#Wood veneer making machine

[bitterrfruit]

[he's in a meeting]

A quick horny ramble about your boss failing to control himself. here's [part 2] for you horny, horny freaks (affectionate) Executive John Price x EA f!Reader 18+ mdni - ~1k words

Does that pen taste good? 

It’s the sixth time you’ve stuck it in your mouth in the last minute. 

John watches you through the shimmering glass of the conference room, his spinning leather seat perfectly situated; he can see you where you sit at your desk through the gap in the corridor, just the right angle to see you cross one of your nylon-sheathed legs over the other. Watches the sling-back of your kitten heel slip loose as you buck your foot, wiggling it in boredom, kicking the leg of your desk with the pointed toe. 

You lavish that pen. He’s almost jealous of it. Your gentle teeth bite down on the clicker, he sees you run it back and forth in strokes over your bottom lip. Glossy with balm and spit, the soft pink flesh of your lip pillows out around where you push the plastic in. 

He adjusts himself in his seat, leaning back to stretch out the tension knotting in his abdominals. Turns his head back towards the conference table at regular intervals to ensure he appears appropriately attentive, avoiding comment from his fellow executives that he looks distracted. 

They drone on about the merger, about surplus, about transition plans and communication bottlenecks. They’ll ask him for his input as their senior, he’ll make a noncommittal comment and defer to somebody else to elaborate. 

And he’ll look back at you. 

You lean over your desk and the waistband of your pencil skirt cuts into the arch of your spine, the grey pinstripe material strains over the mouthwatering swell of your ass. The seams look weak. Wouldn’t take much to tear it apart.  

Fuck, he wants to tear it to shreds. 

He’d have to, the fabric is too firm, too tight to be rucked up to your hips; no, he’d grab it by the hem and rip it apart by the stitches. He’d roll down your stockings, peel them from your legs, and use them to bind together your winsome hands. He’d hold your little head against the wood veneer of your desk, he’d knock over the jar that holds all of your pens with the force in his thrusts as he stuffs you full. 

He can hear you mewling in your sweetly surprised voice; Please, Mr Price. That hurts, Mr Price. Harder, Mr Price. 

Gritting teeth, he hopes his colleagues pay no mind to the bulging veins that throb in his temples. To the tendons in the back of his hands wrenching under his skin as they clench into fists. He bounces his knee, some effort at somatic distraction, to keep the blood flowing anywhere else but his cock. 

He knew hiring you was a terrible idea. He saw you waiting outside his office before your interview, and immediately knew it would be cruel of him to subject you to being his subordinate. You were impish and clever during that interview, took everything he threw at you and sucked on it thoughtfully, presented it back to him as hard candy. 

When you left with that saunter, so confident you had gotten the job - he decided then and there that he couldn’t have you as his executive assistant. Because in that short thirty minutes you had invaded every crevice of his mind, you lingered on his tongue long after you left. It took every synapse of his brain to forcibly prevent his body from enacting what it so ravenously wanted to, from tearing you out of your seat and breaking you in half over his desk. 

But, to his dismay, the decision had been taken from his grip. He offered one positive statement about you, and that was that - human resources declared your resume the strongest, your attitude the keenest, and you were hired without much fanfare. 

He insisted your desk be far from his, out of sight and mind; but even still, every morning, he could smell your perfume where it lingered by the coffee machine, could hear your cloying giggles from across the expansive office. 

He had scolded you, once, dragged you into his office in sight of all of your murmuring colleagues. He told you that you were too distractible, too easily turned away from your tasks by things more interesting. He said that if you didn’t like doing what you were told, then this wasn’t the place for you. 

But, no, you simply gave him a sweet and eager smile. This is the place for me, Mr Price. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. 

His cock turned to steel at your desperate apology, at your sycophantic enthusiasm - and that was the last time he scolded you. 

If he were a better man, he would have fucked his fist in a cubicle to the image of you, shot ropes of his pent-up come into some single ply toilet paper and flushed it away, over and done with. 

But he has let it build, has let the pressure mount within his welded seams such that he threatens to erupt like a steam boiler. 

Your tongue juts out only slightly, you lick the tip of your painted finger to help you turn the page of the folder you sift through, and your lip catches in your teeth. 

“‘Scuse me for a minute,” is all he says, it comes out of his throat ragged and strained, and he pushes himself up from the conference table. 

Follow a few murmurs of either dispute or acceptance - they fall on deaf ears, as he shoves open the swinging glass door and marches down the short corridor. 

The footsteps of his leather oxfords are loud despite being muted by the dense, flat carpet - they alert you to his approach, and you tug the wet pen from your lips when you swivel around to look at him. 

You squeak, already fearing admonishment, “Mr-”

“A word,” he grunts, a succinct order, gesturing with a hand for you to follow him. 

Letting out his tie just a bit, he bites down hard on nothing. 

“Oh - yes, of course,” you oblige with a stammer, pushing yourself to stand and smoothing out the creases in your little skirt with flat palms. “Am I in trouble?”

Huffing impatiently, eyes dark, he gives you a single and rigid nod.

“You might be.”

[callsign-songbird]

Trauma Bond Ghoap X Reader PT 3

BACK FROM THE DEAD!! If anyone is still here for this, I'm sorry it took so long to get out. But, the story has continued, and probably won't get a part 4. If it does, it won't be until after Christmas. The final word count is 3,998 words, so close to 4k! Hope this is more acceptable for those of you who wanted a better less "lazy" ending. ;w; (Insinuations of smut, but nothing too specific)

“Hey, bird. That radiator giving you any more trouble?” The chime of a bell rang out from above the door of the small coffee shop you had taken to tending to. In all honesty, it was John’s. Apparently being a landlord just wasn’t keeping him busy enough, and the only hobbies he had actually been able to stick to were working out and whittling out in the woods. You had tried making a joke once, calling him a “bushwacker” for the way he seemed to like to rough it. But you missed the way his eyes crinkled at the edges just a bit too much, a bit of brightness behind them that hadn’t been there moments ago.

“Doll? You there? Has he been working you too hard?” Kyle’s gentle voice and concerned expression brought you back to the present, snapping you back to reality as your eyes focused in on his beautiful face. You weren’t supposed to feel things for clients, especially repeat customers, but Kyle… Well, things could happen behind closed doors, and you certainly wouldn’t complain. “Sorry, I just, uh… Haven’t been sleeping the best lately.” You admitted with a sigh as you turned to make his regular, shaking your head softly. The nights had been becoming colder, and with that came the chill of paranoia down your spine. It should have been a familiar feeling at this point, especially since this was coming up on your third month away from them. Your feet were under you without them, you had to remind yourself all the time. You had a good place to live, a stable job, and even a couple of friends here in town… Well… You had Kyle and John, really. But they were your friends, right? Your landlord slash boss and favorite regular?

…

You really needed to get out more…

The coffee you slid across the bartop was nearly the same burnt caramel color as Kyle’s skin, and sometimes you swear you can smell the sweet scent mixed in with his natural musk after a long day of being your small towns only repair man. You lean against the counter, elbows propped up on the polished veneer while your chin rests on your palms. “Aww, now that’s a shame, love. Been watching too many of those scary movies? You don’t have to watch them just because it’s that season, doll.” He picks up the large ceramic mug with one hand, though, it may as well have been a teacup compared to his giant mitts. He takes a sip of the still steaming drink, taking an exaggerated sip and getting a dollop of whipped cream on the tip of his nose simply to amuse you. His smile is blinding when your own nose scrunches up in turn, a soft giggle pouring past your lips as you lean over, taking one of the diner’s cloth napkins and wiping the cream from his nose. Maybe you hallucinate it or it’s just been way too long since you got any physical affection, but you almost swear that he leans into the touch, his eyes lidding just on the sweet side of sinful as a hum leaves his lips. “It’s not that, I just… I don’t know… Maybe I just need to get out more, get some friends, you know?” Kyle’s eyes narrow just slightly at that, but he hides it by looking down into his cup, letting out a noise of interest as he lifts the cup to his lips once more, taking a normal smooth sip. “Well, y’ got me an the captain, right? And I heard we’re gettin’ a couple of new guys in town.” The prospect of new people piques your interest, but you try to hide it as you stand and make your way over to do a wipedown of the espresso machine, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “Is that so?”

Kyle nods, reaching up to fiddle with the brim of his baseball cap  while his eyes sweep the diner as if looking for anyone who might be able to overhear what he's about to say, as if it’s some big secret. That alone intrigues you. He leans a bit closer, trying to look casual as he braced his forearms on the counter, and you have to focus on the machine you’re wiping down to keep from staring at the way his jacket has to stretch to accommodate the beautifully sculpted muscles lying just below that you had been blessed enough to see before the fall chill had set in.

