#highback chair

[hunky-furniture]

Office Chair Buying Guide for Startups: Choosing the Best Chairs for Your Workspace

Setting up a new office for your startup can be an exciting endeavor, but it also comes with numerous decisions to make. One crucial decision that often gets overlooked is choosing the right office chairs. Office chairs play a significant role in the comfort, productivity, and well-being of your employees. In this comprehensive buying guide, we'll walk you through everything you need to know to make informed decisions when purchasing office chairs for your startup.

Why Choose the Right Office Chair Matters?

Before diving into the specifics, let's understand why selecting the right office chair is crucial:

Employee Comfort and Productivity: Comfortable employees are more productive and less likely to suffer from health issues related to poor posture.

Long-term Investment: Quality office chairs are a long-term investment that can prevent frequent replacements and reduce costs associated with employee discomfort.

Image and Morale: The right chairs contribute to a positive work environment, showing that you care about your employees' well-being.

Key Factors to Consider When Buying Office Chairs

Ergonomics:

Support: Look for chairs that provide adequate lumbar support to maintain the natural curve of the spine.

Adjustability: Chairs should be adjustable in height, armrests, and backrest tilt to accommodate different body types and preferences.

Seat Depth and Width: Ensure the seat is deep and wide enough to support different users comfortably.

Material and Durability:

Upholstery: Choose breathable fabric or mesh upholstery for better air circulation, especially in warmer climates.

Frame: Opt for chairs with sturdy frames that can withstand daily use.

Style and Aesthetics:

Consider the overall design and style that aligns with your office decor and brand image.

Mobility and Stability:

Casters: Decide whether you need chairs with wheels (casters) for mobility around the office.

Base: Ensure the base is stable and supports the weight capacity required for your employees.

Budget:

Determine your budget range per chair and look for options that offer the best value within that range.

Steps to Buying Office Chairs Online

Now that you understand the key factors, here’s a step-by-step guide to purchasing office chairs online:

Research and Compare:

Use keywords like "office chair," "buy a chair for office," or "buy office chair online" to search for options.

Compare features, reviews, and prices across different platforms.

Read Reviews:

Check customer reviews to gauge the comfort, durability, and customer service of the chair brands you're considering.

Measure Your Space:

Ensure the chairs fit comfortably within your office layout and allow easy movement.

Order and Delivery:

Place your order on a reputable website with secure payment options and reliable delivery.

Assembly and Setup:

Follow the manufacturer's instructions carefully or opt for professional assembly services if available.

Conclusion

Choosing the right office chairs for your startup is more than just picking something to sit on—it's about investing in your team’s well-being and productivity. By considering ergonomic features, durability, style, and your budget, you can find office chairs that enhance your workspace and support your business growth. Start your search today and create a comfortable and inspiring environment for your startup team!

Ready to buy Employee chairs Online for your startup? Explore a wide range of options at www.hunky.in and transform your workspace today!

Read our other Blogs To Know More Before Buying an Office Chair Online

Transform Your Workspace: Buy Employee Chair Online for Optimal Posture, Reduced Back Pain, and Enhanced Productivity

Revolutionizing Office Comfort: Discover the Latest Trends in Ergonomic Design and Where to Buy Employee Chairs Online 

Ergonomics Uncovered: Boost Your Posture and Productivity with Hunky Office Chairs

The Ultimate Guide to Workplace Wellness: Boost Mental and Physical Health with the Hunky Office Employee Chair - Buy Online Now!

Unveiling the Secrets: Hunky Furniture's Journey in Crafting and Supplying Premium Office Chairs for Online Purchase

[emmawatsonfans]

Boston Living Room Loft-Style Example of a medium-sized eclectic loft-style living room with bamboo flooring, a stone fireplace, and no television.

[harpe-et-nitroglycerine]

Boston Living Room Loft-Style

Example of a medium-sized eclectic loft-style living room with bamboo flooring, a stone fireplace, and no television.

[shushposting]

I can be your Prince or I can be your Dragon

Possessive Full Demon Form Vox, intersex Val, toxic relationships because Vox and Val being Vox and Val, they’re so codependent it's disgusting can you have make up sex and hate sex at the same time? Yeah kind of.

Valentino stays gone too long after a fight, Vox doesn’t handle it well

It’s a dance at this point, well practiced and predictable. They fight, they break apart, they fuck, and the broken pieces fit back together. It didn’t matter how many times they stormed out they always always came back.

But even the most practiced dances stumble sometimes, right?

Valentino had walked out of the Vees tower two weeks ago. The longest he's ever stayed away in all their years of euphoric highs and sickening lows. Any attempt Vox made to contact him was ignored. Texts left on read, calls dumped to Vmail, assistants baring messages and gifts shot and left wherever they crumpled. That was the first week and by the tenth day, the texts and calls stopped.

After that, it got more drastic. TVs in the hotels he stayed or in window displays where Valentino walked on the streets burst. Voxtek appliances shorted and sparked or just combusted once he touched them. Lights shattered in his clubs, showering him with sparks and colored glass.

