Everything okay?” His voice broke through the fog, and you flinched. He glanced over his shoulder, brows furrowed and stitched together, and for a moment, the weight of his attention – direct, steady, disarming – was worse than any punishment.

“Yep! Yeah—totally fine!” you stammered, the words tumbling over themselves in their haste to escape. A nervous laugh followed, high-pitched and strained, like the dying wheeze of a deflating balloon. “Just, you know… great. Really productive.”

Higuruma’s lips twitched – whether in amusement or suspicion, you couldn’t tell – but he let it go, turning back to the shelf with a quiet hum. “Right. Well, no slacking just because I’m not here to breathe down your neck.” 

Not that you'd have minded the warmth of his breath at your nape, or the pointed traipse of his nose down the satin soft and secret zone behind your ear— You exhaled sharply, sagging in your seat, only to be yanked back to reality when your pen slipped from your fingers.

The sharp clatter as it hit the floor made your breath hitch. You bent down to retrieve it, but your elbow clipped the edge of your desk in your haste, sending an entire stack of papers cascading to the floor.

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, scrambling to fix the mess, but before you could even reach for the first sheet, Higuruma moved, a seeking missile with its primary directive being to organize disorder, to settle the mess in his space. Even off the clock, he just couldn’t help himself but leap to occupy his hands.

“I’ve got it,” he said, already crouching down beside you. “Don’t worry about it. You keep working.”

“But—”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” he interrupted. He fluttered his hand at you, dismissive but not unkind, a gentle command to stay put. And then he was there – on his knees, right between yours, filling the narrow space under your desk like he belonged there.

You stopped breathing. Froze entirely. Because Higuruma Hiromi, the unflappable, immovable bastion of composure, was crouched so close that you swore you could feel his breath breeze against your knees. His hunched shoulders filled the gap between them, his presence suffusing and suffocating in the best and worst possible way.

Every movement was torturous. His fingers curled around each sheet of paper with a kind of care that somehow felt intimate, as though he were handling something far more delicate than office supplies. The flex of muscle in his forearms was subtle but devastating, the faint ridge of veins tracing elegant paths beneath his skin, a roadmap of destruction you couldn’t help but follow.

His glasses slipped and slid down his nose – crawling along the bridge, like they were in on the conspiracy against your sanity – and he nudged them back up with the edge of his knuckle, the motion infuriatingly casual but still made your pulse trip over itself.

You could imagine it so easily. Too easily. His shoulders hunched just like this, his head bowed low, but not over papers. His hands skimming, not the floor, but your skin, those precise fingers teasing a path along your thighs, coaxing your knees apart, his glasses fogging as his lips parted with a sly smile and—

“Here,” he said, breaking the spell as he rose fluidly to his feet, the papers stacked neatly in hand. He placed them on your desk, his small, faint smile utterly unaware of the chaos he’d just wreaked on your psyche. “Crisis averted.”

No, no, crisis caused, actually.

You stared at him, utterly mute, your throat dry, your heart threatening to hammer its way out of your chest. A quiet hum of satisfaction escaped him as he turned back to his desk, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your shattered composure.

And then, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, he stretched.

Arms lifting high above his head, fingers lacing together, spine arching in one long, slow pull. A quiet, absentminded groan slipped from his throat, low and indulgent, like the stretch felt good, and something inside you – something delicate and self-preserving – snapped clean in half. Saliva pooled beneath your tongue.

But then his shirt rode up.

The hem lifted, inch by inch like a sinful satin stage curtain drawing back to reveal the main event upon the corpse of your sanity. Pale, smooth skin stretched taut over the lean planes of his stomach. The sharp jut of his hip bones, the faint, devastating groove of muscle dipping into the perfect V of his pelvis.

And there, just below his navel, a dark trail of curls, disappearing under the waistband of those godforsaken sweatpants. You forgot how to breathe. Of course he had a happy trail. Of course you were now going to think about that trail every time you saw him stretch from now on. That was one trail you’d happily hike down, hands, mouth, anything, straight to the promised land, actually—

You whimpered.

Higuruma froze mid-stretch. Slowly his arms lowered, his eyes sliding open with a heavy-lidded, almost feline sort of acute appraisal, one brow arched over his glasses. “Sorry?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with something new – something sharper, more curious.

Your brain scrambled, words piling up in a frantic, disjointed heap, none of them useful.

“Nothing!” you blurted. “I just—uh—spider! There was a spider.”

Higuruma blinked.

“Huge—” bad word choice “—Hairy—” oh my god, shut up “—but it’s gone now.”

Silence.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and you watched in real time as a dimple formed on his cheek from where he bit into the inside. “A spider?”

You nodded far too hard. “Yep. Massive. Terrifying. And gone.”

He didn’t move at first, didn’t blink. Just stood there with his head cocked to the left, eyes shrouded behind the glinting of the overhead light, but you had the distinct impression he saw straight through you. You wondered if it was too late to crawl under your desk and die or hide until he left, whichever came first.

His brow furrowed behind those glasses, just a hair – not enough to be suspicious really, but enough to make your chest feel like it was shrinking in on itself. Suddenly, you missed the boredom. You’d take loneliness over this catastrophic mental collapse any day. Maybe you were dreaming – one of those stress-induced nightmares where you showed up to work without clothes, only so much worse. “Well,” he sighed, tone light, offhanded. “I guess I’d better take a look.” You felt the color drain from your eyes, running off as icy dread that slammed into the sweltering wall of heat just held back by your diaphragm. A convection cauldron boiled inside you, and your silence had you nursing the blunt edge of your tongue, usually so adroit you struggled to whittle it back into some sort of functioning point.

“W-wha—?” “For the spider.” He clarified, pushing off the corner of his desk in favor of yours, slipping around the back to where you sat with a leisurely gait that felt gut-twistingly ominous. “If it’s that big, it could bite. I’d hate to leave you alone to deal with it once I’m gone.”

“No need!” you blurted, a little too loud, a little too fast, and you tried to recall when the last time you updated your resume was. “I’m sure it’s gone.” But he only hummed, unconvinced. “Just to be sure,” he said, and before you could protest, he was already behind you. His gaze swept the desk, eagle-eyed and determined, like he might actually see the thing lurking among the chaos of pens and loose papers your station had become. Then, he leaned in. Leaned over.

You felt the give of the upholstery that cushioned the back of your chair dimple beneath his talon-like grip, and slowly, he rolled your chair back. The swivel wheels spun, a mirror to the frantic cartwheeling in your chest, and it was far too late for you to counter-maneuver by the time he’d pulled you. It was too late to stand, or excuse yourself, or create any plausible explanation short of “I think I want you and I really shouldn’t,” and “this is going to be a problem so please go back home, oh god please.”

The solid weight of his chest hovered just behind your shoulder blades, the clean scent of fabric softener and soap invading your bubble like you’d walked past a perfume store. Too close, way too close. And then his forearms reached past you, one moving to grip the arm of your chair, forcing your own to drop limply down into your lap, while the other braced forward on the edge of your desk. Pinned, bracketed, you could do nothing but face forward like a statue bust.