“Yeah, a coupla’ fellas who-” You jolt and turn around as Kyle is cut off, John’s hand on his shoulder in a friendly gesture as he takes the barstool beside him, giving you a mirthful smile and a polite nod of greeting. You can only blink at him with wide eyes for a moment, wondering how he had gotten there without either you or Kyle noticing. Maybe, if he hadn’t been so reassuring, you might have noticed the flash of hesitation in Kyle’s eyes as he took another swig of his drink, effectively shutting himself up. “Hello, lovely. How has it been today? Slow? Sorry to leave you to mann it alone today, someone had a bloody busted pipe, so I had to go play landlord for a bit. But I'm sure it wasn’t too much, that right, lovie?” His eyes are always so warm, and his smile puts butterflies in the pit of your stomach. You’v ehad a lot of butterflies these past couple of months, especially since both men refuse to call you by your real name, insisting on a barrage of pet names instead that practically make you melt inside. Near every day has turned into a battle to keep your face from warming around them, and you can almost swear they make a game out of it some days. “Yeah, it was fine. Gibbs was pretty upset not to get his eggs since the cook was out, but he’ll live and told me to whack you upside the head for him.” You say with a bit of humor to your voice, sliding a black coffee across the counter to John which he takes with a grateful wink and immediately lifts to his lips. Kyle shifts a bit in his seat before getting up with a soft groan and stretching his hands above his head, his spine letting out a couple of cracks before he rolled his shoulders, settling back into his posture, hands finding their way into his pockets as he turned towards the door.

“Well, lunch break is almost up. Got an appointment in twenty and I wanna grab a sandwich beforehand. Don’t miss me too much, dove. Be back tomorrow.”

You sent Kyle off with a bright smile and a small wave, only wondering momentarily what he was going to say before being interrupted by Price once more, sipping away at his small coffee with an almost worried smile on his face, looking too tight to be on the face of the man you had come to know. “That Kyle, he’s a good lad, loyal to a fault. Well, I should probably head out too before my shoulder starts acting up. Some days, I wish the bastard had shot me anywhere else that wouldn’t get me booted from the service. But, oh, listen to me prattle on. Young bird like you doesn’t have time for the whinging of an old man like me.” And with that, he was out the door before you could even bid him farewell. It was almost… Odd. why was everyone acting so weird today? Shaking there was nothing to do except get back to your job and daydream about the two. Of course, opening your heart was completely off of the table at this point. You had been hurt too much for that, and it was way too soon. But a good lay certainly wouldn’t do you any harm. Especially since you had two more gorgeous ex-military men seeing you on what was basically a daily basis. You spent the rest of your shift daydreaming about sweet words murmured in your ear, thich corded forearms barred across your throat, hips snapping up into yours and forcing your back into a delicious arch while your lips- “Hey, you about ready to clock out?” Gaz’z voice startled you from your daydream, nearly making you drop the mug you were putting away at the end of your shift. THere he was, leaning against the door frame of the open diner door. You must have been deep in thought, because you didn’t even hear the bell ring. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just gotta hang up the apron and clock out.” You laughed out, pulling at the ties behind your back and sliding the apron off over your head. Lately, Gaz had taken to walking you back to your apartment. Something about not letting a lady walk alone in the dark even if you only lived a couple of blocks away. You had tried to invite him in multiple times, but he always gave you that same boyish smirk and told you that he might some other time. But this time was different. When you made your way up the steps of the building, Gaz’s hand stopped you, resting on your shoulder and bringing your attention back to is gorgeous face. He looked worried. “Hey, doll… Y’know… If any dogs ever come ‘round yappin… Just give me a call, k’? I’ll be over quicker than you can say ‘fuck off’, got it?” Your brows furrow in confusion, but you nod along nonethe less, which is apparently enough for the sweet guy, because he walks off without another word, leaving you to head back to your apartment and curl up into your old T-shirt and shorts  on the couch with a movie. A knock at the door stops you right before you can get really settled in, pulling a soft groan from your lips. Was John doing his rounds to check the smoke alarms? This late? It couldn’t be. Maybe it was Gaz finally taking you up on your offer? These thoughts ran through your head like a lazy river, pulling a small smile to your lips as you open the door, looking up and expecting to see one of the two ment that you had come to adore over the past few months of freedom. But your face fell immediately, taking step back from the door as the entire room seemed to shrink in on you, eyes widening and lungs tightening in your chest.

It couldn’t be…

“... Simon?...”  Your voice trembles to see the man you had once loved and devoted your entire life to standing awkwardly in the doorway, but something was off about him, different. Maybe it was the way he carried himself with that thinly veiled confidence of a skilled predator, maybe it was the way that his eyes weren’t as hollow as they had been before you left, maybe it was the way his entire face lit up at the sight of you in your grungy pajamas and mussed up bedhead; practically glowing beneath the familiar skull mask and striped balaclava you hadn’t seen in so long.

…

Or maybe it was just the fact that you hadn’t seen him like that in years…

When you left, Simon had practically been a shell of the man you had loved. He was unmotivated, never left the house unless it was to run or he was drug out by Johnny, he never made those stupid jokes you had loved so much, and he treated being alive as if it were a chore. He would tell you every time you could spare a moment just the two of you that being with you was the only time he felt happy anymore. But still he stayed with Johnny. And that still hurt. Speaking of… Where was Johnny? The man who so normally clung to Ghost’s heels like an eager mutt was nowhere to be found, sparking just the smallest bit of hope in your chest that maybe, just maybe, he had chosen you. Better late than never, right?

Or was that just wishful thinking? “We need to talk.” He said, that same blunt nature that you hated to admit you had missed pouring from behind his lips. As if he needed to tell you that. You stand there for a long minute, debating whether or not to let one of the men that had hurt you so much into your apartment, back into your life. But you were still weak to SImon, and he knew it. With a low sigh, you shake your head and allow the huge man into your apartment, ducking his head so as not to knock it against the doorframe. Jesus, you always forget just how BIG he is… He makes himself at home on your couch without wasting any time, looking as cool and collected as ever, like a king on his throne. But you know better, you know Simon. His hand is twitching towards his hip, his eyes are sweeping the room to check for all escape routes, his boot isn’t tapping against the plush rug you have laid out over the floor. He’s nervous. You stand before him, arms crossed over your midsection as you wait for him to start talking, explaining why he’s here. “We got help. Mentally. Me an’ Johnny…” He starts, and you’re almost ready to kick him out when he speaks of the other man as if he were still in the picture. Of course. How could you have been so damn foolish? But Simon raises his hands in a show of peace, his eyes pleading for you to hear him out before flipping your lid, even though it was very well deserved. But damn if you weren’t weak for those pathetic brown eyes of his when he was pleading with you. “I’m listening.” Your curt words may as well have been knives from the way Simon flinched slightly. That wasn’t like you, not his sweet Angel. He had really fucked up. “So… It turns out that I was incredibly depressed… clinically… Had to do with some fucking implant I had gotten back in the SAS to regulate emotions, it was supposed to be a couple year test that would get removed once the blokes in jackets had their damn info… I had it in for seven years…Seven years, lovie. Got a call about a month after you headed off from one of my old buddies. Some bloke apparently fucked up my discharge papers and that little detail had been overlooked. So, I headed back to base and got ir removed… And, oh, lovie… It’s been so much better…” His voice actually cracks at that last part. It didn’t make any sense to you though. Military emotional regulators? Trying to make super soldiers? And his had expired? It was hard for you to believe. But you couldn’t deny that seeing Simon like this again, looking more like himself than he had in years? It was doing things to you that you hated and tried to push down. “And Johnny?” You asked, keeping the same cold tone to your voice, trying not to give him even an inch to work with. He wouldn’t dig his claws into you again, not this time. You could see a deep look of regret and remorse in those deep mahogany irises of his, along with understanding. He couldn’t even blame you for treating him so coldly and keeping him at arms length. “Actually, lovie… That’s kind of why i'm here… I was gonna leave him, really I was. Was gonna kick his arse to the curb and hope that you would take me back. Even got m’self an apartment in the next town over. But in the middle of moving was when I got the call, and a lot of shit happened and then I was just… I was standing in an apartment surrounded by my things and I just…” Simon drug a hand over his face, pulling the damn thing off and revealing the face you hadn’t seen in so long. Damn, you wish he had just left the thing on so you wouldn’t have to see just how pained he looked.