The moth’s last frayed nerve snapped when the next casualty was his phone. He'd only glanced at a text from Velvette that he needed to haul ass back home before every contact and app changed to Vox's speed dial.

Vox vox voxxy V̸̨̊o̶̺͛ ̴̀ͅxv̴̎͜o̸̰̐x̵̢̚x��̡̒v̴̙̕oVox ̷̬́x̸̪̊ẍ̵͎v̷̱̍ȏ̶̧x̶̄͜Y̴̞̚v̸̟̓Ǒ̸͎X̴̞̍V̸̄͜ö̸̟́X̴̫̀vXY̸͌ͅo̵͖̓Ơ̶̯0̴̡͂0̸͕͘x̶̉͜

The thing rapidly heated and glitched in his hand until the screen cracked. He'd just barely managed to throw it down before it shattered apart with a sharp pop!

Under threat of being sent back to the goddamn stone age Valentino finally relents, he tells Dia to call his car for him and thankfully she's able to do it with minimal static and sparking around the phone. The car was suspiciously close, too close for it to not have been waiting on standby for him. It's not his usual driver who opens the door for him, it's Vox's and he's not asked where it is he wants to go. He swears he sees Vox's eye staring at him in the driver's V-Watch through the partition the whole way back to the tower.

The walk to the media overlord's surveillance room is.. honestly a shitshow. Vox's area of the tower was always pristine, sleek, and perfect. Now it looks like a war zone, with pieces of employees and debris scattered along the floor. Lights hang from their fixtures in ugly wirey tangles, ceiling tiles broken on the floor, elevator doors stand jarred between floors, doors not able to close properly and ding obnoxiously. One shudders to life and opens for him, the light overhead indicating the destination was Vox's lair.

It's not a smooth ride but it doesn't drop him to a temporary death either. Small mercies. It does leave him though, the second he steps into Vox's private space the thing slams shut behind him and groans back up the chute, stranding him.

Wires and cables writhe like snakes along the floor, the ceiling, and walls; all feeding back to the bank of monitors. Vox's highbacked chair was in a gnarled heap, torn from where it had been fastened to the floor, more wires coming up from the hole it had left. The TV demon himself hung in front of the screens, the cables connected to his body holding him aloft like a puppet. Or maybe he was just standing. It was hard to tell with Vox's disjointed limbs, too-long cables and wires lengthening his joints like some grotesque doll. And he said Val was theatric.

Valentino's own reflection looks out from the screens. Recordings and still shots of him over the last two weeks cover every monitor. In his clubs, hotels, the street, looking up at him from his phone before the damn thing detonated. Right in front, the one Vox was fixated on, was the live feed of him standing there in the here and now.

"And you get mad at me for wrecking shit?" Val says to his partner's back- might as well get this shit started "I take a siesta and you trash the whole tower while I'm out."

"G⦻N3" The glitched snarl seemingly comes from everywhere as the screens go red, Vox's black-ringed hypnotic stare broadcast across each one, glaring down at him "Not 'out'. You were gone."

A sneer pulls Valentino's upper lip off his teeth "Oh excuse me, I didn't know I had a fucking curfew."

"Two weeks" In a surging wave of sparking cables Vox is in his face, bodily slamming him against the wall.

"Ow- Goddammit, Vox-"

"You left me." Vox's claws fist into the ruff around his partner's neck as wires wrap painfully around him, sparks of electricity singing the fur. "For two weeks. You. Left. Me."

"Oh poor fucking baby," Valentino growls through a mocking grin, sucking in the electrical smoke and hissing it back out red and thick, cocooning around them as his body threatens to change, to grow monstrous in the face of Vox's own more demonic form even if it makes the wires cut into his skin.

They snarl and growl in static glitches and insectoid chirps, pushing and pulling at each other with too-sharp claws. Val's teeth grow in his mouth, snapping loud in front of Vox's screen when the hypnotic stare tries too obviously to catch his eye.

"You want to bite me? Here-" Vox's throat is suddenly right in his face, synthetic skin pressing against sharp dripping fangs. The hold feels suspiciously like a hug, cradling the back of Valentino's head as he tucks him into the crook of his neck, offering to let him bite and rip. "-bite. I don't give a fuck if we're fighting. Scream. Cuss me out. Hit me. Level this goddamn tower to a parking lot, Valentino I. Don't. Care. But you will fucking come home when I call you."

And fuck if that horrible- pathetic- declaration doesn't have Valentino's hips rolling up against Vox's leg where it pins him between his legs and takes the invitation to break skin under his teeth. "You miss me that bad, Papi?"

Vox's groan is miserable and angry, the cables writhing and tightening around Valentino's limbs, but he grinds his own aggression-hardened cock down to meet his partner's rolling. "You're not supposed to stay gone."

Electricity crawls across his skin as he lets go of Valentino's neck fluff to forcefully lace their hands together. The moth retaliates against the shocks by moving to the TV demon's shoulder and sinking his teeth in there too. Their hips slot together, rocking their cocks against each other, Valentino's pink-tinged slick dampening the panties under his short dress and the front of Vox's slacks. Finally back in step with their dance.