Your breath caught and you held it in an iron fist, because every inhale welcomed more of that fresh Higuruma smell deep into your lungs, and you were pretty sure it was already imprinted into your cell lining. You had to actively remind yourself to inhale, exhale, repeat, shallow as you could manage, because your body seemed to have forgotten how. You weren’t sure if the lightheadedness was from lack of oxygen outright or lack of free oxygen. He stretched further, one arm snaking past you to lift a loose stack of leafed papers, then a book, then another book. “Hmm,” he mused, his voice low and thoughtful and you could feel the rumbling bass judder down each and every one of your vertebrae like a xylophone. “Nothing here.” You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat as he moved closer, his weight shifting slightly so that your chair gave a little rock forward with the accidental nudge of his pelvis. You could feel the soft brush of his sleeve against your shoulder, the rhythmic and completely calm exhalation of his breath against your temple when he deigned to tilt his head just so to address you. “I suppose it could be under here,” he murmured, reaching across to lift the edge of your keyboard. His fingers brushed yours along the way and your eyes slammed shut like old window shutters, blocking out the accompanying visual to the live-wire jolt that galvanized your spine to ratchet up straighter, inadvertently lengthening the stretch of your body pressed against the front of his. “I-it’s not under there,” you stammered, your voice a crackly whisper, too shaky, something he’d have chastised you for any other day. A good lawyer has presence. He’d scold. Enunciate. Use your chest. And maybe the fact that he doesn’t scold you should’ve clued you in. But you don’t think about it beyond the feeling of gratitude because you’re certain if he spoke to you in that tone he uses, if you were able to track the slow crawl of his lips down in that disapproving pout so close to your face, you’d simply self immolate. “Well you never know,” he said instead, his tone breezy and conversational. “Spiders are sneaky little things. They like dark corners. Lots of dark corners in a desk, on a desk, under a desk…” He shifted again, this time pressed just a little more firmly into your back – enough to be completely improper, you think, you’re pretty sure, but plausibly deniable as accidental. Because he’s only trying to help you, see? He’s looking for a spider that doesn’t exist, one that you made up because you were ogling the mouth watering muscle of his hips and wanted to trace the lattice work of fine blue lines with your tongue— You swallowed, and you were grateful you’d already crossed your legs because there was no way you could do so subtly now, grateful that instead you could just squeeze them closed a little tighter, your thighs squishing shut, chained and gated, and your nostrils flared with frustration and your brows knitted together just so at the slightest bit of pressure that pressed upon your center. “You sure it’s gone?” he asked, his voice dropping just a fraction lower in time with the tilt of his head towards yours. He craned around, forcefully catching your eye, and you met them feeling every bit a deer in headlights. You nodded, a quick up and down bob of your chin that you hoped passed well enough for an answer. You didn’t trust your mouth to open – you didn’t think anything would come out of it, but the things that could shouldn’t be afforded the chance to. He didn’t move right away. Instead, he lingered, his fingers idly toying with the edge of your mousepad. One of those ergonomic things, gelly and squishy, to elevate your wrist. A gift from a friend who didn’t quite care, who didn’t quite know you beyond your occupation as “office worker” so of course you would appreciate office supplies.

You watched with dawning horror, struck mute as his fingers gripped the gel pad, rolling it into his palm with a slow squeeze.

Your mouth went dry.

Pinned between his palm and the meat of his thumb, he lifted it, checking beneath for the arachnid interloper, before he sighed and returned it back down to your desk. But his hand stayed put, circling his thumb in slow, rhythmic circuits over the material, rolling the gel beneath his fingertip in an unhurried, back-and-forth knead, and you swallowed. Hard enough to hurt your throat, loud enough to know he heard, and with equal parts mortification and shame, you could feel the slick evidence of your unabashed ogling pooling between your thighs.

This man was a danger to society, and most certainly a danger to you.

“Hm…” he grumbled. And you watched as his hand quit fondling the squishy mouse pad you’d never be able to look at the same way again, one long finger flicked up to your computer screen. “You’ve got some typos there. Planning to fix those?”

Your jaw ticked and your eyes snapped to narrow slits. Your head jerked to face him with an indignant defense on your tongue – failing to account for how that would put you nearly nose to nose. And instantly you were cowed. You watched in real-time as your reflection deflated, mirrored in the gleam of his glasses, and your voice came out far more petulant when you muttered: “You’re distracting me.” His expression shifted, subtle, but there – your proximity made you privy to the amusement kept captive behind the lenses of his readers, a patient and knowing hook that drew a single brow up over the wire rim. “Am I?” His voice was mild, casual as you’ve ever heard it, but the way his fingers traced a deliberate line along the desks surface betrayed him, there was nothing absent about his mind in the gesture. His thumb grazed the edge of a page, smoothing over the corner before flicking it back with a sharp snap. You jumped, flinching to look at the offending sheet. It was not a fidget at all, but a consideration, a temperature check, and he smiled at the side of your turned head. “You’re jumpy today. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” His hand moved again, his fingers walking toward the armrest of your chair, resting on the small island of space unoccupied by your elbow. He didn’t touch you, but he hovered close enough that you felt he already had. You could stop this. You should. You could laugh it off, spin your chair, remind him and yourself that this is not the time nor the place, and isn’t professional in the slightest. You could try to convince yourself that your boss wasn’t reading you like an open book, and wasn’t seconds from confirming something you could never walk back. But you didn’t. “Well, I saw a spider, you know how I feel about those,” you tried to excuse. Higuruma’s lips puffed and pursed, daring to inch his thumb just a little closer, piercing your bubble to pluck a frayed string on your sleeve. “I didn’t see any spiders.” You were floundering. What the hell is happening, who is this man, and what has he done with your boss? It was the glasses. It must be. This overconfidence – even if irritatingly warranted – had to be a byproduct of knowing he looked good dressed down. And you wouldn’t mind dressing him down, undressing him, peeling off those already flimsy layers yourself, but you couldn’t. So you resisted, your arguments a sieve through which not a drop of water would hold. A shitty lawyer you’d make. “So just because you didn’t see it, it was never there?” you rebuffed. And that, it seemed, gave Higuruma pause. At least for a moment, until his head teetered down to almost rest on your shoulder, his back quaking with a vibrating laugh. “Oh? Schrödinger, is it? That’s what we’re doing?” You cringed as soon as you said it, knowing full well that quantum theory would not save you, but you certainly wouldn’t have minded a convenient box into which you could crawl and die. But he didn’t let it go. He never did. He thrived on contradiction, lived and breathed the thrill of the argument, got off on unraveling logic until all that remained was the truth. And right now, you hid yours poorly. You were caught red handed, red faced, damned by the scarlet that creeped ever higher up your throat and refused to be swallowed down. His voice dipped, amusement curling at the edges. “If I don’t see the spider, how do I know it’s real?” Your lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand still perched on the armrest curled inward by degrees – knuckles brushing against the back of your hand in the barest contact.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You inhaled, sharp and shallow between your teeth. “Higuruma.”

He stilled. His jaw twitched. And then—

“Do you want me to stop?”

No soft edges, no careful subtext. The words landed between you with a dull, leaden weight, devoid of that razor-edged coyness he’d been wielding like a paring knife. No shields, no plausible deniability – just blunt, naked truth.

You blinked at him, pulse thudding erratically against your ribs. Surely you had misheard.

But his eyes, fixed on yours, were clear. Watchful. Expectant. Beneath the wary composure, something raw flickered – uncertain and unsteady. A breath, a blink, a second too long with no answer, and you watched him start to fold in on himself like a flimsy card house.

“Shit,” he exhaled, quiet, almost to himself. His lashes flickered in rapid succession – once, twice, again. Like shaking off a trance, dragging himself out of something he knew he shouldn’t have sunk into in the first place. “I overstepped. You’re uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

A sharp nod. A muscle clenched in his jaw, then smoothed out, his mouth flattening into something more neutral and practiced in its artificiality. Already withdrawing. Already gone.

And he looked—

God, he looked like a kicked dog.

Panic surged up your throat, knocking the breath clean out of you. Your hand shot out before your brain could catch up, fingers latching around his wrist, gripping firm. Warm skin, quick pulse beneath your touch.

“Stop what?” The words tumbled out, unsteady, breathless.