That was your Simon alright. Silvery slivers of raised skin littering across his face and over the bridge of his crooked nose, indents in his face where flesh had been gouged out, and the most gorgeous blonde lashes framing those deep mocha eyes that always sucked you in down to your very soul and melted you like chocolate in his warm hands. But not this time. You wouldn’t let him just have you back, he had to earn that. “Lovie… We were wrong…” What? Wrong? A single quirked brow was all the question for elaboration that Simon needed, taking a deep and shaky breath before continuing. “We both… We both blamed him for so many things, because it was easier to blame him than admit our own problems… I was standin’ in that nearly empty apartment, and all I could think about was somethin’ my ma used to say whenever she thought of leavin’ my pa’...”

Information about Simon’s past was hard to come across, more rare than a penguin in a desert, but you knew some of the basic things. Knew about his brother, knew that his dad beat them all, knew that he was the last Riley left. But that was about it. So for him to suddenly open up like this… It raised your guard just as much as it lowered it. “She used to ask herself, would she be happier without him than she was with him? Sure, he was a drunk, he was an asshole, and he beat us all… But my ma’ could never answer the question. And lovie… Neither could I… I was in that barren excuse of a home and I just… I had nothing… Not Johnny… Not you… And I didn’t know if I could ever get you back…” His shoulders were shaking now while he buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t crying, no. This was still Simon, this was still Ghost, after all. But this shuddering breath and trembling was the closest he would ever let himself get. Here he was, practically rolling over and bearing his belly to you, and all you could do was stand there.

Sure, you wanted to tell him it was okay, to pull yourself into his lap and surround yourself in him again just like you used to… but how could you? This was your Simon again, but you weren’t his anymore. Even still, his broken voice continued. “Tried for so long… hunted you like a fuckin’ bloodhound… but captain wouldn’t let me anywhere near you until we got help… until I got help… And I didn’t want to… But Johnny said that he would if I did, and… I’m not askin’ you to take him back, or take me back… but please… I can’t live without you, lovie… at least… at least let me exist in the same world as you… please…” Kyle’s cryptic words of warning made a lot more sense now, telling you that he would fend off any dogs that came yapping where they weren’t wanted.

But this was Simon.

Maybe you had judged Jonny too much? After all, sure you felt ostracized, but was it all just in your head? Simon had admitted that he was complacent and part of the issue, but maybe you had been too. After all, when your relationship had been falling apart and Johnny stopped inviting you out on dates or to hang out with them, he was still the one who picked up your favorite snacks and drinks on a whim because he was thinking about you, and the one who payed attention to the new movies you liked. Johnny was the one who kept you from SImon’s ire when you forgot to do dishes or the like because he would do them for you, or take the heat off of you by doing something dumb.

Maybe you had been so focused on Simons and your own misery that you hadn’t seen the man cutting his own hands open to pick the pieces back up for both of you. What you thought was ostracization might have actually been him trying to give you space, taking up all of Ghost’s time might have been his way of trying desperately to distract SImon from his own head, and he was just shit at juggling people.

“Love?” Simon’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts, realizing that tears stung your eyes and flooded down your cheeks. The arms crossed over your midsection had turned into clutching at your elbows, trying to keep yourself from tearing at the seams while your smaller frame trembled and wracked with silent, shaky sobs. “Oh, lovie…”

Simon’s voice was gentle as he stood, looming over you and reaching out a broad calloused hand the size of your face to gently cup your cheek and wipe away your tears like he had so many times before. So many whispered nights spent curled up on his chest, so many nights beneath the stars filled with giggles, so many days where it didn’t matter what you were doing as long as you were with him. All of them gone. His eyes were flooded with silent agony as you stepped back, recoiling away from his touch as if it were a live wire that had hurt you. SImon had hurt so many people, and Ghost had hurt so many more, and they often kept him up at night with memories of the screams, of his own death, of his brother and nephew. But the look on your face as you backed away from him was an image that would forever be seared into his brain as one of the worst. His angel had fallen from grace, his goddess had cast him from her temple, The very breath from his lungs stolen in the midst of an ocean and left him to drown.

And who was really to blame?

You? Johnny? Himself? The Russian bastards who had captured him and Soap in the first place? The lab coats wo had stuck the fucking implant hin him in the first place? There were to many people he could blame, too many places it could have home wrong.

But it didn’t matter, not when you looked at him like that. “I see.” He said, standing up straight and rolling his shoulders back, going dangerously cold, dangerously numb. A coping mechanism, the psych had called it, dissociation. Simon called it whatever fucking works. He turned on the heel of his boot and scooped his mask off of your little worn-down couch that must have come with the apartment from the way it was much more suited to Price's taste than your own. “That’s that then.”

“Wait.” A small trembling hand on the sleeve of his shirt made Simon pause his stride to the door, looking down at you with eyes that were all too cold so you wouldn’t see the anguish running through his veins. He had lost you, and he was the only person he would let himself blame.

“Friends.” That one whispered word, so soft that Simon had almost missed it over the demons berating him in his own ears was like a godsend. You were allowing him into your life again. Not back into your home or your arms or your heart. But Simon could work with friends, He could live with friends. He nodded, reaching a big hand up and ruffling your hair gently before gently tugging out of your grip and leaving your small apartment, leaving you alone to process and feel what you needed to.

He would wait any amount of time.

You were worth it.

[cubestrahm]

»{ Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm }« ✦ { ao3 }

next chapter -»

✦ Summary: This moment in time feels inevitable. It is as though Peter was always meant to wind up in the crushing dark with Mark Hoffman, tangled in a deadly situation that neither man can escape from unscathed. ✦ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ✦ Content/tags: Background Angelina Acomb/Lindsey Perez, Alternate Universe - Diners, Slow Burn, Canonical Character Death, Canon Typical Gore, Detailed Descriptions of Wounds, Improper Wound Care, Non-Sexual Nudity, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Mild Feeding Kink, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Divorced Peter Strahm ✦ Word count: 6,488 ✦ Status: Multi-chapter / Ongoing ✦ Author's note: Shout-out to @danime25/@hoffstrap-yuri. I wouldn't be chest deep in Saw hell if it weren't for her. ♥

Rhythmic passes of a damp cloth on a laminate counter, steady whooshes of breath as his body leans into each motion of his arm; this is as calm as Peter Strahm ever feels. Repetitive actions keep his mind occupied enough to not wander in search of some pressing issue to fixate on. Not that there is much to endlessly turn over in his brain at the diner, but he can always find something.

A loud clang of the metal bells bouncing off the front door and the scuff of shoes against the wood floor heralds the arrival of customers. The first ones of the day. Peter doesn’t bother to look up, choosing instead to let Lindsey be the face of the establishment. He is convinced that she’s the only reason this place stays afloat. He’d have run everyone off with his demeanor ages ago if he were the sole owner. As a supervisor had once said to him, Peter would cut off his own nose to spite his face.

Barely listening to his partner’s cheery banter and the responding pleasantries of the customers—two of them, he notes, a man and a woman—he tosses the rag in the sanitation bucket before making his way to the coffee machine. It’s finished brewing the pot he’d started just five minutes ago. He dumps the used grounds and resets the machine with a new filter of freshly ground beans. When they hit a rush, coffee is the first thing to go. Early on, he and Lindsey learned that lesson the hard way. Customers get downright vicious when they can't get their caffeine fix the instant they want it.

“Pete,” Lindsey says, sliding up alongside him behind the counter.

“Mm,” he responds as he takes the offered ticket from her hand. He looks over the order. Simple. Easy. No substitutions or alterations. He can appreciate that. “Need anything before I get this made?”

“No, I’ll try to not burn the place down while you’re in the back though.”

He snorts, amused. If anyone was going to be engaging in pyromania during work hours, it would be him.

Peter retreats to the kitchen. His shoulders relax in the privacy beyond the swinging door. He is used to eyes being on him, every moment analyzed and critiqued, but solace suits him better. He doesn’t have to put on the thin veneer of normalcy that he’s capable of.

Steady hands prepare the ingredients before laying them on the grill top. Cooking is immersive work, a different kind of toil than when he was in the FBI. The constant examination for guilt, the way he would dirty his hands with the worst humanity had to offer… it took a toll on him. He lost himself in his job. Back then, most days, he felt like he should be the one handcuffed to the table while an agent berated him with rapid-fire questions. He had gathered up parts of every criminal he ever investigated. Strahm had ingested those pieces like poison until they had become a part of him, lining his internal organs and threatening to spread like a cancer.

The only thing that had kept him from going into the restroom and closing his lips around the barrel of his own handgun at work had been Lindsey. There had been a day when he was uncharacteristically tidying his papers on his desk and she looked up from where her own desk butted right against his. She had taken in the sight of his drawn, exhausted face, the bags under his bloodshot eyes, and the faint tremor in his hands. She had known. She’d stood up, nearly sending her desk chair halfway across the room on its wobbly wheels. His partner had reached over their computer monitors and grabbed onto his forearm with determined desperation. She’d said, “Fuck this, we’re done.”