"We have a goddamn deal, Val." The surging electricity burns them both, smoke wafting off Valentino's fur and from Vox's overloaded processors. Burns down their arms, raising lighting-shaped marks to their joined hands where rings manifest around their fingers, the delicate chain joining them unseen between their clasped palms. "We don't leave each other. You don't leave me."

Valentino laughs bratty and condescending, breathing more red into the air around them, "Maybe if you reminded me more often why I shouldn't then I wouldn't have to take a two-week vacation fucking and getting fucked like I deserve. You've not really been acting like my prince have you? I thought I was supposed to be your Princesa?"

The eyes watching him from all over the room spark and glare and threaten to drip digital tears. His poor, hopeless little Voxxy. His ingrained 1950s ego was too fragile to even insinuate he wasn't doing enough, wasn't The Man, wasn't the steadfast and proper provider. That he was failing as a lover. Vox's screen flashes lines of rainbow before going blue, white text typing out frantically

Mine. Mine minemiN3youucaN'+1eavemme3y0u're MmineCaNT13avemem1n3on1ymine

Vox tears through his fishnets and raises bloody lines on his thigh as he pulls Valentino's leg up to hook over his hip. The cables tighten and yank sharply, taking them down to the floor. He's not easy either when he goes up under the tight little skirt, blindly slitting the soaked panties straight down the middle, not minding whether or not he nicks his partner. The grinding, insectoid hiss tells him he must have and the thick cherry scent of Valentino's pheromones flooding the air tells him he liked it.

Finally, some attention. The moth rolls his hips against the sharp points making them slide and rub over his cunt, teasing himself as an obscene gush of candy pink slick coats the media overlord’s fingers and drips down his wrist. "Come on, Papi. I'm yours? Show me."

Vox's digital face loads back in sharp and snarling, bringing the fingers to his mouth, licking his fingers clean before grabbing Valentino by the jaw and spitting it back into his panting mouth "You taste like a whore, Princess."

He snaps his belt at the buckle, not bothering to try and undo it before tearing his zipper down. He doesn't tease or let his tip kiss up sweet and slow like he has for decades when they come back together and he's winning his princess back. The push is sharp and faster than either of them are ready for, fucking like they fought, full of snapping teeth and cutting claws. The media overlord is ruthless, thrusting hard enough that they slide across the floor. Valentino tears a bloody wrist out of the wires to press above them to keep his head from knocking against the wall, stilettos slipping loudly as he digs his heels into the polished floor trying to give just as good as he got.

"I'm going to kill every worthless nobody you let touch you." His voice crackles over the wet sound of driving himself into the moth's cunt, "Your pussy is mine. I don't give a fuck who you let suck you off or how many whores you stick your dick in. But this-" Two fingers slip in beside his cock, "is mine. Nobody else fucks you. I'm going to start hanging them flayed in the streets, do you understand me?"

Long tongue swiping at the drool and blood painting his lips Valentino arches up with a chuckling moan, gushing and dripping around Vox's cock. "Mmhm, medieval. My Prince knows how to make my heart flutter."

"Maybe I'm done being a prince." Vox leans all his weight into the hand laced with Valentino's with a static rumble, hilting hard until he can see the outline of himself through Valentino's belly with each deep stroke, "Maybe I need to be a dragon and keep my princess in his tower where he belongs. Keep you tied up in silks and jewelry until I get home and I can show you you're mine over and over and over. How many times do you think I would have to write 'mine' with my tongue inside you before you came?"

"Oh fuck- Vox"

"If that doesn't work I'm sure I can make a lock strong enough. Whatever it takes. What about this Val? Would this keep you?” There’s a whirr and a vibration pulses from his cock.

Valentino wails, hand leaving the wall and flying to the vibrating bump buried in his guts, feeling like it was jarring down to his bones and he gushes. “Vox Vo- Papi, please fuck”

“Say you’re mine, Val.” Vox growls, hips snapping faster, the hand tucked in beside his cock slipping out to hold him by the neck. “Tell me you know you’re mine.”

“Yours, Vox. Ah-always yours- only yours”

He pulls Valentino into a kiss by the throat, and they rut like that, rocking and shouting around each other’s tongue until the vibrations pushed them over the cathartic edge of orgasm.

The cables don’t loosen. Vox’s body doesn’t return to form.

“Val.” Static laced lips rub softly across the moth’s “If you ever leave me like that again I’m dragging you back to this tower and I’m chaining you to it.”

Valentino only laughs, long tongue dragging across the screen. “Wear the dragon attachment and it’s a date.”

.

[meluisart]

Draw your blorbo - Week 16: Younger

"Mum, can I sleep over at Kristie's?" - Foxfoe was a very happy and largely carefree child until the divorce happened. She was schooled well and had a very close friend in Kristie, who would later transition and end up marrying her when they were reunited later in life. The plush sheep was the last Christmas gift she received from her father. Soon after this Christmas her parents divorced and she went to live with her mother; her father was declared unfit to care for her after a long trial in court that left a lasting impression on Foxfoe. She thought it unfair that she never got to see him and this is where the idea first formed for her to become a lawyer - she wanted to do better. The plush sheep can still be found in her and Kristien's house, sitting in the highback chair in the living room.