His gaze flickered back to you, impassive, unreadable. He didn’t answer.

You squeezed his wrist. “Stop what, Higuruma?” Higuruma swallowed. His wrist tensed beneath your grip, and you felt the subtle flex of his fingers curling inward, like he wanted to hold onto something but didn’t quite dare. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

You dragged in a breath, forcing your voice into something steadier. “Higuruma,” you pressed, voice softer now, urging. “Stop what?”

A beat.

Then another.

His mouth twitched. Not in a smirk, not in amusement, but like he was physically fighting himself, trying to bite something back before it slipped past his teeth. His head tilted just slightly, his gaze drifting – not away from you, not entirely, but somewhere to the side, anywhere safer than your face, as if the words he was about to say were too much to deliver straight on.

Then he exhaled, slow and shuddering.

“I lied,” he confessed.

“I didn’t come in for a book,” he admitted, and now it was like the floodgates had cracked. “I didn’t need anything. I just—” He laughed, soft, humorless, dragging a tired hand down his face. “I just wanted to see you.”

Your fingers twitched against his wrist.

He shook his head, incredulous at himself. “It felt wrong. Not seeing you today. Kept thinking I forgot something. Like I was missing a step all day and couldn’t figure out why until I caught myself reaching for my phone, halfway through texting you, trying to find an excuse, hoped you’d need me to come in after all, and I—” He inhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for the briefest, tortured second before forcing them open again. “I just wanted to see you. That’s all.”

Silence pooled thick and electric between you, and now you were the one who had no words.

His throat bobbed with a swallow, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “So – I don’t want to stop. But I can. I will.”

There it was.

The inevitable moment where everything clicked into place and left no room for interpretation, no exit route to hide behind. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t testing you, waiting for you to fold and deny it. His face was open, stripped of all pretense, and that earnest sincerity – the kind that people mistook for courtroom performance but you knew better – hit you like a freefall drop straight to the pit of your stomach.

Higuruma Hiromi wanted you.

A slow, consuming warmth curled through your limbs, filling your veins, burning your capillaries.

Your grip on his wrist softened, fingers smoothing over the bone. A shift of weight, barely perceptible, but his breath hitched all the same. He was still watching you, eyes darting minutely between yours, scanning, waiting, bracing for rejection, for hesitation, for anything that would tell him he’d misread this, that he’d just set himself up for ruin.

You leaned in, just slightly, just enough to catch the scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his skin beneath it.

And you whispered, “Then don’t.”

Higuruma inhaled.

He was closer now, his weight shifting like his body had made the decision before his mind had caught up. His knee brushed yours. His fingers flexed against the armrest. His head dipped, slow, inevitable, like the pull of gravity was stronger now, like whatever unseen force had been keeping him tethered had finally snapped.

Your mouth parted – either to speak or meet him halfway – but then his forehead dropped, pressing briefly, firmly against yours.

His breath shook against your lips. “God,” he muttered, laughing softly in disbelief. “I really shouldn't.”

Then his fingers brushed your thigh, just barely, tentative at first – like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed. You exhaled, heat curling low in your belly, and reached for him, closing the space with a slow, deliberate roll of your knee to the outside of his. “I promise I won’t call HR if you don’t.”

He groaned.

And then he sank to his knees.

His hands slid over your thighs, smoothing upward in slow, reverent strokes, coaxing them apart, and your breath hitched. He watched, eyes heavy-lidded, flickering up to catch yours as he pressed a kiss – light, lingering – to the inside of your knee.

“Keep working,” he murmured, voice a little raw, a little wrecked already. His fingers curled into the hem of your skirt. “Don’t mind me.”

And then he dragged his mouth higher. Higuruma was breathing hard. You could hear it, feel it – the unsteady push of air against your bare thigh, the way it stuttered. His hands, already so warm, traced slow, sweeping lines up the outside of your thighs, fingers flexing against the hem of your skirt, seeming fascinated by the give and shift of the polyester, gathering the courage to do what he really wanted.

Like he still thought he needed permission.

You exhaled, shifting slightly in your chair, parting your thighs just enough that his fingertips slipped over the sensitive inner skin. His breath hitched, a quiet, sharp inhale through his nose. His head dipped lower, hair brushing against your knee, and you felt the tremor in his fingers as he finally, finally pushed your skirt up.

He did it slow, like he wanted to savor it, like he was unwrapping something precious.

Higuruma dragged the fabric upward, baring inch after inch of soft, warm skin, his thumbs pressing into the meat of your thighs, kneading absently like he couldn’t help it. And then he reached your panties, delicate lace darkened at the center with proof of your wanting. He made a sound, low and unsteady between a groan and a whimper. His fingers curled into the elastic, hesitating, holding.

Then he hooked them to the side.

He went still.

For a long moment, all he did was look. His hands tightened against your thighs, fingers dimpling the flesh, and he let out a sharp, unstable exhale. His glasses slipped a fraction of an inch down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them this time, didn’t move at all – just stared, breathing through his mouth now, lips parted like he was on the verge of either something catastrophic or panting like a dog.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

His thumbs smoothed against your skin, a reverent, subconscious caress.

“Fuck.”

You should have felt self-conscious, spread open for him like this, but the look on his face, the sincere, trembling hunger in his expression burned away any hesitation. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing up the brown of his irises black as pitch, his brows furrowed like he was in pain.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting them, shifting you forward in your seat, making you open for him, spreading you wider. His nose – sharp, sloped, aristocratic you’d always thought – skirted along the inside of your thigh, his breath scalding, his lips dragging heat against skin. His stubble caught, a scratch of sensation that made your stomach jolt, made your cunt clench around nothing.

“Higuruma—”

He shuddered. “Hiromi,” he corrected, wide and needy eyes slowly swiveling up to your face, though not without great effort at having been reeled away from the exquisite glistening between your legs. “Hiromi’s just fine for right now.”

Then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow, broad, deliberate – a long, dragging lick from your dripping entrance to the stiff, aching pearl of your clit. Your whole body jerked, a broken gasp catching in your throat.

Hiromi moaned. Deep, desperate, guttural.

It vibrated against your cunt, made your thighs twitch where they bracketed his head. His hands flexed against your hips, squeezing like he needed something to ground himself, like the feel of you under his palms was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality; he’d mold the clay of your flesh into a life preserver, because he fully intended to drown here.

And then he did it again.

He was savoring it, the obscene, deliberate press of his tongue slipping through the slick mess of you, catching every little twitch, every tiny intake of breath. His nose brushed your clit with every motion, the bridge of it dragging just enough to make you squeak, your hands curling into the armrests, nails biting into the leather. A moan spilled from your lips before you could snag it back, too loud. Hiromi’s hands tensed against your thighs. He pulled back just slightly, just enough to glance up at you, his lips wet, mouth gleaming with dew, and glasses hopelessly lopsided. His voice was low, giddy and playful but the effect was outshone by how breathless he spoke – shaken and twitchy. “You’re supposed to be working, remember?” It took too long for you to realize what he was waiting for as he looked up at you. The clack of the keyboard. The pretense of professionalism. You laughed, choked and gravelly. Your gaze wrenched from the delicious sight of him below you up to the bleary glare of your monitor, blinking cursor and abandoned typo’s and all. Your fingers hovered over the keys before you forced yourself to type something, anything. A sentence. Just a few words. Hiromi hummed against you, pleased. His hands slid higher, hooking around your thighs to grip their fronts and tug you closer to him. Then he dipped his head and sighed – long and low, the sound that made your stomach tighten and heat pool in your gut, and would fuel countless wet dreams for the rest of your life.

You barely registered the way your thighs started to tremble, the restless shifting of your hips to wordlessly tempt him back, your body chasing after every slow, devastating pass of his tongue.