They had opened the diner five months later.

Conceptualizing the place had started off as a pipe dream between two friends. Strahm had cooked for Lindsey some nights, when there was a sliver of down time. He’d been the one to teach her how to make more than oven pizzas and the occasional grilled cheese. He had also been the one who taught her how to shoot a man in the chest without flinching.

Five years, they’d worked together as agents for the FBI. Lindsey had been fresh out of the academy, and he’d already begun his downward spiral when they were assigned one another. No one else had wanted the woman rookie or the wild-eyed man they swore must be doing drugs to be acting the way he did, no matter how many piss tests came back clean. Two misfits.

Their coworkers and supervisors thought that he would make her cry, that he would destroy her confidence. Hell, they’d hoped he would go so far as to convince her that a woman didn’t belong at the boys’ table. Instead, Strahm realized that there was someone he could be bothered to live for.

He plates the two meals, reminiscing over and set aside for now. Fingers long since desensitized to the feeling of hot ceramic against them, he carries one plate in each hand to the dining area. The man and the woman are still the only customers. It’s a small town. It’s far enough from the main city that they don’t get much traffic out here this early in the morning. Usually, their clientele starts trickling in a couple hours after they open. It’s a motley assortment of people. They get folks from all walks of life seeking a seat at their secondhand tables. Money had been tight when they opened the place. Now, they keep the mismatched furniture as part of the place’s charm. He leaves the decor up to Lindsey.

As Peter makes his way to the dark haired pair seated at a table by the windows that span the front of the diner, initial thoughts that they might be a couple are blown away by the way the two of them are interacting. She’s engaging in five finger fillet with the straw for her orange juice. The hand that she’s playing the game with belongs to her resigned companion rather than herself. They must be siblings in one way or another.

“Here you go,” he sets the plates in front of them. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Yeah,” the seated man says. He’s wearing a suit. There is a flash of something at his hip. A gun and a badge. Strahm realizes that the man is a cop. Great. “Some decent coffee would be nice.” Peter’s eyebrows shoot up at the brazen rudeness. Across the table, the woman hisses, “Mark! What the fuck!” and swats at the officer.

The man isn’t deterred, just continues to stare Peter down with a dumb look in his blue eyes and a faint curl to his overly large, fish-like lips. Strahm hates him immediately. His dislike is only furthered by the realization that the seated cop’s buttons are straining across his chest. Could he not afford better fitting shirts? Or is he just too stupid to know his own size? Peter isn’t completely sure, but he’s willing to hazard the guess it might be the latter.

He grits his teeth and puts on a smile that’s more similar to a snarl than a genuine stab at pleasantry. “And what’s wrong with it?”

“It tastes like it’s been sitting out for hours,” he says, wincing only a little when the woman manages to land a solid kick against his shin. Peter wishes he could also dig the tip of his shoe into that yielding body.

Snatching the mug off the counter, he barely avoids the impulse to dump it on the cop’s lap and give him something to actually complain about. He doesn’t quite storm off to the narrow space behind the counter but it’s a close thing. He still carries his anger around his throat like a noose. Leaving the FBI hadn’t changed that.

The expression on his face is thunderous enough that Lindsey looks alarmed. Rightfully so. “What’s wrong?”

“Jackass cop. They always think they can come in here and push everyone around. That one probably jerks off onto his badge every night.” He feels a muscle jump in his jaw.

“That was… descriptive.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, ditching the mug on the counter by the machine and picking up the glass coffeepot and a fresh mug.

Peter strides back over to the occupied table. He sets down the mug with a hard thud on the tablecloth-covered wood, enough so that the table rattles with the force of it. It’s a miracle the ceramic doesn’t shatter. Neither of the two men look away from each other as he slowly pours the dark liquid. Only rising steam blocks their view, faltering and diverting as though it were afraid to be in the middle of them.

He fills the mug as high as he can get it, surface tension being the only thing keeping the coffee contained. It will be impossible to pick up without spilling. The cop is going to have to drink from it like a dog if he wants it at all.

“Thank you, Peter.” His voice is low, throaty.

Strahm startles at the use of his first name. His fingers reflexively clench into a fist. He perpetually forgets about the name tags that Lindsey insists they both wear despite her being the only one he has ever grown accustomed to calling him anything but some variation of “Agent” and “Strahm.” Of course this bloated asshole would be presumptuous enough use his name.

Choosing not to respond, he leaves the table and retreats to the sanctuary behind the counter. Any satisfaction he might have felt at watching his customer debase himself is dashed when Mark seeks out his eyes once again with his own as he lowers his face to the table and presses those absurdly full lips against the rim of the coffee mug. Peter can’t look away as he watches Mark’s throat engage in gulping swallows to drain the mug to the point where he can pick it up and drink from it like a slightly more civilized ape. He doesn’t realize he’s trembling, nearly vibrating in place, until his partner taps him on the arm and takes the glass carafe from his hand.

Lindsey attends to the pair from that point on. He lets her. They both know things might escalate, with his fuse being an oil soaked scrap of already burning twine.

The cop is perfectly nice to her, even smiling and thanking her for another coffee refill. Strahm can still feel the other man’s eyes rest on him from time to time. There’s something about the weight of his stare that makes him want to scratch at a phantom itch under his collar until blood burrows its way beneath his nails.

He finds his relief when Lindsey brings out the bill. Mark leaves his sister behind to pay after he hands her his wallet. She approaches the register with the slip of paper, looking meeker, somehow smaller, without her brother around. He barely keeps the frown off his face at her body language. There’s a nervous look in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry about my brother. I don’t know what got into him. He’s never like that.”

She sounds so sincere that he feels his frustration ease off the gas a little. It wouldn’t be right of him to be pissed at her just because she has an asshole for a sibling. “Ah, don’t worry about it.”

“Please, keep the change,” she says, handing him a wad of bills.

He pauses, fingertips already on the smaller denominations in the cash drawer. “This is too much, really.”

“Call it a…” she raises her fingers in scare quotes, “‘Markup’.”

Strahm sighs. Both siblings are intolerable.

“Alright then…?”

“Angelina. Angie.”

“Have a nice day, Angelina.” He very politely does not tell her to inform her brother to go fuck himself. Preferably with his own loaded gun. Safety off.

The young woman gives a little wave to Lindsey on her way out the door. His partner cheerfully returns it, her other arm laden down with the pair’s used plates. Peter loops around the counter to help her with bussing the table. He snatches up a clean rag on the way.

He’s not quite sure why the other man got under his skin so badly. It chafes at him. They have had more than a couple blowhard cops in the diner before, but they’ve never invoked the same visceral reaction from Strahm as Mark had. At least he can find solace in knowing that he will probably never have to see them again. They hadn’t seemed like locals, and it’s unlikely they’ll return, especially given the cop’s behavior towards him.

Hours pass, evening finally settles in after a long day. Diner traffic had ebbed and flowed along the usual patterns after the two siblings had left. Strahm and Perez had had the their typical rush around eight, followed by another burst of customers around noon, and the final crowd at six. There had been nothing else out of the ordinary to get Peter’s hackles up.

“Go on home, Linds,” he says to his partner as he flips the last chair onto one of the tables. He doesn’t want her to be stuck here all night while he meticulously combs over the diner in preparation for opening in the morning.

She stops, looks over at him with raised eyebrows. She’s got one hand on the dustpan and the other wrapped around the broom. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I could use the time to—“

“Get your homicidal urges under control?” she suggests with a grin.

He doesn’t dignify Lindsey with a response, just takes the broom from her before gently pressing his knuckles to her back to nudge her in the direction of the counter. “I’ll see you in the morning. Shoot me a message when you get home.”

“Oh, I’ll shoot you alright,” the woman mutters as she goes and gets her coat and purse.

“I wish you would. It would save me the trouble of doing it myself,” he calls after her.

The look he gets in return, all scrunched eyes and pursed lips, makes him smile. Lindsey’s “agent special”, as they jokingly call the expression they both slip into when agitated, would be enough to sour milk. He and his partner aren’t all that different. Their mannerisms have blurred together over the years. Lindsey is still his better half, though. She always will be.

“’Night, Pete.” She pauses with her hand on the front door’s handle. “You let me know too. When you get back to your place.”

“Goodnight,” he says, grudgingly tacking on “I will.” when she clears her throat in a pointed demand.

He finishes sweeping and is in the middle of mopping when his phone vibrates in the front pocket of his jeans. Without looking, he knows it’s the message from Lindsey. Still, he pulls the device out anyway and flips it open.