@draw-your-blorbo I'm feeling that 'I want to protect it, I want to see it grow up happy' etc. meme incoming.

[rainintheevening]

Qui and Padme, 18

Beru and Padme, 16

100 ways to say ILY

Let's start with Qui-Gon and Padmé. This is set in my Promises of Fools AU.

Uh, this got long. Sorry, Adi. There's some angst, but mostly just the usual home front in a war angst.

18. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better."

For a long time Qui-Gon had disdained a gimer-stick of his own, but a hand-carved present from Anakin had been too much of a kindness to pass off, and now he was grateful for it.

Less for something to lean on while walking, and more for something to lean on while standing. Or sitting. Or rising.

He could feel it in his abdomen—the mended muscles giving out, the Nubian-made organs degrading inside him. Waves of pain or nausea were common, and only his connection with the Force and certain mental tricks helped him manage.

Qui-Gon was dying, and he wasn't going to hide from that reality any longer.

Today, he sat quietly in a highbacked cushioned chair, running his hands over the polished stick's grooves and ridges: The different constellations of four-point stars that Anakin had shyly explained meant certain blessings on Tatooine. Three specific lightsabers. The Jedi crest. The Nubian crest. Abstract swirls of carving that filled in some of the gaps. A few words carved in Aurebesh.

It was almost a meditative exercise by now. Eyes closed, fingers sliding from one design to the next as he counted them off, and turned the stick on his knee. And always something fresh to catch his attention, some part of this complex outpouring of Anakin’s love to be seen in a new way.

His commlink beeped, startling him slightly.

Opening his eyes, Qui-Gon glanced over to the desk in the corner of his sitting room, and called the comm to his hand.

"Yes?"

"Qui-Gon." The familiar voice of a Temple guard. "Lady Skywalker is here to see you. She seemed distressed, so I sent her up to your apartment."

"Ah." Qui-Gon wrinkled his brow. "Thank you, my friend."

Absently, he thumbed the comm off, and returned it to the desk with a flick of his wrist. Padmé distressed? Either she had faced something difficult in her day's work, or she had war news. Possibly both.

Qui-Gon stayed as closely connected to Obi-Wan and Anakin as he could, but even with their own encrypted comm channel, courtesy of R2-D2, there were weeks when they would be silent, when all Qui-Gon could do was sift through the news on the HoloNet, and trust in the Force to guide his thoughts. Qui-Gon wasn't even technically a Jedi anymore. He wasn't essential to the war effort, though he did what he could, little as it had become. Working with the younglings and the junior padawans left behind to learn and train, trying to mitigate the toll taken by the long separations from their masters. There were so few Jedi left to teach these days.

With a sigh, Qui-Gon set the tip of his gimer stick against the rug, levered himself to his feet with a single, smooth motion.

Whatever was wrong, he knew the first order of business was a cup of tea.

The Anakin-improved electric kettle had just begun to boil when the knock came at Qui-Gon's front door.

"Come in," he called, leaning on the worktop as he measured crumbled Naris-Bud into an infuser. It was one of Padmé's favourites.

He looked over as the door slid open, took in the light flush in Padmé's cheeks, the set of her mouth, the slight tremble in her hands.

"Master Qui-Gon," she greeted him, inclining her head.

"Hello, my dear," he said gently, holding out one arm in an invitation.

Padmé Skywalker was one of the strongest women he had ever known. She had shields of steel around her thoughts and emotions, she knew how to control her every move, her every little expression. She had precious few people she could let down her guard around. Qui-Gon understood it was a privilege that she counted him one of those precious few.

Her lips quivered, before she came to his side, put her arms lightly around his waist, and leaned into his embrace.

"Thank you, Grandpa," she whispered against his shirt, and he tightened his grip around her shoulders.

Only she and Anakin called him that. 'Grandpa', an alteration of 'grandfather'. A funny word in Basic, but one that carried an astonishing amount of love and respect.

He bowed his head protectively over hers, impulsively bent low enough to kiss her hair.

Pain swept up through his belly, a sharp, hot rush, but he breathed it in, let it come, let it go, moved through it.

He felt her shoulders tremble, and when she pulled away, she kept her head down, wiping her cheeks with her hands.

"Here now," he sighed, touching her chin, and pulling his sleeve over his other hand to gently dry her tears. "The bills they're trying to pass must have been especially useless today."

That made the girl give a watery smile. "Not exactly,"she murmured.

"Well, take a seat. Your tea should be nearly done steeping."

She moved to the small table, took the one chair there, and seemed to collect herself. Qui-Gon reached a hand toward his desk, drew the other wood-frame seat out to face her, then turned to measure out his own tea.

The fresh sweetness of heathstars wafted up to his nostrils, and for a moment he imagined he was sitting in a dim little house, a tiny red-headed baby in his lap, singing a lullaby as rain pattered on the window.

With a sigh, he released the memory, though the ache that sat next to his heart whenever Obi-Wan was gone remained.