Hiromi felt it, though.

Felt the way you arched into him, the way your muscles twitched when he flattened his tongue against your clit and pressed, the way your breath caught when he let out a quiet, helpless whimper against you. He felt utterly pathetic, deranged, oh he could write empirical dissertations on every ethical breach occuring in his office today – but you liked it. Whether it was the taboo of it all or simply him – he hoped to god it was him – he could hardly drink you down fast enough before your sweet pussy drooled down into the cleft of your ass on the seat.

His fingers curled lower, slipping between your thighs from above, thumbs spreading you open.

He was shaking.

His shoulders quivered, adrenaline puppeteered his muscles into a jittery mess and he could do nothing but try to work through the tremors.

Then, like something in him had finally snapped, he gripped your thighs tighter and shook his head – side to side and feral, his nose rubbing against your clit, his tongue pressing inside you, spreading you open for him in a way that had you gasping, a choked-off moan catching in your throat.

“Oh, fuck—”

Hiromi growled into you, deep and needy, and then he was fucking his tongue inside you, quick and filthy and wet. His nose ground against your clit, his stubble rasping against the delicate skin of your inner thighs, and your entire body jolted at the overture of conflicting sensation.

You didn’t notice the way one of his hands slipped from your thigh, moving lower, until you felt the determined press of his fingers, felt the slow, careful stretch of two of them sinking into you, filling you alongside the obscene, messy slide of his tongue.

Your head dropped back against the chair, a broken, gasping moan slipping past your lips.

Higuruma growled into you, curling his fingers, pressing them just right, like he already knew exactly where to touch you, like he’d spent months learning your body before he ever laid a hand on it.

And maybe he had. Maybe those long, bleary nights where you caught him watching you – when your skin prickled under the self-conscious weight of his gaze – had never been idle, absent-minded staring at all. Maybe he hadn’t been zoning out, lost in legalese and exhaustion. Maybe he’d been looking at you like this all along.

Noticing the way you chewed on the end of your pen when you were thinking. The way you stretched your arms over your head after too many hours hunched over case files, the soft sigh you let out, the way your shirt lifted just enough to show the barest sliver of skin if he were lucky. The way your fingers tapped against your coffee cup in restless little rhythms, how your brows knit together when you were deep in thought, the way you bit your lip when you were holding back a smile.

Maybe, when he used to linger a little too long after walking you to your car – hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, like he had something else to say but couldn’t quite get it out – it wasn’t just his usual brand of overworked buffering. Maybe it was this, all of this, eroding at the edges of his restraint, wearing it thinner every time you laughed at one of his dry remarks, every time your shoulder brushed his in passing, every time you looked up from your desk and caught him already watching.

And those guilty little smiles he used to give you?

Maybe they weren’t guilt at all. Maybe they were apologies.

For thinking about you in ways he shouldn’t have. For picturing you like this, like you were now, spread open beneath him, panting and flushed and trembling under the crooked curls of his fingers.

The realization hit you like a live wire, striking something deep and low inside you, flicking the taut rubber band behind your navel. Hiromi made a sound – low, half a moan, half a fuck, muffled into the slick, messy heat of your core.

And now that you knew – now that you saw it – there was no unseeing it.

Your pussy clenched around his fingers, sucking him deeper to the knuckle.

His whole body jerked, a sharp inhale through his nose, and his hips rolled against nothing, a ragged whimper spilling out muffled against your pussy.

He finger-fucked you slow and deep, his lips sealing around your clit and sucking it clear of its hood, rubbing with the flat of his tongue like it was his job. Like he’d done this a hundred times before, and he reckoned he has, if the lackluster imaginings in his head while he jerked himself to completion in bed were to be tallied. And just below your desk, he shifted, his breath fleeing the deflated balloon of his lungs in an embarrassingly high-pitched whine as he shouldered your legs and palmed himself through the soft grey cotton of his sweatpants. His cock twitched under the roll of his palm, thick and aching, the damp patch down the inseam darkening with every helpless grind of his hips against air.

His voice was wrecked, muffled, words half-swallowed against your skin.

“—fuck, y’taste s’good…lil’ more. Lemme have it…s’wet n’ pretty—”

Your breath stuttered, your hands flew to collect a fistful of his hair and yanked. He gasped against you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core to strike flint to steel, igniting the short and kerosene-soaked fuse in your belly.

“Hiromi, I—” you only just managed to squeak.

His free hand – it hadn’t been free though, but he’d sooner abandon himself than abandon you –  shot up, grasping blindly for yours, lacing your fingers together, squeezing tight. His tongue dragged over your clit, slow and deliberate, then he sucked, and—

You shattered.

Your whole body seized, back bowing, thighs clamping tight around his head. You barely heard the choked, desperate groan that tore from his throat as he swallowed you down, tongue fucking you through your orgasm like he was starving for it.

Everything blurred, your breath stuttering, your fingers tangled in his hair, clenching tight as your body pulsed around his fingers, your cum soaking his face, his mouth, slicking his wrist.

And still he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop licking, sucking, devouring, his consumption of you was absolute. His lips wrapping around your clit, gentle and coaxing, dragging you through the trembling aftershocks until your body sagged, boneless, against the chair. But you felt the way his whole body shuddered and suddenly convulsed, the heave of his shoulders beneath your limp legs, the muffled broken moan that gargled in his throat as his fingers squeezed tight against yours— And the way he abruptly stilled.

When he finally pulled away, his breathing was ragged, panting against the inside of your thigh, his glasses fogged up, his lips swollen and shining, his stubble slick with the mess he’d made of you, earned from you.

“… fuck,” he rasped. His forehead dropped against your thigh, his fingers squeezing where they still clung to yours. “God. I—” He swallowed hard, his voice thick. It was rare for Hiromi to be rendered anything resembling speechless.

His shoulders shook between laughter and disbelief.

“Would’ve done that ages ago if I knew you’d let me.” Hiromi exhaled a slow, steady breath against your thigh. Then another. His fingers flexed in your grip once, twice, before finally loosening, slipping free only so he could smooth his palms along the tops of your legs, rubbing lazy, absentminded circles into your skin. His forehead rested against you, warm and damp, glasses tilted near sideways and lifted from his face.

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The hum of the office settled back in around you – the faint click of a keyboard from down the hall, the intermittent trill of a phone ringing elsewhere, the low hiss of the air vent. But all of it felt far away, like a different world, like something that had no bearing on the one you were currently sinking into, pacified and hazy in your chair, while Hiromi sighed heavy and contented into your lap.

Then, just as the static buzz of post-orgasmic bliss started to fade—

His jaw went slack against your thigh.

You barely had time to react before his mouth stretched wide, lips grazing your skin, and chomp.

Not hard – just enough to make you squeal, swatting at him with the force of a wet napkin.

“Stop it!” you half-laughed, half-scolded, still breathless, shaking him off as he grinned, cheek smushed against your thigh.

He hummed, entirely unrepentant, his lips pressing an exaggerated, obnoxiously loud mwah right where he’d bitten you.

“Sorry,” he said, voice still raspy. “Couldn’t help myself.”

You huffed, still laughing, running absent fingers through his hair in retaliation. “You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he agreed, eyes slipping shut as he nuzzled deeper, getting comfortable like he had every intention of staying there for the rest of the afternoon.

You hesitated, still gathering the courage to say it, but you were riding the same high he was, and you wanted to. So you smoothed your hand down, fingers slipping under his prickly chin, tilting his face up just enough that he had to look at you.

“You want me to return the favor?”

His eyelids lifted just slightly, heavy-lidded and unreadable, like he was parsing whether or not you were serious. Then his mouth quirked, slow and wry, his voice a quiet rasp.

