#Office chair with lumbar support

[landlordevil]

My gamer chair gave up the ghost and i hate spending money but i'm glad it broke. Ftr i've been playing my games whilst sitting on a hard plastic "office chair" my dad got nearly ten yrs ago from IKEA. it was my own personal evrart-claire-intimidating-hdb chair and it is finally dead.

[techdriveplay]

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[anjizkfurniture]

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[goldenraeofsun]

Stepping Back In

A headache pulses behind Bruce’s temples, and his lower back twinges every time he shifts in his supposedly lumbar-supporting office chair. He fractured three knuckles in his right hand fighting Killer Croc last night, so he fumbles with his left to grab the office phone on the right side of his desk. The move does his back zero favors.

Just as he brings the phone to his ear, the call goes dead.

Scowling, Bruce sets it back down. When he opens an urgent email from Lucius, the phone rings again. 

“You’ve reached Bruce Wayne,” he says distractedly as he brings it to his ear.

A few panicked breaths echo across the line. Foreboding trickles down Bruce’s spine.

A throat swallows. “Dad? I… need help.”

Bruce’s blood turns to ice in his veins as every nerve in his body comes alive. He rasps out, “Jason?”

Jason’s voice audibly shakes. “I’m at the GCPD. I get only one phone call, and –”

The line goes dead.

“Jason?” Bruce inhales a sharp breath. “Jason!”

Nothing. No word from his son. No signs of –

Bruce stands up so swiftly, his office chair violently bangs into the glass wall.

He storms out of the office, past his empty secretary’s desk, out on lunch. The elevator ride down to the ground floor is excruciating, and he can’t help the dozens of scenarios that flit through his mind as the numbers tick lower and lower. 

Jason’s Red Hood identity has been compromised.

Jason is getting shipped to Waller and her certifiable Suicide Squad. 

Jason is dying, again. Why else would he willingly call his estranged father?

Bruce all but runs to the garage, and races across Old Gotham to the GCPD headquarters. He blows through at least two yellow lights and one red. Five minutes later, he double-parks outside the building – let them tow him; it’s not like a car is worth more than his son – and hurries up the steps. 

He braces both hands on the welcome desk, glaring down at the receptionist. “Where is my son?”

The receptionist blinks up at him. “ Uh, I need an ID, sir.”

Incensed, Bruce snarls, “An ID –” but a new voice cuts him off.

“Mr. Wayne,” Detective Montoya steps forward. “Good, you’re here. Follow me.”

Bruce’s expression darkens. He doesn’t budge. “Where are you keeping Jason?”

Montoya sighs. “Let’s talk first.”

Bruce exhales a short breath of relief. At least they haven’t shipped Jason anywhere yet. Jason is still here; Jason is still in Gotham. Firmly, he tells Montoya, “I’m not going anywhere until you take me to him.”

Montoya crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m afraid there are a few things we need to talk about first, Mr. Wayne.”

“After I see my son,” Bruce corrects, straightening to his full height. He has nearly a foot on her. “I have so far extended the courtesy to the GCPD of coming without legal representation, given the urgency of the situation. However, I will –”

“Christ,” Montoya mutters under her breath. “Fucking billionaires.” She clears her throat. “He’s in Room 2.” She gestures him forward. “After you see him, we need to talk. Separately.”

“Fine.”

She casts him a probing look out of the corner of her eye as they skirt around the bullpen and head back to the hallway that leads to the temporarily holding cells and interrogation rooms. 

“What are his charges?” Bruce asks curtly. With Jason’s rap sheet – murder, manslaughter, wire fraud, theft, robbery, assault, aggravated assault – he could be looking at life in prison without the possibility of parole.

“Car theft,” Montoya says.

Car theft?

Bruce waits expectantly for more, but apparently that’s it. He turns to her, about to ask several follow up questions, but she’s already rapping her knuckles on the door to Interrogation Room 2.

“Your dad’s here,” she says as she cracks open the door, and Bruce can clearly see over her curls. Jason sits at the table. He doesn’t look small exactly, without his usual leather jacket, but he does look… diminished. He’s wearing a threadbare red tee shirt, stained jeans, and worn chuck taylors. His hands aren’t even handcuffed to the metal ring in the center.