The text illuminated on the screen reads Im home :) Dont forget 2 eat

Satisfied that she’s safe, he doesn’t pick at the number pad and work up a reply. Peter merely closes the phone and returns it to his pocket. He’ll be messaging Lindsey about his return to his shitty rental soon enough. He’s almost done here, will be once he’s combed over every final detail down to the level the salt shakers are filled to. Strahm can’t help but treat every night at the diner like a case. All the parts have to be arranged in just the right order to construct the whole picture.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Early riser, is the first thing Strahm thinks the next morning when he hears the bells clatter against the glass of the front door. It is barely five minutes past six. Lindsey is in the back wrangling the day’s special; muffins. Much to his mixture of pride and chagrin, she’s become a substantially better baker than he. She has the patience for it.

“Welcome in,” he says, not looking up from the inventory list he’s in the middle of putting together.

He is going to have to call in an order to their supplier before noon today if they want it by Friday, which they do. Business is going to be elevated above average due to a local softball game on Saturday. One of them will be tasked with catering the event while the other stays behind to run the diner. He and Lindsey are going to have to draw straws for who gets what job. Peter is sure that she’s going to rig the game by changing the rules once the results are in so that she has be the person to go. His customer skills are better left unpracticed.

“Thanks, Peter,” comes a familiar voice.

Nearly snapping his own damn neck when he jerks his head up, he looks at the speaker. It’s Mark. He is holding the door open with a glove-clad hand for his presumed saint of a sister.

Anger sparks along his spine. He had bet wrong on never seeing the cop again, and with an aggressive motion, he snatches up only one menu. It’s only when he’s halfway to their table that he realizes he is rapidly clicking the pen he was using to write down notes for the order. He forces himself to stop.

Strahm can’t help but notice the other man is dressed the same as he was yesterday. He’s wearing the black blazer again, silk shirt is straining over his—what Peter can only call—breasts. He catches the sight of a thick suspender strap pressing into the softness of his chest, and finds that he has to look away and focus carefully on the menu he’s setting on the table in front of Angelina. He can tell that the other man is eyeing him questioningly.

“Where’s mine?” the cop asks, falling right into the trap Peter had impulsively set for him.

Turning to him with a fake as shit, winning smile, he says, “I thought your sister would be reading it to you. On account of you being a brain-damaged neanderthal.”

While Mark looks at him unblinkingly for a long moment and Angelina tries to smother her shocked laugh, Peter doesn’t let go of the smile. He rubs this thumb over the pen as he waits patiently for the cop to speak.

“Hm,” Mark finally says, considering, “Mother always did love dropping me on my head.”

Peter’s grin wavers, thinking the man might not be joking. His tone had been too serious. The amused expression falls off his face completely.

Fuck, he thinks, feeling a tinge of horror. Lindsey is going to kill him if he doesn’t kill himself first. Mark’s sister has her face buried in her hands. He’s royally cocked this up. He’s on the verge of apologizing when—

“I’m joking, Pete. I thought we were all friends here.”

Strahm relaxes, just marginally, but then Mark speaks again “Besides, I didn’t have a mother. In fact, you might be onto som—”

Peter interrupts him, turning to Angie, “What can I get you started with?”

“Orange juice, and some coffee for Oliver Twist over there.”

“Did you take him to the vet to get his taste buds looked at?” He’s still reflexively tapping his thumb against the clicker of the pen, not hard enough to trigger the mechanism.

She snaps her fingers, a smile playing at her mouth. “Damn, I forgot. I’m sure he’ll be nice this time,” she emphasizes with a pointed look at her brother.

Unable to help himself, he hazards a glance at the cop as well. Mark, upon realizing he’s being observed, darts his eyes from Peter’s right hand to his face. There’s something off about his expression, only furthered by a hard swallow. He looks almost… No. The idiot is probably just creaming himself over the thought of breakfast.

“I’ll be right out with that.”

When he pushes through the swinging door into the kitchen, he finds Lindsey pulling out another tray of muffins. She slides them onto the wheeled cooling rack and hums along to the radio blasting dad rock. His partner looks over at him with a smile. “Got a customer already?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles, snagging a glass serving decanter off a shelf, “jerkoff cop and his sister from yesterday.”

Peter can hear the frown in her voice as she speaks. “Want me to handle them?”

“No. I got it,” he calls on his way to the walk-in, decanter in hand. He fills it with orange juice from the dispenser before slipping out of the cooler and back into the main room of the kitchen to find and wrangle the lid onto the glass vessel.

Perez speaks like he hadn’t walked off, used to his comings and goings, “I’ll take the softball game then.”

“Not your call,” he says, thumbs bleaching white as he presses the sloped, metal lid down into the decanter until the rubber seal catches.

“Sure is, buddy. You’ll be using up all your goodwill today. I don’t want you terrorizing entire families this weekend. It’s bad for business.”

The retired agent lets out a ragged sigh on his way through the swinging door, finding himself unable to disagree. He knows his own limits, as much as he resents them, and so does Lindsey. Unlike her, he is willing to ignore them if it means getting the job done. It’s a miracle how she’s managed to stick around all these years. No one else has managed to tolerate his unwavering dedication. His first wife had left him for turning a blind eye to everything other than work, and the second had done the same for his devotion to Lindsey. Strahm is ever the dog with a bone, gnawing until he has reached the marrow and licked away every last trace of it.

He loves Perez like the sister he never got to have. Peter has both put his life on the line for her and taken the lives of other people for her continued survival. He has the unfortunate affliction of being willing to do anything for her, even going so far as to let her take some of the burden of this job off his shoulders. Atlas gets to have a partner.

Fetching a glass from under the counter, he tops it off with orange juice before stashing the serving jug in the mini-fridge where they keep the other cold items they need close at hand throughout the day—beverage pitchers, whipped cream, sliced lemons, the works.

Laughter travels across the diner, quick-footed and noisy. Strahm looks up at the interruption. The cop is holding the menu upside down and attempting to read the inverted text as he trails a thick finger over the print. He clearly cares about his sister. The love is written all over his stupid face, so thick that it’s enough to choke on.

Tamping down any lingering irritation as best as he can, Peter makes his way over to the siblings’ table. He is careful when he sets Angelina’s glass of orange juice down but doesn’t take the same care in the dismissive way he thunks Mark’s empty mug on the surface.

“Decided what you want yet?” he asks, pouring too much coffee into the mug in a repetition of yesterday. It laps the rim, begging to escape over the side.

At Angelina’s affirmative, Strahm sets the coffee carafe on the table and withdraws the notepad from his belt. While he jots down their order, he can’t help but be unsure if Mark is actually stupid or if he is just pretending. Either way, the man grates at him in such a way that he’d like to sink his fist into his face. It might relieve the inexplicable feeling crawling around under his skin like its trying to make a home. If he doesn’t act, it might buy real estate nestled away somewhere under his ribs.

Once he has everything marked down, he trades places with Lindsey after passing her the coffeepot and cooks the meal up in the back while she mans the front. They swap again as soon as he serves the places.

Behind the counter, he works at finishing up the restock order. Peter keeps finding his eyes wandering to the eating man rather than the task at hand. The solitude of the front only serves to allow him all the free rein he could possibly want to watch the man consume the meal Strahm had put in front of him. Each mouthful, each bob of that thick neck as he swallows, the tines of the fork disappearing between those overfilled lips; there’s something about it that he cannot look away from.

For now, he tells himself that the rapt attention is borne of disgust, that he’s watching for a complaint so he has cause to let out the aggression boiling inside of him. Later, once he has closed the diner for the night, he tries to convince himself that the tinge of satisfaction he’s feeling in this moment is because he is looking at proof of a job well done. The cop is clearly enjoying his food, and Strahm takes pride in his work.

Either way, he ignores the stirring that he feels in his jeans. He curses himself under his breath and puts all his focus into finishing the list he should have been locked into all along. He barely marks down the last item on the sheet before Lindsey pops through the swinging door, flushed from having completed her baking.

She ducks right under his arm and pulls the paper out from under his hand. Lindsey ignores his outraged noise. “Is this everything?”

“Yeah. Business has been picking up.”

“Mmm… Go water the plants for me? I’ll take over here.”

His partner makes a shooing gesture at him. She had been the one who insisted they have flowers in front of the diner and around the lot’s tree. Of course, the task of caring for them has fallen to Peter. He’d seen the state of her houseplants time and time again. Each of them inevitably finds a place at his rental home, handed over by a sheepish Lindsey. He all but has a jungle tucked away in his living room. Perez has many qualities. Unfortunately, a green thumb is not among them.

Casting a quick glance over at the table, he sees that the siblings are nearly done. They will be needing the check soon.

“Fine,” he says, giving in. It’s probably better for everyone is he’s not looking at the cop.

The bell chimes as he ducks out the front door. He checks the soil before he bothers to get the hose. In doing so, he finds out that Lindsey was right, the plants do need watered.