“There’s no need.”

You blinked. “No need?”

A beat.

Then – his ears went pink.

Oh.

Oh.

A slow, wicked grin curled at the edges of your lips.

“Hiromi Higuruma,” you said, voice rich with delight, dragging your fingers through the sweaty, mussed strands of his hair. “Did you—”

He groaned and dropped his face back into your lap, burying it in your skirt. “Don’t.”

You laughed, warm and breathless, carding through his hair, absolutely gleeful. “Oh my God,” you whispered, voice high-pitched, teasing. “I didn’t even touch you.”

His arms curled around your thighs, squeezing once in a half-hearted warning, but the damage was done.

“That’s…” You exhaled, still smiling, still floating. “God, that’s so hot.”

A muffled groan vibrated against your lap.

You weren’t going to let him off easy. Not after this. Not after knowing that just getting you off had been enough to get him off, too.

“What happened to all that patience, Hiromi?” you teased, nudging his chest with your knee. “What happened to self-control?”

He grunted, shifting, and you rolled your head to the side and saw it – the sticky, wet mess that turned the pale grey of his pants a darker charcoal.

You grinned. Oh, you were never letting him live this down.

He lifted his head slightly, glaring at you from under his lashes, though there was no real heat behind it. “I was patient,” he grumbled, jaw ticking. “It just… caught up to me.”

“Uh-huh,” you mused, biting back another laugh, still stroking your fingers through his hair. “Maybe you should take days off more often.”

Hiromi made a sound, indistinguishable between a laugh and a groan, squeezing your thighs where they still rested over his shoulders. “Don’t start.”

You hummed, smirking. Then, gentler, pressing the pads of your fingers to his scalp: “Seriously. You should.”

He went quiet for a moment, then sighed, long and slow, shifting his arms so he could rest more comfortably in your lap. “Maybe I will.”

Maybe he would. Maybe he’d let himself have more than just a stolen afternoon, a guilty indulgence. Maybe he’d stop making himself wait for nice things. Or at least consider it.

But for now, he'd stay there, warm and content against your thighs, letting you thread your fingers through his hair, letting you touch him like you wanted to.

And for the first time in a long time – maybe ever – he let himself enjoy a day off.

[pollyanna-nana]

Louie isn’t evil.

Or: what Pikmin 4 tells us about his character.

BIG WARNING FOR PIKMIN 4 SPOILERS! (and the rest of the series)

———

I want to preface this by saying that I am in no way trying to be the end-all, be-all of character interpretations, but Pikmin 4 to me, at least, confirms the suspicions I’ve had since playing Pikmin 2 and 3 all those years ago that Louie ISN’T secretly evil, or possessed, or whatever else. He’s just… Louie. And I think that’s interesting in and of itself.

1. Olimar himself vouches for him, and clearly doesn’t think he’s a bad person.

Say what you will, but I’m inclined to think Olimar is a decent judge of character. Clearly he’s worked with Louie for enough time to see that while he’s not very good at his job, he’s not intentionally so— at least not in a malevolent way (will get more into this later). He also wants you to forgive him for Olimar’s sake, which can be read as self-sacrificing (as Olimar is known to be) but I also think hints at the soft spot he has for Louie.

It's also worth noting that he states during a end-of-day conversation that he told Louie that, since he's a new employee, he should do everything Olimar does... including throw castaways into the onion. Interesting that Louie took this so literally, but it does provide an explanation for why he kidnapped the Koppaites beyond "he's evil and crazy".

2. He really, REALLY loves his grandma.

Like, wow. He talks about her SO MUCH both in his Piklopedia entries and also elsewhere in the game. It's interesting. Worth noting is that he never mentions any other family members- unlike Olimar, who talks about his wife and each of his children independently. I've said this before, but the content of a lot of these entries implies to me that Louie was mainly raised by his grandma, likely since birth. And given some of her emails in Pikmin 2, assuming they're also canon to Pikmin 4's timeline... Well, Louie certainly had an interesting upbringing. But he clearly loves her all the same.

3. He has a mischievous streak and tends to do things on impulse.

This was already fairly obvious from the previous games, but I think it's worth noting that this game confirms that he's... would immature be the right word? In any regard, he doesn't seem to see himself as a "grown-up"- when in all likelihood he is. Personally, as a 22-year-old, I find that pretty relatable as I often think of myself as younger when in reality I am by all definitions an adult. This, along with his grandma still being around, makes it pretty much certain that Louie is a lot younger than Olimar and the president, likely in his early to mid twenties. Being a bit of a goofball isn't really out of the ordinary, all things considered.

THAT BEING SAID, he's clearly capable of practicing self-restraint when he wants to. What he says here about the red Pikmin is pretty significant, since we know he's willing to eat just about anything- but clearly he has some reservations about creatures that are friendly and helpful. Which leads to...

4. He loves dogs and fluffy things.

Same. But he doesn't even consider eating Moss, Oatchi or the Ancient Sirehound, showing that his creature-eating habits stop at things he recognizes as useful. He clearly also holds affection for things that are soft and fuzzy, and says as much.

5. He is so autism.

He plays with fidget toys. He loves certain textures and sounds. This guy is stimming all over PNF-404!!! I think this also lends some explanation for why his behavior is what it is- things like taking Olimar's suggestion to do as he does super literally even after crashing on an alien planet, his hyperfixation on cooking and tendency not to communicate and incorrectly interpret situations (thinking the Koppaites are kidnappers in 3, running away from you in 4). He could even be low or no empathy as well, explaining why it takes a hot minute to get him to understand why people are upset with him about something.

Interestingly this game also makes it clear that Louie wants to live on the planet, or at least thought he did while you were chasing him down, which makes a lot of sense when you consider that he doesn't really seem to fit in back on Hocotate. I, too, wish to run away to an alien world with all of the things that I like and no other people, so I get you, Louie.

6. He hates his boss and his job, and the golden pikpik carrot incident was likely premeditated.

This probably looks bad, but honestly? As a fellow work-hating anti-capitalist schmuck I get it. The president is for all intents and purposes a huge asshole, from sending Olimar straight back to the planet after selling his ship to not caring that Louie got left behind, just wanting to find the rest of the treasures. I doubt he is very kind to his employees, and doesn't seem very good at running the business. Definitely a funny character, but if he were my boss I would absolutely want to punt him into the sun.

From some other entries he clearly wants to sell certain things to accrue money, but it's for things like getting better kitchen tools and following his dream to have his own cooking show. Clearly being a freight driver isn't what Louie actually wants to do with his life, and he could not give less of a shit about what happens to the company. Very short-sighted on his part, but also again, yeah I get you Louie.

7. He... doesn't like the color red for some reason.

Honestly, I'm not even really sure what to make of this. Is it because it reminds him of the Hocotate ship? Or does he just not like the color? Would be very interesting considering that it's Olimar's signature color. Perhaps that's at least part of why he attacks you in Pikmin 2- though that's speculation for another day.

Also funny to me is his comments on the black-colored treasures. We know blue is his favorite color, but I guess he's also a bit of a goth at heart. Lol.

In conclusion.

I think Louie isn't written or intended to be evil, and Pikmin 4's portrayal of him was intentionally written to confirm this. He's just, as some have said, an agent of chaos, but that doesn't make him a bad person. Just an autistic 20-something working a shitty job he doesn't care about, who loves his grandma and has a mischievous streak and a hyperfixation on food. At least from what I can interpret, ymmv!

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

OKAY it has been a day of being sad and panicky. Time to move.

Yesterday, I made a post detailing the cdc announcement that there will no longer be an isolation requirement for covid. If you are one of the thousands of people rightfully raging in my notes, here's some steps to focus on.