What the hell is going on?

As Jason spots him standing on the threshold, Jason breaks out into a large grin, which does not help Bruce's confusion at all. But before he can demand Jason tell him exactly what he is up to, Montoya shuts the door and all but shoves him across the hallway to Interrogation Room 1.

Once they’re inside, she turns to him. “We’re running a DNA test. We already checked for traces of Clayface, but he’s 100% human.”

For once, Bruce doesn’t have to fake his surprise. They arrested… Jason Todd. Plain (albeit deceased) Jason Peter Todd.

Montoya runs her hand through her hair, her frustration clear. “This is why I didn’t want you to see him before we could verify his identity.”

“Oh,” is all Bruce can say.

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” she adds unnecessarily.

Bruce’s gruff exterior cracks, just a little. That was nice of her. “It’s alright, Detective.”

“I’m honestly surprised we haven’t had more scams like this,” she says, gesturing to the door where Jason sits just across the hall.

Bruce narrows his eyes. “And you’re sure it’s a scam?”

Montoya’s eyes soften. “Unfortunately, that’s how most of these cases go. They claim they were trafficked or have amnesia, which kept them away for so long. They’re always bogus. They’re scumbags looking to prey on a family’s grief and bank account.”

Bruce holds back his grimace. A year ago, he contacted five highly respected neurologists under a pseudonym. He asked them about the presenting symptoms of retrograde amnesia and hacked their files for a dozen case studies to send to Jason if he ever decided to reestablish his civilian identity.

Bruce also identified three federal judges with long histories of ruling favorably in family court cases involving improbable medical miracles. They might still be worthwhile to hold onto, depending on how Jason plays this.

Bruce inhales a shaky breath. “But he… looks like Jason,” he says, laying on the pleading tone a bit thick. “He sounds like my son.”

“He’s done his homework,” Montoya explains apologetically. “With all your time in the public eye, it makes you an easy target.”

“I want to speak with him.”

Montoya’s eyes widen in alarm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I need to look him in the eye,” Bruce says firmly. “If it is Jason –” he breaks off, swallowing.

Montoya purses her lips. “I really advise against that. You can’t give these conmen an inch. They’ll –”

“I need to speak to him, alone,” Bruce interrupts.

“Okay, no,” Montoya says quickly, “That’s possibly the worst thing you could do, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce exhales a sharp breath. Enough of this. He’s getting nowhere stuck here in this room. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He pushes open the door and strides out into the hallway, ignoring Montoya’s muttered curses. He opens the door to Interrogation Room 2.

Jason’s head snaps up. “Dad?”

“We’re leaving.”

Jason blinks. “What? I – I don’t think we can do that?”

“Has he been charged with anything?” he turns back to Montoya. “What is the physical evidence against Jason?”

Montoya’s scowl deepens. “A witness placed him at the scene.”

Bruce throws her his most unimpressed look, one that would send Robin confessing to unfinished homework within fifteen seconds or less. “So,” he starts, “you only have him on circumstantial evidence, and the car wasn’t even stolen.” Damn it, he can almost feel Jason’s smirk at his back.

“Attempted theft is still a crime,” Montoya says coldly.

“Get up, Jason.”

Jason hops to his feet. It’s the fastest he’s obeyed an order from Bruce since he was fourteen years old.

“I’m taking my son home,” Bruce says. “My lawyers will call to settle this. If you need to contact Jason, you know where to find him.”

Jason actually shoots finger-guns at Montoya as they pass her on the way back to the bullpen.

Bruce just barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

* * *

Bruce inhales a sharp breath as Jason closes the door behind him. “What the hell was all that?” he asks, his voice even.

Jason levers the passenger seat back to a reclining position and lazily turns his head to face Bruce. “C’mon, that was fun.”

Bruce starts the engine and pulls out into the street. “What was the point? Other than to waste my time?”

Jason shrugs. He tries to prop his feet on the dash, but his legs are too long, so he nearly knees himself in the chin before he gives up.

Bruce coughs to hide his smile.

Jason scowls. “Shut up.” 

At the first red light, Bruce turns to him. “Why did you steal that car?”

Jason raises his eyebrows. “Pretty sure I didn’t steal anything.”

