#begs sunday to help with the next presentation surely he can give some pointers

[stellamancer]

2.6k words of absolute ridiculousness. contains essence of selfship coding. inspired by and takes place in @nagumoan's hsr office au so thanks goes to loni for letting me play in her sandbox!! i apparently love office aus. i was originally writing something different but uh. idk how this happened. proofread to the best of my ability. ALSO. i didn't research. anything about how this process works. i am sorry to anyone who works in this field.

There are many evils in this world and, for you, public speaking is one of them. Always has and always will be, but despite that, here you are, about to speak to a sizable group of people. You know well enough that this is just a part of your job, but it doesn't make it any less agonizing.

"Well then," Aglaea urges you and her normally soothing tone sounds more like a death march right now. "Go on."

She gives you what you assume is supposed to be a reassuring smile, but it doesn't help. It must be nice being her; not only is Aglaea good at this sort of thing, she's already presented— went first even.

Since Aglaea's no help you look past her at Blade in the futile hope that he might be able to save you, but he merely gives you an impassive stare before saying, "…it'll be over soon enough."

Should have known better.

As much as you love your coworkers you know full that they can't help you, can't fight your battles, and they certainly can't do your presentation for you. But, Blade is right, it'll be over soon enough— you just need to start.

With that in mind, you take a deep breath before standing up, gripping the folder in your hands like a lifeline. Shakily, you pull out a stack of papers and walk the room, offering a handout to everyone who's decided to attend the meeting. Obviously, there are your fellow members of the product design and development department, and naturally a few people from sales and marketing, and—

You stop short.

Sitting in the very back corner of the room is none other than the HR department's very own Mr. Sunday, legs crossed, notebook on his lap and—

Oh god.

You're not sure what's worse— the fact that Mr. Sunday is here right now or the fact that you can very plainly see an annotated drawing of the dildo prototype that Blade just showed off to everyone present.

He holds out his hand expectantly, offering you that pleasant yet chilling smile he always has in exchange for the handout you've been giving out. After a split second of careful consideration, you decide that Mr. Sunday's presence is much worse than the contents of his notebook; it's only natural to take notes at a pitch session after all.

You nearly crumple the sheet as you shove it into his hand before you spin around to make your way back to the front of the room. Why is Mr. Sunday even here of all places? You know that anyone in the company is allowed to sit in on pitch sessions, including anyone in the HR department, but as far as you're aware, Mr. Sunday has never come to one. Not only do you think that, as head of HR, he would be too busy to attend, but you can't imagine he has any reason to unless—

You nearly trip as the realization that he might be here to keep an eye on you dawns on you. There's no way, right? That would be ridiculous. Sure, you'd earned a spot on his watchlist, but everything you've done pales in comparison to what you've heard about Sampo in sales. You remember seeing him here too, so maybe he's the one Mr. Sunday's keeping an eye on. That has to be it, you tell yourself, if for no other reason than your own sanity's sake; you're only mentally equipped to deal with either this presentation or Mr. Sunday's scrutiny, not both.

When you get to the podium, you choose which problem to deal with and banish all thoughts of Mr. Sunday from your mind. Unfortunately, that does very little to dispel your unease because as you turn to face the crowd you remember, all over again, how you are not made for this sort of thing. You clear your throat and say, in an unintentionally squeaky voice. "Um… good morning everyone!"

If anything, the chorus of good mornings that echoes back at you is mildly comforting.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Aglaea give you a soft smile and next to her Blade nods, both of them encouraging you in their own way. You take a deep breath and continue. "So, the product I'm pitching today is called, um… nipple nibbler."

There's a quiet snicker somewhere in the room and you try to ignore the instinctive reaction of feeling like you're the one they're laughing at and not the product name. You swallow your self-doubt down and give everyone a sheepish smile as you add. "The name's still a work in progress.

"That said, the current name does an effective job of conveying the product's intended use. It's meant to—" you pause and glance down at your notes, "—be applied to your partner's skin, be it their… nipples or any other part of the body (excluding the vaginal area) and essentially licked off. It's similar to food play, though this product has been made with intimate scenarios in mind."