We're not gonna give up. I've seen quite a few comments with things like 'what's the point', 'why should I even try anymore' etc etc and what we're not gonna do is give them what they want! It helps the eugenics cause to be apathetic and listless. We've made it this far, we will continue to make it. I know it's hard, but I am at least right here with you. Give yourself whatever time you need to grieve, and then I need you to get up.

If you have stopped masking for any reason, or you haven't upgraded to a respirator style mask, now is the time to change or start. From now on, we will be living in a country where you could assume there are multiple covid positive people in the room with you at all times. Surgical masks will not handle that load, and cloth masks will be even less effective at that point. Obviously, this is an unprecedented situation we're putting these masks in, and I'm not gonna sit here and pretend to be an expert that can tell you with certainty that even respirators will hold up with this amount of viral load for a long period of time, but it's the best and strongest tool we have. I'm considering using my p100 more, so that's always something to consider as well (and they make you look like a cool raver when you wear them!!!). You can buy all sorts of masks here, there's more links in the comments of my original post, and most states have their own mask blocs. To find them, go to Instagram and type "[your state] mask bloc". Here is a google doc of verified advocacy groups and mask blocs all across the country here is a diy fit test kit you can buy for $30 (unfortunately they are sold out right now. shocker.) PLEASE remember to take a layered response in these times. Masks are not the only tool in our arsenal. PLEASE for the love of God keep up with your vaccinations. Make a corsi-rosenthal box or buy a high quality air purifier if you can afford it--at the very least our homes can be safe havens (you can even put a hepa filter on your furnace!!!! And in your car too!!!!!). Use CPC Mouthwash, nasal irrigation, and nasal sprays like this one. Make it a routine: you come home, you shower, you brush your teeth, you rinse your nose, you change your clothes. And, like I said in another one of my posts, DO NOT TAKE OFF THE MASK.

3. If you would like an outlet for your rage and you're into calling your reps, feel free to calmly but firmly let the cdc have it at these numbers!!!!!

[alt text: a tweet by user silly_paulie that reads:

"Disdain for the CDC unites us all. Call today and demand isolation policies be returned to 10 days, and reducing it further to 1 day would be criminally dangerous. Call both:

404-639-7000 (press 8)

800-232-4636"

end text.]

4. If you need more outlets for your rage, I STRONGLY encourage you to get involved with your local union. Moreso than calling the CDC, tbh. I've seen multiple comments telling people just to lie about your symptoms to get more sick time off, but since there's no legal precedent to allow employees sick time for covid, all that's gonna do is get people fired. I truly believe in my lefty heart that the ONLY way we're getting anything close to mitigation is through labor rights. Even the standard for the fucking flu is 3 days, and that's nowhere near as contagious or disabling as covid. I say this as a high risk person with a neuromuscular disability: covid is an intersectional issue, but where we have the most leverage to get what we need is through labor rights.

It is NOT safe for workers to be working while ill with a Level 3 Biohazard (same as TB and the FUCKING PLAGUE. Seriously we have more regulations around fucking lice)

It is NOT safe to willfully EXPOSE your employees to a Level 3 Biohazard

It is NECESSARY for all employees to be allowed up to 10 days to recover fully from Covid-19, in order to avoid possible further injury from or hospitalization

You will NOT die or be disabled for the sake of the wealthy!!!!!

(and while you're at it, ask for better air filtration too!!!! At least 5 air changes an hour, MERV-13 air filters!! Then we won't have to constantly worry about virus bs and policy changes in the first place!!!!)

5. Closing statements. Nothing has changed with covid, this is just policy. Covid still isn't magic, she still has to get in you before she can do damage--mask up, arm your home with clean air, and don't let her. It's always worse toward the end. This is not the time to give up, it's time to dig in your heels and get to work. There are so many good things happening with covid. They are finding encouraging treatments for long covid. Finally, after years of nothing, a new prophylactic for the high risk was submitted for emergency use to the FDA, and it looks like this time it's built to last against new mutations. Covid is here to stay for the rest of our lives, but the real science hasn't given up on taking the worst of its teeth out. We WILL get to the point where the extreme fear of catching covid is nothing but a bad memory for EVERYONE. All I need you to do is commit to the belief that you're gonna survive long enough to be in that moment with the rest of us.

Now stay safe, and give em hell!!!!!

[collapsedsquid]

People who paid to speak to an AI girlfriend modeled after real life 23-year-old influencer Caryn Marjorie are distraught because the service they paid for, Forever Companions, no longer works. It appears that the service stopped working shortly after Forever Companion CEO and founder John Meyer was arrested for trying to set his own apartment on fire.  [...] On social media for the last few weeks, the official Forever Voices Twitter account has been posting bizarre videos and statements about the CIA, Donald Trump, and the FBI. According to Austin NBC affiliate KXAN, Meyer was arrested on October 22 for trying to set fire to the building where he lived, causing an estimated $360,000 in damages. In addition to those arson charges, 404 Media obtained an affidavit for an arrest warrant for charges of “Terroristic Threats” against the headquarters of a company called Cloud Kitchens, which provides software to restaurants. The affidavit states “On October 14th 2023 AT 9:06 PM John Heinrich Meyer posted on Twitter "@travisk get ready for me to literally blow up Cloud Kitchens." This post was posted under the twitter handle for John H. Meyer.” An employee for Cloud Kitchens sent this and additional tweets to the FBI, which is working with Austin police on the case. “Meyer has a history of being an emotionally disturbed person, which is consistent. with the behavior he displayed during this incident,” the affidavit notes.

[seandwalsh]

Who lays the nectar eggs found in the Pikmin games? It might seem like a silly question, but for a series with such extensive lore surrounding its creatures it is surprising that it remains a mystery. Nectar eggs are a mysterious item found in Pikmin 2, Pikmin 3 and Pikmin 4. The eggs themselves are rarely acknowledged by the leaders and can contain a wide array of different things.

When broken, nectar eggs usually release a form of nectar or raw material. Curiously, there are also several creatures associated with these eggs, but it’s never been explicitly stated which actually produces them. Let’s look at the candidates:

Firstly, there are the Honeywisps. Honeywisps sometimes carry nectar eggs as they float through the air back to their nests. However, they don’t seem to be producing these eggs themselves, as in Pikmin 1 they can be seen carrying pure nectar collected from flowers.

Given they intend to feed the nectar from the nectar eggs they carry to their young, it seems more likely that they sometimes just steal nectar eggs from their nests of origin instead of collecting nectar from flowers.

“This timid creature flies around collecting nectar from flowers.”

[Source: Captain Olimar, Employee of Hocotate Freight and Captain of the S.S. Dolphin, Playable Character in Pikmin 1, December 2001]

“This creature collects nectar for the larvae waiting in its nest.”

[Source: Captain Olimar, Employee of Hocotate Freight and Captain of the S.S. Dolphin, Playable Character in Pikmin 1, December 2001]

“This cutie swims though the air with a heavy-looking nectar egg dangling below its translucent body on its way back to its nest where its offspring await lunch.”

[Source: Dalmo, Sozorian Animal Enthusiast and researcher, Non-Player Character in Pikmin 4, July 2023]

The next creatures are the Mitites. Mities are a type of insect that occasionally hatch from broken nectar eggs in great numbers and produce nectar when defeated, which initially makes them seem like good candidates for the producers of these eggs. However, the nectar eggs notably don’t resemble insect eggs - and for good reason! The Mitites are actually parasites that lay their eggs within the eggs of a “particular species”, with their larvae feeding on the nectar the eggs provide.