Bruce exhales a silent breath and prays to Alfred for patience. “Why did you make the GCPD think you were trying to steal a car?”

“Let’s chalk it to old time’s sake,” Jason says airily, but his eyes are calculating as he meets Bruce’s gaze.

Bruce blinks, and sitting across from him in the passenger seat is a twelve-year-old in equally ratty clothes, wearing the same calculating expression, terrified but doing everything he can not to show it to the man in the driver’s seat. A kid, starved for affection as well as just plain starving.

“Jason –” He breaks off as his phone rings. With a grimace, he roots around in his jacket pocket, mindful of his fractured knuckles. He scans the screen, Jeffrey Lobe. He takes the call and puts it on speaker.

“Mr. Wayne,” Jeffrey’s voice comes through, his typical annoyed tone dialed up to eleven.

“Jeff,” Bruce says, forcing his voice to stay light. “How’re you doing, old friend?”

“What’s this I hear about your son coming back from the dead and stealing a car, of all things?”

Jason hones in on the phone, his whole body tensing. “Who is this?” he mouths.

Bruce ignores the question. To Jeffrey, he says, “I was just going to tell you about that.”

“I’m sure,” Jeffrey says sardonically. “You know, it is good to keep your legal counsel abreast of developments like this.”

Jason blinks.

“I swear, you were my next call,” Bruce lies. “But you’ll take care of it, won’t you?”

“I’ll get the preliminary paperwork started on voiding his death certificate, but forgive me if I don’t rush to update your will,” Jeffrey says dryly.

“It can wait a week or two,” Bruce says, deliberately keeping his eyes on the road, “Jason isn’t going anywhere.” He doesn’t dare look in the direction of the passenger seat.

As far as Bruce is concerned, this is a good thing. If Jason didn’t want to come back from the dead, he shouldn’t have gotten himself fingerprinted and called Bruce Wayne’s office number from a GCPD phone. If Jason did want to come back – which Bruce strongly suspects is the case, since Jason isn’t stupid and wouldn’t get caught dead by the GCPD unless he was actually deceased (again) – then Bruce already has a plan in place.

“Bruce…” Jeffrey drifts off, “This is all highly unusual – it’s fucking crazy, if I’m being honest with you. This takes eccentric billionaire to a whole new level.”

Bruce sighs. “Jeffrey, it’s really my son. I don’t have the whole story yet, but he had amnesia of all things. He only remembered my name last week, and a big help that was, since he was stuck in Addis Ababa. I’ll of course be consulting with Dr. Vietti at Gotham University as well as Dr. Hou at Princeton to make sure it all checks out. But if you could track down a few more expert consultants, that would be a real help, Jeffrey. Who runs Gotham General’s psychology department? Dr. Page, right? Add her to the list too.”

Jason’s eyes are nearly bugging out of his head.

“Amnesia?” Jeffrey asks, his tone dripping with skepticism.

“Can you believe it?” Bruce says, suppressing a smile.

“Not really, but I know better than to argue with you after all these years.”

“You’re a stand up guy, Jeffrey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeffrey grumbles. “Keep the compliments until you see my billables for this month. I’d better get going. I have my work cut out for me this week.”

“Call if you have any questions!” Bruce says cheerfully and hangs up before Jeffrey can splutter a response.

Jason breaks the silence first: “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Excuse me?”

“The amnesia? Addis Ababa?” Jason asks, his voice growing more frantic with each question. “All those fucking doctors? What the fuck are you playing at?”

Bruce merges onto Kane Bridge. Only when he slows with traffic does he turn to Jason. “Isn’t this what you wanted, the whole point of all this? To resume your civilian life?”

Jason gawks at him, his jaw hanging open.

“Isn’t it?” Bruce prompts. 

“Well, yeah! But,” Jason flails, “I was gonna go with a kidnapping gone wrong.”

“Five years ago?”

Jason scowls. “I was working on it.”

“We’ll go with amnesia,” Bruce says with finality. “You can read up on the recent case studies, and Dick and I can run mock trials to get you ready to display the right symptoms.”

“This is insane. You are insane,” Jason says, but his tone lacks any heat. “I can’t believe you thought of this in, like, an hour.”