He took the mugs of tea the few steps to the table, deliberately set his in front of her.

"Here, drink this, you'll feel better."

She looked up with a faint smile, perhaps noting the accent that had slipped into his words, the way he'd rolled the 'r's and deepened the 'o' vowels.

"Thank you, Master Qui-Gon."

"Please." He eased himself down carefully. "I think I prefer 'Grandpa'. Anakin calls me that all the time now."

Her deep breath was shaky.

"Tell me, Padmé, any news of the war that may have missed me?"

She shook her head slowly, blew on her tea. "I doubt it. The last I heard was of the liberation of Ryloth, and rumors that they might be sent to Jabiim next." She grimaced. "Or that someone will, anyway. There are arguments every day from the war council over how much should be spent on everything from armor for the troops, to the rations put on board the cruisers."

Qui-Gon gave her a small smile. "I've never heard Obi-Wan complain so much as about the victuals on the Negotiator. Anakin always tells him to be grateful, then adds something about 'a little spice' improving anything."

Ah, there, Padmé smiled back. "He does enjoy strong flavour in his food, doesn't he, our Ani. He made me what they call 'kantanaki', and it made my tongue burn."

"Yes," Qui-Gon said thoughtfully, watching the steam starting to thin above their mugs. "He made that for me a few times. Bantha or another meat, steeped in hubba gourd juice. But with a secret mix of five different spices on top. Makes a world of difference."

He'd heard the talk about Jabiim too; he knew it would not be a nice planet to wage war on.

Padmé took a sip of her tea, and when she lowered her mug she was smiling. "What is this? It's delicious."

"Ah, heathstar tea. Made from the flowers of the heathren which blankets the hills of Stewjon." He let his voice reflect the sudden wistfulness that gripped him.

"Oh." Padmé lowered her gaze. "Did your wife make you this tea sometimes?" Pain echoed off her words, as if her suggestion had struck close to the heart of whatever was most troubling her that day.

"Yes, she did. I also made it myself, many times. Often with a baby on one arm."

"I wish I could make him tea."

Padmé's voice was very small.

"I wish I could give him this tea right now."

Qui-Gon watched her, aching with tenderness. "I'm sure he would appreciate it." So would Obi-Wan of course, but this wasn't about Obi-Wan or Qui-Gon, this was about Padmé.

Oh, and now the tears were tumbling down Padmé's cheeks again. "And I wish I had a baby to hold, that little peice of him in a child, to keep with me, to bring him back to me–"

She could speak no longer, simply covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Not something she did often, Qui-Gon was sure. But dam up a river too tightly, and it was bound to burst its banks.

It hurt dreadfully, pulling at his abdominal muscles, but he leaned across the small table enough to touch her arm.

"You'll be alright, my dear," he said quietly. "I'm here."

A weak bob of her head, and he noticed how simply her brown hair was braided up, yet it was still beautiful.

Unfortunately, the pain was growing, and he was forced to sit back, regulate his heartrate. Only the Force knew how much he hated his body betraying him.

With another sigh, this one of release, he settled into the Force, doing his best to give Padmé the sensation warmth and comfort around her.

Eyes half closed, he sipped his tea, waited for her storm to blow itself out.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, wiping her face with a small syncloth, and blowing her nose.

"No need to apologize." Qui-Gon smiled kindly. "Likely you needed that. Now finish your tea, it should help."

She gave a weak chuckle. "Yes, Grandpa."

"Shall we play a round or two of Sobers?" Qui-Gon inquired, and there, her eyes brightened.

"Only if you want to lose."

So they played cards, and drank tea, and found their way to smile, sitting safe in the Jedi Temple, while far away, Obi-Wan and Anakin slept a fitful sleep, and dreamed of home.

[maybanksbabe]

okay bc now why am i thinking about ward and rafe arguing (per usual) and he uses you to take his frustrations out

Bonus points if it's in wards office...

DOUBLE BONUS POINTS FOR WARDS OFFICE - sitting in the big highback leather chair, Rafe has a handful of your hair whilst you ride him, the necklace with his name on it bouncing against his chest whilst he fucks up into you, his other hand keeping your wrists behind your back. Or maybe he gets you bent over Ward's desk, gripping at the sturdy wooden edges for dear life whilst he rocks your shit ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

[headpainmigraine]

People with POTS, does sitting upright (in a chair?) make you REALLY symptomatic, or is this something I should be paying attention to?

I'm like presyncope, needing to get out and lie down. Mostly happens if I'm in a highback chair in an upright position with one knee up. I can sit down non-symptomatic but then the symptoms come while I'm sitting?

[aerialsquid]

FFXIVWrite Day 27: Sole

Cid/Nero plus Drusilla, just a random notion I had.

Drusilla touched her forehead with long fingers spotted by age but not weakened by it, and slowly pulled away the circlet covering her pearlescent third eye. She eased herself into the highbacked chair behind her desk, rolling her shoulders back as she leaned into the worn leather's comforting embrace. Her scythe was propped against the side of the desk beside her, its presence a reminder that any gentility in this room was at her discretion alone.

"All right. Tell me from the beginning how this happened."