Peter is in the middle of watering the bed under the window when a shadow falls over the box. It consumes his, merges with it to create a twisted creature. There is something familiar in that figure, something deep in the core of his body groans in approval. Everything else fades away for a moment as he quietly observes it.

“Angie told me to apologize.”

Peter jerks, surprised by the rolling voice behind him. His finger slips off the sprayer. The water cuts off abruptly. He narrowly avoids clutching at his chest with his free hand like a stereotypical old man having a heart attack. With his heart pounding in his ears, he turns around to face Mark. Strahm doesn’t spay the cop with the hose. He wants to.

“So are you?” he asks with forced nonchalance.

Mark considers him. Those pale eyes survey the damp patches on Strahm’s jeans where the water had blown back. His stare seems to catch on the wet patch of t-shirt clinging to his stomach. “I don’t know. Is there something in it for me if I do?”

Strahm feels his neck go hot. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the other man is flirting.

“Depends on how good the apology is.” The words are out of his mouth before his brain catches up. Damn it, Strahm, damn it, he thinks. His tendency to spout out whatever leapt to his tongue was a barely leashed thing that often broke free of its tether at the most inopportune of moments.

A smile curves the edges of Mark’s over-sized lips and the shorter man leans his bulk in just enough to make him feel cornered. Strahm has to fight not to react in any direction; either to shove him away or to pull him in. Disgust is warring with interest. He frowns. He barely knows this man. The retired agent would like to know what the fuck is wrong with him.

Sudden surprise flairs in those eyes and Mark withdraws, saying, “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

Peter is left standing alone on the pavement, hose in hand, as the other man lumbers away to the navy Crown Victoria parked at the meter. He’s wet and confused. His jeans feel as tight as the scar cutting across his cheek.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Wednesday passes without further incident. Thursday’s only outstanding feature is the arrival of the order they had placed on Tuesday. Friday night sees Strahm helping to prepare everything for Lindsey’s catering on Saturday. There is no sign of Mark during the three day span. Only his sister stops by the diner. She gives no explanation for her brother’s absence and Peter does not ask.

Over the days, Strahm and Perez get to know Angelina. They learn that she loves her brother just as much as he loves her. She reveals that she and Mark were system kids. He has taken care of her like his own family since the moment they met at the home of shared foster parents. The adults had ended up not wanting Mark and despite only intending to send him back, they’d had to send both children away. Hoffman and Acomb had been stamped with a “do-not-separate” notice when Mark had later broken the nose of one of the staff members in response to being told they were going to be split up. Another family had wanted to foster just her.

Hoffman had filed for custody of her as soon as he aged out of the system and the means to show he could provide for her. He had been the youngest cop the precinct had assigned the role of detective to. Angie wishes her brother would hover less and worry about himself more. She thinks that he is burning the candle at both ends.

Over those days, Strahm’s worldview around the man shifts. The flames of disdain that had been raging inside of him peter out and turn into a charred bed of ash. He still wants to punch the man in the face, still wants to rough him up until he’s marked with the proof of Strahm’s fists—of his mouth—but he might soothe the man’s wounds afterwards with careful passes of his tongue.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Lindsey has just barely left for the softball field with her small truck laden down with the necessary food and supplies for the catering ordeal when the bell above the door jangles. Strahm looks up from the coffee filters he’s separating to see that it’s Mark. He is the first customer of the morning.

The detective doesn’t take a seat at the table, instead, he settles himself onto a stool at the counter. Strahm can’t help but notice that the seat Mark chooses is the one beside the stool that his sister has been occupying for the past few days. It’s as though his body instinctively knows where Angie resides and always keeps that space carved out for her. Peter is sure that if something were to ever happen to her, there would be a gaping hole in the detective’s life, a place where his sister should fill.

Something gives way in his chest at the sight of him. He’d never admit it, but he’s irrationally missed him.

“Morning,” he says, putting a mug down in front of him. He leaves enough room for Mark’s sugar this time as he pours the coffee in, unprompted. He’s being uncharacteristically nice. It could be that he’s making up for the lack of his partner. His rough edges can’t be too sharp when she’s not around to patch up the cuts he might make.

Any positive feelings at the other man being back at the diner are dashed when the first words out of his mouth aren’t a good morning in return, or even a thanks, but a “You wife has been getting real close with my sister. You guys a pineapple couple or what?”

Mark’s eyes are flat, deceptively calm. Uncomfortably, Peter feels as though he’s looking into the eyes of an attacking shark. He barely keeps the coffeepot he’s holding from slipping from his grasp. He’s suddenly all too aware of the wedding band weighing down his ring finger. It had been the same one from both his previous marriages. The retired FBI agent should have known the second marriage was doomed to fall apart from the moment he decided to not pick out new wedding rings with his fiancée. It probably hadn’t helped, that unbeknownst to ex-wife number two, he had proposed to her with the engagement ring he’d gotten back after the divorce of his first wife. Both women had been right to end their marriages to him. He’d been a shitty husband. His heart hadn’t been in it. Neither woman had been what he was really looking for.

On the Lindsey’s behalf, he’s offended for Mark even thinking she would stoop so low as to be married to him. She deserves better than his negligence and repression. He knows it and she knows it. In all the years that they’ve been partners, they have never done anything more than share a few awkward hugs.

“Lindsey and I aren’t married,” he says firmly.

“Just you then?”

“I’m not married. Neither of us are married.”

“You wear a ring. Seems awful married to me.”

“It keeps some of the old ladies from trying to mount me in the stock room,” he answers, dry.

They sit on that in silence. Strahm places the carafe back on the hotplate. Something nags at him. He turns to Mark only to find that he’s still staring at him. “What the fuck is a pineapple couple?”

“Swingers, Pete. I asked if you were a swinger.”

“What? No. Mark. No. No.”

The seated man looks strangely smug. “Good. I don’t share,” he says as if it were the most casual thing in the world and flips open a menu.

For a moment, Strahm thinks his brain shuts off. He reaches blindly for a rag out of the sanitizer bucket and starts scrubbing the counter with it. Mark’s voice comes to him like Peter is under water, distorted and faint.

“Eggs and bacon for me today. Some multigrain if you’ve got it.”

Pulling his notepad from his belt, Strahm scribbles down the order. He doesn’t need to but he needs to fight for a finger hold of normality here.

“Small breakfast. Sure you don’t want to stuff your mouth with anything else?” As soon as the words hit the air, Strahm wishes he could somehow suck them back in. Why is he forever incapable of thinking before he speaks?

Hoffman shrugs. “Nah, Angie’s not here to steal half the food off my plate. Besides, what I want isn't on the menu anyway.” His eyes feel like a physical caress as they map over Peter’s body. The meaning is blatant, not remotely subtle.

Peter opens his mouth, closes it.

“I’ll be back with that,” he says. On his way to the kitchen’s swinging door, he tries to keep his pace measured as he escapes Mark’s all too interested eyes. He doesn't want the detective to see how much their interaction has rattled him.

Once in the kitchen, he realizes that he needs to get ingredients out of the walk-in and pops the latch to step inside the small space. Instead of gathering what he had come for, Peter finds himself sitting on a tomato box. He leans back, pressing the sides of his clenched hands to his brow bone. Letting out a loud sigh that’s more of a growl, the diner owner sags into the cold metal of the wall behind it. The change in temperature is enough of a difference to shock his system back into some sense of reality.

What the fuck? he thinks, irritation creeping into his thoughts like an old friend. The detective had acted like he would gladly engage him in a physical fight over coffee and now he’s making overt passes at him. It’s enough to send his head spinning. Going over their interactions, he’s drawing the conclusion that perhaps the other man had been flirting with him since the start, trying different tactics to get his attention like a snot-nosed brat pulling a girl’s hair on the playground before realizing that honey catches more flies.

Being in the cooler finally catches up with him and he wastes no time in getting to his feet. He hates tight spaces, always has. Eventually, they make him feel like the walls are closing in inch by anxiety-inducing inch. A nonsensical section of his hind brain fears he will get crushed between them, rendered into a pool of fat floating atop pulpy innards and shattered bones.

Once free of the walk-in, he fries up the bacon and the eggs. He slips some toast onto the plate before carrying it out to the front. It’s hot against his fingers, the heat soaking through his callouses.

Peter has a moment to observe Mark when he pauses in the doorway. The swinging door is propped open against his elbow. The detective is sitting quietly, sketching something out on a napkin with the pen that Strahm must have unintentionally left behind after he took down the order. Once Mark catches sight of him, he flips the napkin over. As he does, Peter gets a glimpse of the drawing. It’s depicting something mechanical, like a medieval torture device made modern. An alarm bell clangs in the back of his head.