Bruce snorts. “I’m good, Jason, but I’m not that good.” He wrestles with himself, but he eventually has to say, “I started contacting experts in neurological trauma a year ago to prepare for your case.”

Jason goes still. “A year?” he echoes blankly.

Bruce gives one stiff nod.

Jason’s eyes are wide. “Bruce…” he starts in a tone that Bruce hasn’t heard in years, certainly well before Jason’s trip to Ethiopia. The way he’s looking at him too, for once without anger or hate or spite, but with disbelieving awe - Bruce has to look away.

Eyes back on the road, he clears his throat. “Burgers.”

Jason starts. “What?”

“We should get burgers,” Bruce announces as he makes a u-turn that causes a cascade of honks from the traffic behind them. “For old time’s sake.”

Jason smiles, a real smile, not a sneer or smirk. “If I say yes, are you gonna eat it with a fork and knife?”

“Of course,” Bruce says as he steps on the gas. “I’m not a savage.”

A hundred kisses to @a-canceled-stamp for betaing this oneshot!

[luveline]

a hotch baby blurb along the lines of spontaneous phenomena where she works at the fbi or bau but not as a profiler and is a bit shy and quiet but he always notices her and thanks her for all her hard work ?? maybe he comes back from a case w a black eye or injury and she frets and they kiss ?? i love u mwah

I love you, thank you for your request! fem!reader

When people ask how someone as quiet as you ended up working in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you love to say, "I just slipped in. They haven't found me yet to fire me." 

For the most part, you aren't lying. You'd worked your way up by accident, and with no intentions on moving any higher you're happy in your cushy little desk job filing paperwork and typing up reports. 

It also gives you a strange sort of happiness to help people out. Not for praise, though praise is nice, but just to see a usually sombre breed of people uplifted. It's why you're in Hotch's office so often. He has an abundance of paperwork. You have time to file it, or if not filing, sorting. If not sorting, tying up loose ends. You figure, why not? 

You wouldn't enter his office if he hadn't given permission. He knows it's you because you always leave the door open, and you know it's him because he sighs tiredly in the doorway. 

"You're here late. Go home." 

"It's only…" You check your watch. "Five twelve."

More tired sighing. You quickly finish up what you'd been doing at the chair in front of his desk (which, a few times, he's told you to sit behind rather than in front, because apparently his chair has better lumbar support) and click a lid back onto your pen. 

"How was– oh no, what happened?" 

Your lilting tone makes him smile. 

"Nothing happened." 

Standing from your seat, you tilt your head to get a better look at him. A shiner stains the skin around his left eye wine dark, and the sclera is bloodshot. It looks painfully sore. 

"Hotch," you say softly. 

"It's alright. I've had worse." 

You know he's had worse. You know he's been stabbed like a pincushion and stitched closed again, know all about his perforated eardrum, his bad shoulder. That doesn't make it any easier to swallow this injury. 

Somebody as kind as he is, how's it fair he hurts this often? 

You move forward in an act of brazen self-indulgence that is completely unlike you and stop just shy of his shoes, looking up into his face. 

He obliges you, looks down. 

You picture the violence without meaning to, the hand that had hit him. 

"Are you alright?" you ask. 

"I'm fine." His brows lower and he winces, but they're lowering in fondness. The corners of his dark eyes crease with it, and his tone is sweet. He sounds younger than he is when he speaks to you like this, and he's been doing it more and more. "You worry more than you need to." 

"I just think that… if somebody hit me like that, I'd be upset, so…" You meet his eyes and feel intimidated, not by him, though he's imposing and tall and handsome in the worst of ways, the way that's making professionalism impossible to maintain, but because you're staring your feelings I'm the face at the same time. You really care about him.

"I like my job," you say, filling a small silence he hadn't bothered to fill, his expression suddenly unreadable, "but sometimes I wish I'd been a profiler." 

"Well, it's never too late." 

"No, it is. And it's not because I want to do what you do, I don't even think I could, but it's–" 

You cut yourself off with a nervous huff of laughter. He takes the smallest step closer, his face dipping down incrementally. "What?" 

"I wish I was so I could be there." 

"Yeah? What would you do?" 