You look at the crowd to gauge their reaction and the fact that they seem amenable so far makes you sigh in relief. "Truthfully, since the product is this fairly straightforward, that's all I really have to say, so if anyone has any questions, I'll do my best to answer them."

Though you hope that no one has any questions.

To your dismay, a hand rises and it's March 7th, the marketing intern. "I was wondering, how exactly is…. nipple nibbler applied to someone's body?"

You flinch. That information is on the hand out you've given everyone, but it's something you should have probably explained yourself. "It's applied directly to one's body using your hands like a topical."

"Oh! I see!" She nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

"Any others?"

To your horror, not only does someone else have a question, but it's Mr. Sunday, of all people. Your anxiety shoots through the roof once more and you wish you could ignore him, but you can't. "…yes, Mr. Sunday?"

There's a quiet murmur of surprise throughout the room and it's obvious you're not the only one that's surprised that he's here. He stands and eyes the crowd, silencing everyone who has turned back to look at him instantly, then he turns his attention to you and asks, with that trademark smile of his, "I have a follow up to the previous question; is there a particular reason why you chose for this product to be applied by hand and not with some sort of applicator?"

"Packaging costs," you say automatically and while you wonder if perhaps you shouldn't have been so candid, it is something that needs to be considered if the company chooses to go forward with production. "For the most part anyway. I think there is probably some appeal in using one's hands."

Though, you suppose, for someone like Mr. Sunday, who is known to be a bit of a germaphobe, there is no such appeal.

"But, if the product is popular enough, we can look into investing in alternative packaging that's less hands on." You grab a pen that's sitting on the podium to jot down a note about looking into applicator options. "Any other questions?"

One more hand goes up; this time it's Sampo from sales.

"Yes?"

He gives you a smile and there's something about it that seems… odd, but then again he's an odd kind of guy. Reminds you of a used car salesman and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing for someone in his department. "Do you happen to have any samples?"

"Oh." You take a second to process the question. "Oh, yes— yes, I do! They're not very big but, I do have some. Just come ask me when the session is over."

"Okay, sounds good~" he says, seemingly positively thrilled. You try not to give too much thought as to why.

You wait to see if anyone else has any questions, but when no one raises their hands you take that to mean that you're just about done. Excited to finally be done, you thank everyone, give a small bow and scurry as fast as you can back to your seat.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Aglaea whispers to you as the next person moves to take your place at the podium.

"I guess…" It could have been worse, though you realize that you should have been much, much more prepared. If anything, this will serve as a lesson for next time. You make another note under the one about the applicators about being more thorough with product descriptions next time.

The rest of the presentations proceed smoothly, with a couple of people from R&D pitching a few ideas too. Of those, the most notable is Anaxagoras' lubricant which sparks a borderline argument with Aglaea that Mr. Sunday is forced to intervene on.

Once everyone is done and the session is officially over, a few of the attendees make a beeline for you, looking to obtain samples of your nipple nibbler. In addition to what you think is a good chunk of the sales team, both Ruan Mei and March 7th ask for some as well. As you hand out the samples, you get the distinct feeling that you're being watched and when you look around, you lock eyes with Mr. Sunday.

The bubblegum flavored nipple nibbler sample nearly slips from your fingers as your entire hand goes still. You can't begin to fathom why he might be staring at you. Quickly, you duck your head and and try to see if there's anything or anyone behind you he might be looking at instead.

There is none.

So, then why? You don't get it.

"Thanks for the sample!"

It's like a lightbulb goes off in your head. Could it be that he wants a sample too? But then if that were the case, wouldn't he just come over and—

Mr. Sunday's question echoes in your head. Right. It makes sense that the lack of an applicator would keep Mr. Sunday from trying a product, even if he wanted to. Even if he makes you nervous, you'd like to give him a chance to try the product if he wants to.

As if on instinct, your brain starts to spew out ideas for Mr. Sunday friendly packaging alternatives. It almost feels as if your fingers are itching to get back to your desk to look into the possibilities because surely there's one that can appease someone like him.