Neither of them bring up the drawing. Mark steadily tucks into his breakfast. Peter pretends not to be watching him. He thinks part of his brain dies when Mark has to lick away a smear of ketchup off his own lip. For a moment, Peter has the thought of his own tongue doing the work for the detective instead.

The retired agent ends up nearly snarling at him when he asks for a coffee refill.

next chapter -»

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[pretty-princess-jeremy]

Let's transform a 0 point 0 1 square meter space into a functional house. Mannequin Mark lived frugally and worked diligently in a woodworking business for two years managing to save up half a million to buy a house in New York.

However, upon moving in, he was shocked by how small it was, tripping upon walking in but was saved by his childhood eagle. He couldn't even fit his grandma's coffin.

Poor Mark had to tie himself up to the doorframe to get a proper night's rest. He would lay on his eagle's and cry. Eventually, he got sick of it and decided for renovation.

Now, let's explore how we can help Mannequin Mark transform it into a functional home.

First, we'll construct a durable frame using galvanized square steel anchored firmly to the wall with expansion screws borrowed from his aunt filled with grid steel bars and concrete for lasting strength.

We'll also install thermally broken aluminum windows, expanding the living space by 2 square meters.

Next, we'll build a multifunctional sitting platform on the floor with hidden storage underneath for bulky items, saving precious space and providing a seating area for Mark and his husband, Wallter. This platform doubles as a comfortable bed that can fit two people, surrounded by cushion panels in blue and yellow for a better rest.

We'll add a movable table on the bed to serve as both a workspace and dining area, with an outlet switch nearby for charging devices, making it perfect for work and meals.

After use, the table can be stored beside the bed, keeping the space organized. Add a projector and projector screen so he can watch his Korean Dramas.

We'll then construct a bedframe from galvanized square steel, enhancing its appearance with eco-friendly wood veneers.

Incorporate a pre-buried drainage system for convenience. Build a set of wall cabinets with a countertop drilled to embed a sink. Underneath, install a build in washing-machine to keep dirty laundry at bay.

Convert the countertop for dual use by placing an induction cooker for cooking, and install a mirror cabinet above. Next to the mirror, add a cabinet for spices and toiletries. Install a showerhead on the wall and an enlarged stand, allowing even space to ride a horse while showering.

Now his tiny space has everything he needs

"Did tou just send me an entire fucking home decor story or whatever. For MANNEQUIN_MARK.?"

[severefartoholic]

Let's transform a 0 point 0 1 square meter space into a functional house. Sergei lived frugally and worked diligently for two years managing to save up half a million to buy a house in New York. However, upon moving in, he was shocked by how small it was. He couldn't even stretch out his fingers. Now, let's explore how we can help Sergei transform it into a functional home. First, we'll construct a durable frame using galvanized square steel anchored firmly to the wall with expansion screws filled with grid steel bars and concrete for lasting strength. We'll also install thermally broken aluminum windows, expanding the living space by 2 square meters. Next, we'll build a multifunctional sitting platform on the floor with hidden storage underneath for bulky items, saving precious space and providing a seating area for Sergei and his girlfriend. This platform doubles as a comfortable bed that can sleep two, surrounded by cushion panels in lucky colors for a better rest. We'll add a movable table on the bed to serve as both a workspace and dining area, with an outlet switch nearby for charging devices, making it perfect for work and meals. After use, the table can be stored beside the bed, keeping the space organized. We'll then construct a bedframe from galvanized square steel, enhancing its appearance with wood veneers. Incorporate a pre-buried drainage system for convenience. Build a set of wall cabinets with a countertop drilled to embed a sink. Underneath, install a build in washing-machine to keep dirty laundry at bay. Convert the countertop for dual use by placing an induction cooker for cooking, and install a mirror cabinet above. Next to the mirror, add a cabinet for spices and toiletries. Install a showerhead on the wall and an enlarged stand, allowing even space to ride a horse while showering.

we get free pet mice from the city new york. hell yes

[ghostlycorvid]

A couple more before (but after I’d started doing some cleaning with isopropyl alcohol) and after photos!

Some of that corrosion and plating chipping is not going anywhere but it all moved really well even before I cleaned things up and refreshed the oil so I’m happy to have stuff just a little cleaned up and shinier. The wear gives it character!

Since I wasn’t sure how much was rust vs corrosion, I gave the bars on the bottom a light sanding with 1500 grit sandpaper which already made a visual difference. Then went in with the alcohol to clean up the sewing machine oil buildups, and then polished the length with automotive polish while taking care to avoid getting it too close to any of the moving parts.

Out of all those screws in the bobbin area, literally the only one that would budge was the release lever for the bobbin case 8′) I don’t know how to free the seized screws all over this machine but I had to stop trying to get them so I didn’t strip them out. One of them was already pretty gouged before I got to it, so I assume the owners before my coworker were already struggling with them 10+ years ago.

I think I’ve got the machine all cleaned up to my liking! Most of the cleaning was purely aesthetic anyway. My plan for tomorrow is to bring in a new machine needle, some thread, and some scrap fabric to give her a hand turned test run to make sure everything’s working and timed correctly. Fingers crossed! 

I started cleaning the dust off the cabinet and base today before realizing it was INCREDIBLY SILLY to do that indoors. So my other plan for tomorrow is to take it outside the office, give it a good dusting and then clean it with oil soap.

If I’ve got time after that, I’d like to apply wood filler to the drawer bottoms and the inside corners where things are gapping or outright broken. Thankfully the outside doesn’t look TOO bad, the veneer peeled a bit on one edge, but it’s laying pretty flat. All but one of the drawer handles broke off over time (thin wood filigree, unsurprising) and half of the replacement cup handles have also broken off, so I’m looking into ordering some pretty handles that are more my style. :3c

The one piece of wood damage that I really need to look into covering up and stabilizing is the front panel on the cabinet. The bottom third broke off over time and there’s another crack in the remainder, so it has a jagged edge and is missing the thin wood filigree that used to be there. I’d like to do something decorative that also helps protect the user from those sharp edges.

[linyihuite]

LVL Product Features

LVL product features

(1) Strength properties.

The strength-to-weight ratio of laminated veneer is better than that of steel. Laminated veneer lumber is a wood structural material, and its strength properties have a great influence on its application. According to practical results, it is believed that although some properties of laminated veneer lumber are not as good as the finished product, the laminated veneer lumber makes the defects of the log itself (knots, cracks, decay, etc.) evenly distributed in the laminated veneer lumber (LVL). The average performance is better than that of finished products. 

(2) Creep performance.

Laminated veneer has good creep resistance. Unique

(3) Fire resistance.

Laminated veneer lumber (LVL) has better fire resistance than steel.

(4) Durability 

The damage of laminated veneer lumber (LVL) after accelerated aging test is the smallest than that of the glued layer when the lumber is glued.

(5) Specifications

Due to its special production method, the size of this material can not be limited by log size or veneer specifications, and can fully meet the requirements of large-span beams

And the needs of vehicles and ships, and the specifications and sizes are flexible and can be freely selected.

(6) Processability

Machinable Laminated Veneer is as easy to process as wood, and can be sawed, sliced, chiseled, tenoned and nailed.

(7) Stability

The laminated structure of laminated veneer greatly reduces the possibility of deformation such as warping and twisting, so it has good stability.

(8) Vibration resistance

Laminated veneer has strong anti-vibration and damping properties, can resist fatigue damage caused by cyclic stress, and can be used as a structural material.

(9) Flame retardancy

Due to the time nature of the wood pyrolysis process and the glued structure of LVL, LVL as a structural material has better fire resistance than steel. A fire test conducted by Japan on an American-style wooden house shows that its fire resistance is not less than 2 hours, while the lighter steel structure will lose its support ability within 1 hour after it encounters a fire.

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[quietchoir]

Before the strange events of 2014, I’d never been given to particularly fantastical dreaming. Or indeed to much dreaming at all. I’d often been described as dull, boring, overly serious, and on one particular occasion, as a dead-eyed machine. My dreams, the rare few I had, had always been just as pedestrian and lifeless as myself: uninteresting re-elaborations of events or vague stresses presented fairly straightforwardly, without embellishments or symbolisms or other nonsense. I knew, in theory, that most people’s REM phases were more colorful and involved than that, had listened many times to my sister’s tales of resplendent kingdoms and absurd happenings with half-envious fascination, knowing that for some quirk or another of my brain chemistry I’d never be able to match her oneiric adventures. 

Until, that was, I started working at the Wooden House Hotel.

The WHH was rather small, as hotels went. Fifty-eight rooms in total, and less than half occupied on an average month. Decorated as though to imitate a quaint cabin in the woods despite its location near the center of the city, its rich chestnut exterior and pink-curtained windows inevitably stuck out like a sore thumb among the hyper-modern minimalistic grey that surrounded it. 