"I'd take care of you," you say honestly. Your face burns with heat, and you realise how corny and out of place you'd sounded instantaneously. You turn your face to the side, grimacing so hard it hurts. "I'd defend you." You attempt to save face. "I mean, I'd try to. I'm not saying the other profilers don't do that." 

"I knew what you meant," he says, and lifts a hand to your cheek. 

You hold your breath as he steers your face to his. 

"You do take care of me," he says. "In your way, honey. You do." His thumb skips over your cheek. He seems, for once, out of order. Unsure. "Could I kiss you?" 

Your fingers find their way to his shoulder. You don't know how to say yes to that, your tongue a leaden weight in your mouth, your brain a useless mess of neurons that refuse to fire. 

You close your eyes and hope he gets the memo. You lift your chin. You stay very still.

Hotch kisses like a gentleman. Chaste, completely, a firm and sweet press of the lips. Then, like he's losing a handle on it, his nose pushes into yours and his lips part just slightly, and you remember to kiss back only a second before he pulls away. 

You raise a hand to his face, a mirror. "You're sure it doesn't hurt?" you murmur. 

"It stings, but," —he closes his eyes again, resting his forehead on yours— "I'll be okay." 

[sophrosynesworld]

The Night Shift (Pt. 5)

Part one:

"Have you accepted that scholarship offer from U.A?"

You slow the steady swing of your legs, feet dragging lightly against the ground. "About that…" you murmur, staring ahead. "I don’t think I want to be a hero."

She laughs, but there's no real warmth in it. "Good one," she scoffs, rolling her eyes as her swing comes to a stop. She glances at you, half-expecting you to crack a smile. But when you don't, her expression changes. "Wait, you're serious?"

You look away, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. I just… I don't think I fit in with those kids at U.A. I... um... It's not me."

She stares at you for a moment, frowning. "You're really not going? You have a chance to get out of here, and you're just gonna throw it away?"

"I don’t know." You shrug, more to yourself than to her. "No one really gets out."

You sigh, leaning back in the stiff, uncomfortable office chair. For a hospital, you'd think they’d at least give their staff some decent lumbar support. You kick your feet up onto the desk, muttering under your breath as the freezing temperatures in the room try to lull you back to sleep.

You close the patient chart in front of you, wincing as you accidentally tug on your IV tubing. With another sigh, you glance at the bag hanging overhead, silently begging for the Zofran to kick in. Must be the full moon. You think. Hero's seem to be affected the same way hospitals are. Normally, you manage a few dozen critical cases a week, but over the past two shifts alone, that number has nearly tripled.

Your heart races, caffeine thrumming through your veins like a drumbeat, probably enough to drop a zebra.

Another chip crunches in your mouth, recently stolen from Haruto's lunchbox. You savor the taste of your small victory. Sure, you could’ve just bought a bag from the vending machine, but there’s nothing quite as sweet as getting under that jerk’s skin.

The image of Katsuki from this morning flickers in your mind—the way his tongue poked out when he laughed, or how he'd sometimes fall quiet, just watching you. You pretended not to notice, stealing his coffee as he smirked and pushed it toward you.

Your chest tightens at the thought of him still out there, stubborn as ever, pushing through whatever pain he’s in. A part of you hopes he’s finally getting medical attention, letting someone patch him up—

Your lips pull into a frown at the thought of someone else tending to him. Heat rushes to your face as you catch yourself imagining it—your hands running down his ches—

Inappropriate.

You sink deeper into your chair, mentally scolding yourself for thinking about a patient like that.

"Phones back up yet?" an x-ray tech in navy scrubs asks as she approaches the nurses' station. The overworked nurse, juggling several emergency radios, barely looks up.

"Do you think I’m doing this for fun?" she groans in response, making the strawberry blonde tech wrinkle her nose in frustration.

"You know, you don't have to be such a bi-"

“Thirsty?” Rina asks, tossing a paperclip in your direction stealing your attention from the cat fight in front of you. “I’m heading to the cafeteria for coffee.”

You nod, setting your chips aside and unhooking yourself from the IV, leaving the access line in place. Together, you and Rina head down the hallway, swiping your access cards a few times before finally re-entering the main building.

“I can’t wait to see my bed,” Rina sighs as she steps into the elevator. “My shift was supposed to end like five hours ago.”