—

The relationship between the Lemures and Garlond Ironworks was strained at best, an uneasy partnership of necessity and mutual loathing. Drusilla felt that Cid was a traitor to his culture, disdaining centuries of heritage for the sake of a few decades of sins, and would cut out his own third eye if it would make the Eorzeans like him better. Cid felt that the collective of Garlean expatriates were really only upset about the part of the Empire's evils that had inconvenienced them personally and were only differentiated from Thanalan's other hordes of roaming bandits by the dents in their foreheads.

Both of these were sentiments they had expressed to each others' faces in the past, which was why arrangements between the two organizations usually went through people like Jesse who had an easier time keeping their tempers. The Lemures' connections within the Empire meant they had an easier time sneaking out defectors, and more than one of their 'passengers' had later picked up a job at the Garlond Ironworks.

Garlond Ironworks was also really the only place you could get any magitek you'd snuck out of the Empire with you repaired or replaced. If not for the Ironworks, the magitek orchestrion playing a gentle bal-musette in the corner right now would have been silenced long ago. It was for the sake of such necessities that Drusilla had even let the two men in the door to her headquarters.

Everything beyond that was purely for personal amusement.

Drusilla leaned forward to put her elbows on the desk, steepling her fingers and resting her chin upon them. The corner of her thin mouth quirked up in a half-smirk as she regarded the two flustered men standing before her.

"I believe you said Cid's exact words were, 'You owe me, Nero'?"

"Words I did not accept!"

"You reached out and grabbed his hand, a conventional symbol of striking a deal."

"What was I supposed to pull him out with, my teeth?!"

Drusilla smiled, sharp as a curved scythe. "It means everything. You've pulled him from the void and now you two have a contract."

Nero hissed through gritted teeth, his hands in tight and furious fists. "I'm not a bloody voidsent! I'm a human being!" he snarled, a claim that might have held more weight if not for the threads of purple that threaded through his skin like seams of ore through rock, flaring in tune with his temper.

He hadn't needed to show them off to prove what he'd become, Drusilla was familiar with that tiny pull that came from lower level voidsent fresh out of the darkness, their endless hunger constantly drawing surrounding lifeforce towards them.

"The voidsent claim they were also once human, before their realm fell to darkness. Mind, I've never heard of a human becoming voidsent in this era, but humans don't usually jaunt to the void. Queue's a lot longer going the other direction."

"I am quite sure that if I were a voidsent, I would know. This is just some minor infection of the aether, and given time I will be able to –"

"Look, stepping aside that issue, what's it mean if we have a contract?" Cid cut in, trying to ward off Nero's continuing insistence that he was too good for this nonsense. At Drusilla's request he'd taken off the goggles that normally covered his forehead, and his pale hair was now hanging haggard in his face. Despite the lack of purple, his eyes looked just as sunken and haggard as Nero's. "You mean, like a Reaper and its servant?"

"Aye. Think of yourself more like sponsor than master, before Nero gets his stones in any more of a twist - you're his tie to this world, keepin' the void from calling him back. A voidsent fights for his reaper but only if he gets paid for it, mind. The pay runs out, the voidsent goes elsewhere or it starves."

Cid tilted his head. "Pay…how?"

Drusilla slid a hand under her desk to find the knife she kept hidden there, and flicked the tip across the pad of her finger. A soft line of red was drawn across her skin as she jerked her hand back. When she held it up Nero's eyes fixated on it, like a hunk of meat before a starving coeurl, and his leg almost lifted to walk to her before he stopped himself.

"You should bandage that," he snapped defensively. Instead Drusilla got up and walked around her desk, the bleeding hand still held upward and still controlling the tracking of Nero's eyes.

She held the finger closer and his lips parted, just before he recoiled a few steps backwards.

"I'm not going to lick your hand. That's disgusting. Unsanitary."

"But you want to. You can already taste it the aether pouring forth from me. The heat of it. The light."

"There is nothing I want less," Nero insisted, devoting himself to a detailed inspection of the orchestrion instead. His fingers were twitching against it.

Drusilla chuckled. She tugged a hankerchief out and wrapped her finger in it, stuffing the hand back into her pocket. At least that would dull the scent. "The pay is aether, Garlond. The fresher the better, and the best comes right from the warm body of a living, breathing mortal. Nothing else will satiate that hunger. And if he's your partner, it's your responsibility to keep him fed."

Over the sound of Nero protesting that he wasn't going to be Cid's pet dog, Cid said, "I'm not going to just bring him people to eat, that's insane!"

"It doesn't have to be people. Voidsent can feed off anything living, even fruits or vegetables recently picked. It doesn't have to kill them either, if the voidsent's got a mind to be careful." Though when you were a Reaper, it was usually helpful if it did.

"But I can tell you've paid him a bit already, even if y'both think you're being real subtle about it."

"What are you talking–"

An abrupt silence came over the two men, as if both had reached a specific and unpleasant conclusion at the same moment. Drusilla drummed her fingers on the desk as she circled back around to reclaim her chair.

"Your man got a little less endurance in the bedroom, Nero? Falling asleep right after the first round, when you're feeling more awake than ever?"