“These parasitic insects feed on eggs. Upon reaching maturity, they excrete a special pheromone that attracts females of particular species, enticing these females to swallow the mitites whole. (Pikmin, however, seem to dislike the scent.) After entering the host female's body, the mitites lay their own eggs inside the host's eggs just prior to the host spawning.”

[Source: Captain Olimar, Employee of Hocotate Freight and Captain of the S.S. Dolphin, Playable Character in Pikmin 2, August 2004]

“The cheeky Mitite lays its eggs inside the eggs of other creatures to provide its offspring with an easy first meal.”

[Source: Dalmo, Sozorian Animal Enthusiast and researcher, Non-Player Character in Pikmin 4, July 2023]

Similarly, the egg-like Sunsquishes can also be found within nectar eggs. These are explicitly “other creatures’ eggs”, making them a species that parasitises on the eggs like the Mitites.

“A type of primitive organism called a protochordate. In its juvenile state, it has a skeleton-like structure called a notochord. It flaps its finned tail to move and lives within other creatures' eggs as it grows.”

[Source: Captain Olimar, Employee of Hocotate Freight and Captain of the S.S. Dolphin, Playable Character in Pikmin 4, July 2023]

That leaves us with the Burrowing Snagrets. In Pikmin 4, Downy Snagrets, the infant form of the Burrowing Snagret, occasionally hatch from nectar eggs. These seem to be the most likely candidates for the actual producers of nectar eggs.

As established in a previous post, almost all extant life on PNF-404 is made up of nectar, which would extend to the nutrients in the egg yolk.

“Nectar is a vital source of nutrition that most life on this planet depends on. Whether it's in the form of an egg yolk, sap, or honey, I leave up to your imagination!”

[Source: Dalmo, Sozorian Animal Enthusiast and researcher, Non-Player Character in Pikmin 4, July 2023]

Nectar eggs also strongly resemble bird eggs and Burrowing Snagrets are certainly large enough to produce them. They’re also large enough to swallow Mitites whole and are even said to eat insects in the Piklopedia.

“The majority of snagret species lie in wait to ambush and capture prey, with a body type perfectly adapted to such sudden strikes. It violently attacks small, surface-dwelling insects.”

[Source: Captain Olimar, Employee of Hocotate Freight and Captain of the S.S. Dolphin, Playable Character in Pikmin 2, August 2004]

What’s more is that Snagret has the widest distribution of a species after the Bulborb, which explains why nectar eggs can be found all over the world across the Pikmin games.

“Distributed across a relatively wide range, subspecies of snagret suited to the varying soil conditions have emerged, making the snagret the most geographically represented species besides the bulborb.”

[Source: Captain Olimar, Employee of Hocotate Freight and Captain of the S.S. Dolphin, Playable Character in Pikmin 2, August 2004]

So in short, female Burrowing Snagrets lay their eggs. Those that are fertilised will produce Downy Snagrets, while unfertilised eggs will produce nectar. Sometimes, a female Burrowing Snagret will eat a Mitite, resulting in Mitite larvae hatching within and feeding on the eggs laid by the Burrowing Snagret. The larval Sunsquish also finds its way into these eggs, while Honeywisps occasionally steal the eggs to feed the nectar within then to their own larvae.

[squuote]

I was thinking bout having my office worker sona thing like know who stanley is but just never really knew him, just knew that he worked there. but I think it is objectively so much funnier having it separate from the game entirely and just having no clue who tf stanley is

[vespidclan]

VESPIDCLAN NEWS!!!!!!!

after so much waiting, the one thing people wanted more than anything is here at last: you can finally drink beer with 404!

(disclaimer: 404 cannot actually drink beer or any other beverage, as she has no mouth. she is solely here so she can rant to you about her ex husband and complain about how terrible the local Walmart’s customer service is when they wouldn’t let her dismember an employee)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jason Koebler at 404 Media:

[Update: After this article was published, Bluesky restored Kabas' post and told 404 Media the following: "This was a case of our moderators applying the policy for non-consensual AI content strictly. After re-evaluating the newsworthy context, the moderation team is reinstating those posts."] Bluesky deleted a viral, AI-generated protest video in which Donald Trump is sucking on Elon Musk’s toes because its moderators said it was “non-consensual explicit material.” The video was broadcast on televisions inside the office Housing and Urban Development earlier this week, and quickly went viral on Bluesky and Twitter.  Independent journalist Marisa Kabas obtained a video from a government employee and posted it on Bluesky, where it went viral. Tuesday night, Bluesky moderators deleted the video because they said it was “non-consensual explicit material.”  “A Bluesky account you control (@marisakabas.bsky.social) posted content or shared a link that contains non-consensual explicit material, which is in violation of our Community Guidelines. As a result of this violation, we have taken down your post,” an email Kabas received from Bluesky moderation reads. “We trust that you will understand the necessity of these measures and the gravity of the situation. Bluesky explicitly prohibits the sharing of non-consensual sexual media. You cannot use Bluesky to break the law or cause harm to others. All users must be treated with respect.”  “Hello—the post you have taken down was a video broadcast inside a government building to protest a fascist regime,” Kabas wrote in an email back to Bluesky seen by 404 Media. “It is in the public interest and it is legitimate news. Taking it down is an attempt to bury the story and an alarming form of censorship. I love this platform but I’m shocked by this decision. I ask you to reconsider it.”  Other Bluesky users said that versions of the video they uploaded were also deleted, though it is still possible to find the video on the platform.  Technically speaking, the AI video of Trump sucking Musk’s toes, which had the words “LONG LIVE THE REAL KING” shown on top of it, is a nonconsensual AI-generated video, because Trump and Musk did not agree to it. But social media platform content moderation policies have always had carve outs that allow for the criticism of powerful people, especially the world’s richest man and the literal president of the United States. 

Bluesky briefly deleted AI video depicting Donald Trump sucking on Elon Musk’s toes in protest of DOGE’s purges on the basis it was “non-consensual explicit material”, before reversing that decision due to the newsworthiness of the video.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

In July, before the latest WP Engine blowup, an Automattic employee wrote in Slack that they received a direct message from Mullenweg sending them an identification code for Blind, an anonymous workplace discussion platform, which was required to complete registration on the site. Blind requires employees to use their official workplace emails to sign up, as a way to authenticate that users actually work for the companies they are discussing. Mullenweg said on Slack that emails sent from Blind’s platform to employees’ email addresses were being forwarded to him. If employees wanted to log in or sign up for Blind, they’d need to ask Mullenweg for the two-factor identification code. The implication was that Automattic—and Mullenweg—could see who was trying to sign up for Blind, which is often a place where people anonymously vent or share criticism about their workplace.

“We were unaware that Matt redirected sign-up emails until current Automattic employees contacted our support team,” a spokesperson for Blind told me, adding that they’d “never seen a CEO or executive try to limit their employees from signing up for Blind by redirecting emails.”

Mullenweg didn’t block emails from the @teamblind.com domain, Blind said. According to Slack messages viewed by 404 Media, instead, he redirected those emails to himself.

[alanshemper]

[17 Oct 2024]

Automattic CEO Matt Mullenweg made another buyout offer this week, and threatened employees who speak to the press with termination.

After an exodus of employees at Automattic who disagreed with CEO Matt Mullenweg’s recently divisive legal battle with WP Engine, he’s upped the ante with another buyout offer—and a threat that employees speaking to the press should “exit gracefully, or be fired tomorrow with no severance.”

Earlier this month, Mullenweg posed an “Alignment Offer” to all of his employees: Stand with him through a messy legal drama that’s still unfolding, or leave.