“I’ve never agreed with you more,” you reply, pressing the button for the cafeteria on the third floor.

"So… are you going to tell me about him?"

You roll your eyes, trying to keep cool, but the flush rising to your cheeks gives you away. "It's not like that."

Rina smirks knowingly. "Uh-huh, sure it's not. If you're hooking up with Dynamight, I have to know."

“Oh my god!” you squeal, smacking her arm playfully. “He’s a hero, Rina! He’s not interested in me like that.”

As the elevator doors open, you both step out, still bickering. An older woman passing by gives the two of you a withering glare, clearly not in the mood for your late-night energy.

Rina snickers, shaking her head. “Please, he was totally into you.”

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air as you step through the glass doors into the cafeteria. You join the line, continuing your conversation while waiting. A few minutes later, drinks in hand, you find a table. Just as you’re about to sit down, a familiar face joins you—Airi, holding a bottle of green juice, plops into the chair next to yours.

“Are we talking about Dynamight?” Airi asks with a sly grin, clearly having overheard.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Oh, great. Now you too?”

“Come on, you can’t expect us not to talk about it,” Airi teases, swirling her juice. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day. I’m happy for you, honestly.”

Rina leans in, her grin widening. “See? Even Airi thinks he’s into you.”

You sigh, your defenses finally crumbling under their teasing. “He took me out to breakfast this morning,” you confess, reluctantly letting them in on the secret.

Both of them squeal in unison, grabbing each other’s arms in excitement, their reactions making your face heat up even more.

“I told you!” Rina says, practically bouncing in her seat.

“Already?” Airi adds, eyes wide with disbelief.

They talk over each other in a fit of excitement, barely able to contain themselves, while you sit there grinning like an idiot. When they finally calm down, they both lean in, nudging you to keep going.

"He was… nice," you say, feeling a little shy now that you’re actually talking about it.

Airi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Dynamight is not nice."

“He is!” you insist, fully aware of his infamous reputation. But then again, you’ve seen sides of him others don’t. Maybe you’re not so different, both of you hiding layers behind tough exteriors.

Airi sips her drink, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Is it good?"

You tilt your head, confused. “Is what good?”

“The sex."

You nearly choke on your coffee, coughing as heat rushes to your face. "Is that all you horndogs think about?"

“When it’s a hot pro hero and our best friend? Absolutely," Rina answers without missing a beat, causing Airi to snort.

Rina nudges you again, a playful smirk on her lips. "Next thing we know, you’ll be patching him up—maybe at his place."

You roll your eyes, trying to suppress the grin tugging at your lips. The thought isn't exactly unappealing.

Airi’s eyes light up. " I’m having a house party next weekend. You should come,” she says with a wide grin.

You give her a skeptical look. “Aren't we a little too old for that?"

“Oh, come on, it’s going to be fun! Just a few close friends, good music, drinks, and maybe a little dancing. And you,” she adds, pointing at you dramatically. “You, my dear friend, are in desperate need of a night off.”

"She'll be there!" Rina accepts on your behalf, cutting off your half assed excuse to miss.

“Bring your new boyfriend,” Airi continues, her grin widening.

You nearly choke on your coffee—again. “He’s not my—! What?!”

Rina bursts out laughing at your flustered reaction, slapping the table. “Oh my God, your face!”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you finally manage to get out, glaring at Airi. “And he’s not coming.”

“Just think about it, okay?” Airi replies.

“I don’t think showing up at a house party with a pro hero is a good idea.”

“Who said anything about showing up with a pro hero?” Airi says, winking. “I just want to meet that hot guy you’re seeing."

You feel your face heating up. The idea of bringing him to a party, introducing him as someone you’re seeing—it’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. But maybe, it’s also kind of… nice?

“It’s a party, not a press conference,” Rina adds. “People will just think you’ve finally got a social life.”

“I should get back to work.” You stand, grabbing your now empty cup. The girls groan in protest, but you get the message loud and clear.

“Seriously? You’re leaving already?” Airi pouts, crossing her arms as she leans back in her chair. “We were just getting to the good part.”

“Yeah, we’re not done teasing you about your lover,” Rina teases, making exaggerated air quotes.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your smile. “He’s not my boyfriend, and I really do have to go. Some of us have jobs that don’t involve harassing innocent people over coffee.”