Nero was fidgeting even more now, veins of amethyst pulsing across his cheekbones. "I haven't the–haven't the faintest–"

Cid, meanwhile, had his hand to a particular spot on his neck that was very decisively covered by his collar, and that Drusilla was quite sure hid a bite mark. "So that's why I kept falling asleep at the worktable! It was you, you bastard!"

"It wasn't as if it was on purpose!"

Drusilla smirked, drumming her fingers lightly along the shaft of her scythe. "Better start paying your employee more, is all I'm saying."

[taitropa]

you build something worth having, someone's gonna try to take it.

There are six locks on the door and one on every window. It isn’t unlike the Slat where he locks himself in and everyone out, every entrance point safeguarded from threat. In the Barrel, and even amongst your own gang, that threat could come from anywhere. But here, in the Geldin district with the wealthy where they don’t really belong (all the better for hiding, actually), it should be different. That doesn’t stop Kaz from flipping every last switch and bolt into place, his own sort of ritual whenever he comes and goes. She shouldn’t find it so endearing.

“Are you really that worried about it? You don’t keep anything of true value here, do you?” From the outside, the townhouse looks the same as the rest on the street with its curved eaves and metal detailed windows large enough to allow more than one thief through at a time. On this side of the city, the palette is not so dreary, some attempt at color splashed in just the right spots. The brick outside is whitewashed and cleaned weekly by university students. The door is a cheerful red.

Inside, it’s more or less still empty. This is the first time she’s been here and the only furniture is a low table surrounded by mismatched, highbacked chairs in what should be a sitting room. The heavy drapes on all the windows appear to have come with the house and still remain, but Inej doesn’t mind. If it's Dregs business he's brought her here for, the curtains will stay closed and it's too late to let any light in anyway.

It’s raining tonight and Inej shakes the wet from her long braid. The dark blue tile in the entryway does not soak up the water they tread inside. Her coat drips. When she turns to face him, she is smiling just wide enough that light bursts in her eyes warmly. “Or,” on her toes, she can reach his hat and remove it for him, “is it that you’re trying to keep me in?”

🔪 YELLOWSTONE PROMPTS.

[hunky-furniture]

Revolutionizing Office Comfort: Discover the Latest Trends in Ergonomic Design and Where to Buy Employee Chairs Online

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Mesh Chairs: Mesh chairs feature a breathable, flexible backrest that promotes air circulation and helps to keep users cool and comfortable during long workdays.

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Kneeling Chairs: Kneeling chairs encourage a more upright, open-hip posture, which can help alleviate lower back pain and improve circulation.

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Conduct Trials and Testing: If possible, provide employees with the opportunity to test out potential chair options, allowing them to experience the comfort and functionality firsthand before making a final decision.

Maintain and Replace as Needed: Regularly inspect and maintain your office chairs, and be prepared to replace them as they show signs of wear and tear to ensure ongoing comfort and support for your team.

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Creating an ergonomic office environment goes beyond just investing in high-quality office chairs. Here are some additional tips to help optimize the comfort and productivity of your workspace:

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Educate and Train Employees: Provide training and resources to help your employees understand the importance of ergonomics and how to properly adjust and use their office equipment.

Importance of Employee Comfort and Productivity

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As you explore the latest trends in ergonomic design and search for the best online retailers to purchase employee chairs, keep in mind the key factors to consider, such as adjustability, comfort, and durability. By taking the time to carefully evaluate your options and involve your team in the decision-making process, you can ensure that you make the right choice for your organization.

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Read our other Blogs To Know More Before Buying Office Chair Online

Unveiling the Power of Ergonomic Excellence: Discover How Hunky Office Chairs Redefine Workplace Comfortce of ergonomic office chairs

Elevate Your Work Environment with the Hunky Office Chair: The Ultimate Upgrade for Productivity and Comfort

Enhance Your Workspace Comfort with Hunky Furniture’s Employee Chair: Buy Online for Ultimate Back Pain Relief

Elevate Your Workspace: Why You Should Buy Employee Chair Online

Transform Your Workspace: Buy Employee Chair Online for Optimal Posture, Reduced Back Pain, and Enhanced Productivity

[the-badger-mole]

Film Noir AU 3

The set lasted about 45 minutes, but by the time Kitty took her final bow and left the band to play alone for the rest of the night, it felt like I'd only been sitting in that booth for a few moments. I've never been the sentimental type who gets lost in music, but between the band and Kitty's voice, it was...well, almost magical. I'd asked for a glass of water while I waited. Maybe that Jun dame slipped a Chong in my drink.

Kitty finally made her way over to my table, looking like danger in that red number she was wearing, and if it don't beat all how she managed to make the satins and velvets of the booth look real just by sitting down in it.

"Quite a voice you got there," I said as she settled in. "Makes me wonder why you're only covering instead of headlining." Kitty just shrugged.

"I've never been one to want the limelight all the time, Detective Kaji," she said. She brought her long, chestnut curls over one shoulder and tilted her head, exposing her long graceful neck in a move I'm sure she's practiced. "Besides, it's my name on the joint. I figure that's all the notoriety I need."