It's not uncommon for Sunday's office to receive visitors; as head of HR, one of his many job duties is to lend an ear to the company's employees and help them resolve any issues that he can. While he would prefer that people tell him ahead of time if they'll be stopping in, there's still a fair number of people who will drop by unannounced.

Like right now.

If anything, though, this visitor has the courtesy to knock before just walking in.

"Yes?" Sunday answers, looking up from his computer.

The visitor slowly pokes their head out from one side of the door frame and Sunday recognizes you instantly (though he's proud to say that he's memorized everyone's name and face by this point). As usual, when you're in Sunday's presence, your expression is hesitant and unsure. "…do you have a moment, Mr. Sunday?"

This is a surprise. Sunday doesn't think you've ever come to his office of your own volition before; your visits have always been summons to address your attendance issues. You've since remedied your truant behaviors, but he's been keeping an eye on you to make sure you don't relapse. "Of course, how might I be of service?"

"Um…" You slowly walk into the office and your visage makes Sunday feel as if he's watching a fawn walk into a lion's den.

He motions to the chairs on the opposite side of his desk. "You're welcome to sit if you'd like."

"I-it's fine, this won't take long." You reach into your pocket and pull out a clear plastic zipper bag that contains a single plastic tube that resembles chapstick. Carefully, you place it on Sunday's desk before elaborating. "So I thought about what you asked at the pitch session the other day and came up with this. The nipple nibbler's consistency is a little softer than regular lip balm, but it's still solid enough that you can use this twist tube rather than your fingers."

By the end of your explanation, your features have relaxed a little and you give Sunday a small smile.

"O-oh. I see." It's clear that you're quite pleased with how you've decided to address the question he'd posed during your presentation. Truthfully, he had been merely voicing a thought that he believed consumers would have, but Sunday gets the impression that you believed that he had a personal interest in the product. After all, why else would you come here? Still, as HR he should be congratulating you for this accomplishment. "It's rather fortunate that you've come up with something so quickly. Am I correct to assume this applicator has roughly the same production cost as your previous prototype?"

You blink at Sunday, your expression growing oddly blank. "…yeah, it's about the same."

The disappearance of your shy enthusiasm only confirms Sunday's suspicions. While he doesn't quite know why you thought he he was interested in the product, your reaction makes him feel like he's failed you in some way.

"Anyway!" Your voice is an octave higher, the chipper tone obviously forced. "I just thought I would come tell you, Mr. Sunday. I'm sorry if I interrupted anything."

Hurriedly, you grab the new sample that you clearly meant to offer Sunday from his desk and start to rush from the room but before you make it out the door he manages to call out to you, "Wait."

Your entire body stills and slowly you turn back toward him. Sunday holds your gaze for a moment before he holds out his hand. You stare down at it before looking back at him.

"I don't mind if you leave that sample with me," he tells you.

You look away, "It's okay, Mr. Sunday, you don't need to feel obligated to take it if you don't want it."

"Nonsense," Sunday argues. "It would be rude of me to not accept since you came all this way to bring it."

Hesitantly, you turn back toward Sunday and, for once, he has trouble trying to figure out what you might be thinking. There are too many thoughts on your face to discern just one alone. Finally, you settle on one: hope. "Are you sure?"

"Of course."

You seem to search his face, evaluating his answer before you move back to his desk and place the bag back on it. "…If you use it, would you mind with giving me feedback?"

He smiles at you. "Naturally, though, I cannot tell you when exactly that will be."

You nod, and Sunday isn't quite sure what to make of the lack of surprise on your face. Now that you've accomplished what you've come here for, you move to leave the office again. It's not quite 5PM yet so Sunday can only assume you're going to return to your department, but…

"Before you go, may I ask one thing?"

You pause once more and glance back at Sunday, tilting your head in an odd way.

"…What flavor is it?" He'd heard from the other employees who had sampled the product mention a variety of flavors, most of which seem to be fruit inspired.

Sunday watches as your expression slowly morphs from a blank slate to sheer embarrassment. You avert your eyes as you answer in a quiet voice. "…caramel pudding."

A beat passes, then you add, your voice barely audible, "…because I heard you like it."

why is it that long. it shouldn't be that long i don't understand. if you read to the end, thank you, you're a real one.