You shake your head, pushing away your running thoughts. Work first, you remind yourself. The rest of it—whatever it is—can wait.

But as you walk to the trashcan, you can’t help but smile. Because maybe, just maybe, Airi and Rina are right. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see where this goes.

Next Part:

Tags: @simplyraeblue @moonfloweronmars @kalulakunundrum @froggy-crystal @msjaeger @crystalssncw @dragonscribble @gina239 @abcdefbeom

[interiorergonomics]

Approved Executive Ergonomic Mesh Chairs

Discover the features that make a real difference in your daily comfort! Whether it's the breathable mesh back, adjustable lumbar support, or sleek design, there's a specific aspect of a mesh ergonomic chair for executive offices which stand out for everyone. Take the time to explore our curated selection and find the perfect ergonomic chair that meets your unique needs.

Invest in your well-being and productivity—start exploring now to experience the ultimate upgrade for your workspace!

[dullahandyke]

Yeah my office chair isnt very ergonomic so I folded up your boyfriend and I'm using him for lumbar support. Sorry hes a shape now

[iconicofficesposts]

Elevate Your Workday Comfort with Ergonomic Office Chairs in Dubai

In the hustle and bustle of today's modern workplaces, finding the perfect perch can be a game-changer. That's where Iconic Office Furniture swoops in with their ergonomic marvels, promising not just a seat but a sanctuary of comfort, health, and productivity. Let's dive into the world of Ergonomic Office Chairs and discover why they're the unsung heroes of the workplace.

Unlocking Comfort: Key Features of Ergonomic Chairs

Adjustable Bliss: Imagine a chair that adapts to you like a loyal sidekick. With adjustable seat height and depth, bid farewell to discomfort and hello to personalized support that keeps blood flowing and muscles happy.

Lumbar Love: Say goodbye to backaches with built-in lumbar support. These chairs are like a gentle hug for your spine, ensuring it stays in its natural curve and saving you from the dreaded slouch.

Armrests Ahoy: No more cramping arms or stiff shoulders. Adjustable armrests are here to save the day, offering support tailored to your liking and letting you breeze through those marathon typing sessions.

Cloud-Like Comfort: Bid farewell to sweaty backs and uncomfortable shifts. Our chairs boast premium materials like breathable mesh and memory foam cushioning, ensuring you stay cool and cozy all day long.

Finding Your Perfect Match: Choosing the Best Office Chair in Dubai

Body Talk: One size does not fit all when it comes to chairs. Consider your body type and size to ensure your chair provides the support you need to conquer the workday with ease.

Test Drive: Don't commit blindly! Take your potential chair for a spin before sealing the deal. Spend some quality time in it to gauge its long-term comfort and ensure it's the one for you.

Budget Wisely: While comfort is priceless, it doesn't hurt to keep an eye on the purse strings. Set a budget that aligns with your needs and priorities, balancing cost with features and durability.

While ergonomic chairs aren't miracle workers, they're pretty darn close. Investing in one from Iconic Office Furniture isn't just about a place to park your behind—it's about prioritizing your comfort, health, and productivity. So, why wait? Treat yourself to the luxury of ergonomic bliss and watch your workday woes melt away. Your back—and your boss—will thank you for it.

With Ergonomic Office Chairs from Iconic Office Furniture, Dubai's workspaces are transforming into havens of comfort and productivity. So, why settle for discomfort when you could be sitting pretty in the chair of your dreams?

[c-rowlesdraws]

You may not even need a new chair, you can get strap on lumbar supports that help tons. I got my fancy office chairs from a habitat for humanity restore and an office liquidation on facebook marketplace for like $20 each

I think I do want to get a whole new chair, because along with the support issues, the height raise/lower mechanism on this one doesn't work very well anymore-- but those are great money-saving suggestions, thank you anon!

[unholyplumpprincess]

Yall when I come back to writing it'll be such a treat. I'm 80% hornier than before already at my raging 100% and have developed a bunch of new kinks and gotten chill with a whole lot of others

I am gonna be SO back

But also any suggestions for cushions like for lumbar support for chairs??? I already got an office chair bc fuck gaming chairs but I am but a soft chubby woman who just wants to be comfy 😔