“It became clear a good chunk of my Automattic colleagues disagreed with me and our actions,” he wrote on his personal blog on Oct. 3, referring to the ongoing dispute between himself and website hosting platform WP Engine, which Mullenweg called a “cancer to WordPress” and accusing WP Engine of “strip-mining the WordPress ecosystem. In the last month, he and WP Engine have volleyed cease and desist letters, and WP Engine is now suing Automattic, accusing Mullenweg of extortion and abuse of power.

In the “Alignment Offer,” Mullenweg offered Automattic employees six months of pay or $30,000, whichever was higher, with the stipulation that they would lose access to their work logins that same evening and would not be eligible for rehire.

One hundred and fifty-nine people took the offer and left. “However now, I feel much lighter,” Mullenweg wrote in his blog.

But many stayed at Automattic even though they didn't agree with Mullenweg’s actions, telling 404 Media they remained due to financial strain or the challenging job market. Several employees who remained at the company describe a culture of paranoia and fear for those still there.

"Overall, the environment is now full of people who unequivocally support Matt's actions, and people who couldn't leave because of financial reasons (and those are mostly silent),” one Automattic employee told me.

The current and former Automattic employees I spoke to for this article did so under the condition of anonymity, out of concerns about retaliation from Mullenweg.

“I'm certain that Matt hasn't eliminated all dissenters, because I'm still there, but I expect that within the next six to twelve months, everyone who didn't leave but wasn't ‘aligned’ will have found a new job and left on their own terms,” another current employee told me. “My personal morale has never been lower at this job, and I know that I'm not alone.”

Mullenweg himself, in internal screenshots viewed by 404 Media, acknowledged that his first “Alignment Offer” did not make everyone who disagreed with him leave the company.

On Wednesday Mullenweg posted another ultimatum in Automattic’s Slack: a new offer that would include nine months of compensation (up from the previous offer of six months). Mullenweg wrote:

“New alignment offer: I guess some people were sad they missed the last window. Some have been leaking to the press and ex-employees. That's water under the bridge. Maybe the last offer needed to be higher. People have said they want a new window, so this is my attempt. Here's a new one: You have until 00:00 UTC Oct 17 (-4 hours) to DM me the words, ‘I resign and would like to take the 9-month buy-out offer’ You don't have to say any reason, or anything else. I will reply ‘Thank you.’ Automattic will accept your resignation, you can keep you [sic] office stuff and work laptop; you will lose access to Automattic and Wong (no slack, user accounts, etc). HR will be in touch to wrap up details in the coming days, including your 9 months of compensation, they have a lot on their plates right now. You have my word this deal will be honored. We will try to keep this quiet, so it won't be used against us, but I still wanted to give Automatticians another window.”

“We have technical means to identify the leaker as well, that I obviously can't disclose,” he continued. “So this is their opportunity to exit gracefully, or be fired tomorrow with no severance and probably a big legal case for violating confidentiality agreement.”

Mullenweg and Automattic did not respond to requests for comment.

This is the latest in what has been a tense few months at Automattic.

“Regarding escalations, to me, the most upsetting thing has been the way he's treating current and former employees and WP community members,” one former employee who recently left the company after several years told me. “He clearly has no clue what people care about or how the community has contributed to the success of WordPress. It very clearly shows how out of touch he is with everyday reality. One, sharing pictures of him being on safari while all this shit is going down, as if people would think that was cool. Only rich tech bros would think that.” (Mullenweg posted photos from a trip on his personal blog and social media posts last week.)

In July, before the latest WP Engine blowup, an Automattic employee wrote in Slack that they received a direct message from Mullenweg sending them an identification code for Blind, an anonymous workplace discussion platform, which was required to complete registration on the site. Blind requires employees to use their official workplace emails to sign up, as a way to authenticate that users actually work for the companies they are discussing. Mullenweg said on Slack that emails sent from Blind’s platform to employees’ email addresses were being forwarded to him. If employees wanted to log in or sign up for Blind, they’d need to ask Mullenweg for the two-factor identification code. The implication was that Automattic—and Mullenweg—could see who was trying to sign up for Blind, which is often a place where people anonymously vent or share criticism about their workplace.

“We were unaware that Matt redirected sign-up emails until current Automattic employees contacted our support team,” a spokesperson for Blind told me, adding that they’d “never seen a CEO or executive try to limit their employees from signing up for Blind by redirecting emails.”

Mullenweg didn’t block emails from the @teamblind.com domain, Blind said. According to Slack messages viewed by 404 Media, instead, he redirected those emails to himself.

“We are disappointed when we hear employers or executives try to limit access to Blind. Some of the most commonly discussed topics on Blind are protected speech in the U.S.—pay, job terminations, critiques of workplace conditions—which we believe workers should be free to access and discuss. Blind's mission is to bring transparency to the workplace, as we believe it can inspire meaningful change,” the spokesperson for Blind said. “Employers' attempts to block Blind are misguided and often have the opposite intended effect. Generally, we have seen more employees register and use Blind when their company tries to restrict access.”

One Automattic employee told me that Mullenweg’s interception of Blind emails was the thing that made them start looking for a new job. “For Matt to do that, without prior announcement, was equivalent to spying on his employees. And for him to think it's ok to tell people to message him for their verification code is ridiculous—I've never questioned an employer's judgment as much as I did in that moment (although it has happened many times since),” they said. “Clearly, Blind is designed to allow employee discussion free from employer interference, and he was trying to prevent that in the most obvious way possible.”

Instead of Blind, employees have been posting on Anonymattic, an anonymous message board set up on WordPress’s own systems that allows all employees to post using one login.

“A common theme for posts on Anonymattic is ‘Any time I try to get work done, some new drama comes up and I get distracted.’ I know that's true for me,” an employee told me.

“There is a vocal group of sycophants who are cheering on Matt's actions via Anonymattic,” they said, “drawing favorable comparisons to how Elon Musk and Donald Trump operate. Their morale seems high, but I can't relate.” Screenshots viewed by 404 Media show some staff having changed their Slack usernames to include “[STAYING]” to signal their support of Mullenweg and intention to remain at the company.

Anonymattic was “conveniently closed down around Covid with the excuse of avoiding toxic discussions,” an employee told me. “I say conveniently because people would post their opinions and complaints to leadership that were sometimes uncomfortable. That’s when the Blind migration happened.” They said they believe Mullenweg’s interference with Blind emails was “an attempt to stop employees from joining Blind in some kind of intimidating fashion (are they collecting who is joining Blind? With what intentions?)” Anonymattic was reopened around that time, they said.

“At the end, even if anonymous, Automattic can delete posts there and not in Blind,” they said.

Last week, in response to someone criticizing his decision to add a checkbox to the WordPress.org login that forced users to denounce affiliation with WP Engine, Mullenweg posted in the WordPress contributor community Slack, “Wait until you see what we have in store for Thursday! And Friday. And Saturday. And Sunday. And Monday.” Several people posted vomiting and face-palm emojis in response to that message.

A recently-departed employee told me that the WP Engine legal drama wasn’t their final straw. “But in hindsight, it should have been,” they said. “The escalation since then just confirmed I made the right choice. At the time, I thought Matt might have a point about the trademarks (something I know little about), but he did say at the time he was going to treat this like a war and continue escalating it, because the truth was on his side. I guess we’re now seeing what that really meant."

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

By Jason Koebler

Meta employees are furious with the company’s newly announced content moderation changes that will allow users to say that LGBTQ+ people have “mental illness,” according to internal conversations obtained by 404 Media and interviews with five current employees. The changes were part of a larger shift Mark Zuckerberg announced Monday to do far less content moderation on Meta platforms. 

“I am LGBT and Mentally Ill,” one post by an employee on an internal Meta platform called Workplace reads. “Just to let you know that I’ll be taking time out to look after my mental health.”