"Perhaps," I said. I sat back in my seat and thought of what to say next. The band was still on stage, playing some haunting melody. Between the music and the smokey haze around the room, I felt like someone was trying to cast some sort of spell. It was a good thing I had a strict no drinking policy while I was on the job, or I might've found myself too ossified to do what I came to do.

"Ms. Arnaq," I said, taking a long breath in. "Are you sure this is where you want to have this conversation?" Kitty raised an eyebrow at me and her entirely too enticing ruby lips turned up into a small smile, as if I'd just told her some amusing anecdote.

"Not at all, Detective," she said. "I just thought it'd be rude to ask you to come all this way and not at least offer you something to eat." She looked at the empty table between us, and then back at me.

"I don't make a habit of eating on the job," I told her. She sighed and then stood up.

"Then I suppose we can continue this meeting in my office." Kitty lead me away from the main dining room and into a room backstage.

Kitty's office, like the rest of the joint, had the air of borrowed finery. The dim light made everything look as rich and supple as the woman who ran the place, but beneath the smell of fresh flowers and gin, there was a slight musty odor. Not altogether unpleasant, but clearly indicating that Kitty hadn't been the first to lay claim to the velvet seats and intricate rug. I took the guest chair in front of the wide, wooden desk. I expected Kitty to sit in the highbacked chair on the other side, but instead she perched on top of the desk itself and crossed her legs. Dame had a set of gams that make a lesser man spend his last coin to keep her in all the furs and silks she wanted.

"Well, Ms. Arnaq," I said after a moment. "Any ideas who might want to cause harm to your brother?"

"Ha!" Kitty gave an unladylike snort that made me like her better. "Who doesn't have it in for him? You see, my brother is...very well connected."

"I suppose being the mayor will do that," I said. Kitty's brow arched high into her hairline, but I'll give her credit. That was the only show of surprise on her face.

"I see you're very good at your job," she said.

"It's why I get paid so well," I smirked at her. "Clever idea changing your last name. It took me a bit of digging to figure out the connection between Mayor Sokka Imiq and Katara Arnaq the soju-joint owner." For a moment- just a moment- Kitty looked rattled she crossed her arms and rubbed her elbows.

"I go by my mother's maiden name, and my brother kept the family name," she told me. "We decided a long time ago that the fewer people who know we know each other the better. My brother...well, he's good for this city."

"And you?" I asked, leaning forward in my seat.

"I keep folks entertained," she said with a shrug. "The best of society has been in my establishment- not that you'd ever get them to admit to it. It gives those that are considered the worst the opportunity to plead their cases without the complications of law getting too involved."

"I see," I said. "And being the mayor, your brother is..."

"He has necessarily kept his distance," Kitty said. "But he's more or less turned a blind eye to what I'm doing. I'm one of the few joints that hasn't been raided. My brother knows what I do is ultimately beneficial to his cause."

"And that cause is?" I was definitely intrigued. Kitty leaned forward, closing some of the distance I'd left.

"An end to the mob's hold on the city."

Part 1, Part 2

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[bendromeda]

Well then. What a time. She's in charge now. She's on her own at the top. A shame about Colin. And Sam. And Lena.

But nevertheless, She's the boss now. She has the big desk. It's severe. It's solid. (It's perfectly flat, unwarped by ripples. Square and planed.)

Her chair is comfortable, highbacked and plush. (The perfect chair to stay in forever, spiralling down and down and down and

Oh, Teddy's here for his interview. Should be simple. He has the necessary experience, he's reliable and unflappable, (he's got nowhere else to go, he's looked everywhere)

It itches. The damned tattoo, those godsdamned eyes, swollen and encrusted like warts, boils on her skin. (Oh, no, boils would hurt less.)

She moves her hands in front of her face, left hand under right, feigning consideration to disguise a scratch. His eyes go wide. She spins a vague tale about a mistake while out with Alice. (He doesn't buy it, but what's he gonna do?)

He's hired. (This was only a formality anyway, a sanity check, of sorts.) She stands up, and goes to... (oops, wrong hand.) Shake on it.

He isn't looking in her eyes. (Well, he is, in a way.) She drops his hand. Walks behind the desk. He hasn't moved.

Well, chop chop. Get to work.

(We have matters to see to.)

(Art by @mangozic)

*tap tap*

Is this thing on? Gwen gets a tattoo of eyes crawling up her hand.

Did anyone hear me? Dozens of eyes that always seem to be looking at you no matter the angle. Reaching, scrambling, twisting up her arm inescapably. She's one of the Cheshire Bouchards, after all. They always seem to have their eye on things.

Do you understand? This was predestined. She wanted to know, and now she will. Her hand twists, her fingers too long and off-kilter. And those godsdamned eyes always look like they're moving, just in the corner of her vision. And she itches. Not on her hand, but in her mind. She has to find out. She must know. Maybe if she understands, she will survive. It's in the cases somewhere, surely.

Can you see it now? Can you see my vision?

See that you do.

[Click.]

[littlelotsblog]

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