The interior, too, followed the same pattern: upon crossing the massive wooden doors to the building, a visitor would step onto the wooden floor of the small foyer and discover that the walls, too, were the same corrugated material, in the same reddish-brown color, and perhaps, in making their way to the counter, they would notice that it too was wooden, and that the decorative zeal to conform to the hotel’s name had gone so far as to lead to a wooden plaque being affixed to the back of the computer monitor on the reception desk, one of many choices that seemed solely focused on avoiding to give any impression that other materials besides wood existed. 

Over the course of my employ, I’d found myself often thinking that this obsession with sticking to the theme would have constituted a massive fire hazard, had it not been for the fact that the wood only amounted to paper-thin veneers which concealed underneath them plaster, plastic, cold concrete, and any number of other more appropriate materials.  

Incidentally, the face that would greet the above-mentioned hypothetical visitor from behind the wooden computer was, as of June of 2015, mine. An acquaintance of my mother, C., had mentioned suffering from a lack of staff that summer season, mostly due to a series of odd happenstances that had led to various members of the staff taking a ludicrous number of sick days, or abruptly leaving the job for unspecified reasons, or even, in the case of three of them, to a prolonged stay at the nearby hospital. 

“It happens sometimes, in the summer season,” C. told me in a reassuring manner, though his eyes were darting this way and that without meeting mine. “It’s the heat. Everyone’s a bit distracted, less focused, more likely to make mistakes... and, well, the former receptionist, it’s got nothing to do with the job—fiancé left him, he was in trouble with his landlord... he was dealing with his own stuff, you know? It wasn’t working here that landed him into the psych ward. If that’s something you were worrying about.”  

“I wasn’t,” I replied with a neutral smile. “This isn’t the movies. I’m sure it was just a bit of bad luck happening all at once.” 

“Yes... yes, exactly,” he said, instantly relaxing. “There’s a little starting bonus for you in the first paycheck, just for being reasonable about this. If I told you how difficult it was to replenish the cleaning staff, how many times the word ‘haunted’ was thrown around...” 

I gave a tiny scoff, just to show that I deserved that bonus, but not enough to be rude, and he showed me how to access the computer and what to do in the event of a guest arriving, or wanting help, or calling, or any number of other possibilities. 

It was all very simple, and I settled into it with the speed and efficiency that I had come to expect of myself. I had never encountered a job too difficult or taxing for me—indeed, it was usually the opposite that had me delivering resignation letter after resignation letter, and looking for something new every two years or so.  

Manning the reception desk of the WHH was not exhausting work. There were very few guests checking in and out every day, and they were mostly happy-faced tourists and the occasional working professional in town for a three- or four-day business trip There was usually no trouble to be had. I slipped into bed at eleven on the dot every day only pleasantly tired, and slept wonderfully. 

The position of receptionist came with the option of a personal bedroom at the Hotel itself in exchange for a small chunk of the salary, which I had gladly taken advantage of, as I had only recently returned from a decade spent in the capital, and had had to stay with my mother.  

The bedroom provided was obviously meant for the staff, as it was smaller and less luxurious than the usual fare, and was tucked away into a corner of the basement, near the kitchens. Various other staffers had their own rooms near mine, but none of us were particularly friendly, and mostly left each other alone. 

K., one of the room attendants, was the only excitable element among us, and occasionally made some attempts at conversation. I was the only one who humored her to any degree, as the others found her loud, relentless optimism somewhat off-putting. The combination of the hiring rush after the string of strange accidents and the rather low salary meant that the only willing workers C. had found were either cynics like myself, or people so desperate to make ends meet that they were willing to keep their head down and ignore any unusual happenings. No one except K. was keen to create a fun and friendly working place. 

Still, her room was next to mine, and we ended up eating together more often than not. I didn’t mind her enthusiasm. Indeed, I’d never had any trouble dealing with anybody, and it was rare I ever found anybody annoying. People took it as a sign that I didn’t care enough about anyone to feel annoyed, and one ex-boyfriend had even accused me of being incapable of love at all, but I'd never thought of myself that way. It was simply a quirk of my personality that, just like my dreams, my emotions tended to run quieter and less dramatic than they did in most people. It was very rare indeed that I should cry as a result of some soul-deep feeling, and even spontaneous laughter was infrequent. I didn’t feel it as a deficiency, but it did facilitate a sensation of standing apart from my fellow humans, of watching their vagaries with the indulgence of a parent watching their child cry, scream, throw tantrums and get upset or happy according to their own vaguely mysterious patterns. This personality of mine was what made me relatively inept at personal relationships, but excellent at customer service. 

The first few weeks working the reception at the WHH passed fairly uneventfully, with only one incident of note, which nonetheless busied C. for most of June and half of July.  

“A rat!” he exploded the very second that door slammed shut behind the angry businessman who’d been occupying Room 51 for the previous four days. “How could there be a rat in his god-forsaken room? It’s on the fifth floor!” 

“Maybe he was just saying that so we wouldn’t ask him to pay,” A., supervisor of housekeeping, muttered as he cursorily wiped the carved edge of the staircase, right where our guest had just gripped it on his way out. 

“He really looked frightened, though,” K. said vaguely, staring in the direction of the door, likely recalling, as I was, the look of abject terror on his face as he’d fled. Neither of us mentioned that he had made no demands about his advance payment, even though he had cut his stay short for the sake of a speedier exit from Room 51.  

“Right!” C. was saying to A., ignoring K.’s input entirely, and patting his sweaty face with a monogrammed handkerchief. “And you heard it—you all heard it—that the rat was ‘white-furred and yellow-eyed', and ‘watched him with human intelligence’? There’s no such thing as a yellow-eyed rat, especially not in the middle of the city! To think he wants to plunge the name of my hotel even deeper into infamy than it already is... oh, but he’ll be hearing from my lawyers if he doesn’t take down that Yelp review... those are the ravings of a lunatic... an overworked lunatic...” 

I agreed with that assessment, and so did the health inspector who came by to ascertain the probability of such an event. Room 51 and its adjoining bathroom were ruled perfectly intact and up to code, and devoid of any apertures through which any rodent might feasibly penetrate. The window was protected by a metal mosquito net, unbroken, and the door had stayed locked all day and all night. There was no logical way that any animal bigger than a fruit fly could have breached the space, and that, coupled with our former guest’s mental state at the moment of his testimony helped declare the sighting a hallucinatory episode on his part, to be treated at his discretion, but of no concern to the hotel. 

That would have been it really, if it hadn’t been for the string of incidents that followed. 

The streak of bad luck I had mentioned to C. as a possible cause for all the accidents and strangeness before I was hired was still keeping its hold on the WHH, it seemed.  

It wasn’t immediately obvious, but I was sensitive to changes in general mood and atmosphere among the staff, and I noticed immediately when A. was oddly on edge, aggressive, when usually he barely bothered speaking, and when K. began to turn up at breakfast with dark smudges around her eyes. I didn’t really address it — putting myself in the position of having to deal with emotional responses I had no clue how to manage wasn’t high in my list of priorities. 

So I watched A. become angrier and angrier — seething and grinding his teeth at all hours of the day. It wasn’t necessarily something unnatural — it was entirely possible that he was angry about some personal matter and taking it out on us, the customers, the furniture, etc. But I was immediately sure there was something stranger at work: it was as though his entire personality had warped to make space for a swell of directionless hatred that had taken permanent residence inside him like a sickness. 

In much the same way, K. was clearly not enjoying the most satisfying sleep, and became quieter and quieter as the weeks passed. When I finally bit the bullet, and asked her if something had happened, her answer was not the uncomfortable outburst I had anticipated, but rather a vague, disjointed series of words that made little sense: 

“He cries,” she said, looking down at the table and disregarding her cereals. “He will never be happy again — can’t ever be happy again, because he chose to be here.” 

“‘He’?” I asked her cautiously, suddenly wondering if I’d somehow forgotten that she had a son, or a brother, or even a pet, in her room. But she simply shook her head. 

“He cries,” she repeated. “He was crying all night... I couldn’t sleep at all... I don’t know what to do.” 

“K., who are you talking about? Is there someone in your room?” 

“It’s his room, more than mine. He paid such a steep price for it...” 

I tried to prod a few more times, but stopped when it became clear that I wouldn’t get anything concrete out of her.  

More relevantly, I had the room next to hers, and the fake wood walls would’ve hardly been enough to muffle it, if someone had truly been crying so loudly as to keep her awake all night, every night. Given her confused state, I privately diagnosed her with some psychiatric difficulties, and went about my day. 

It didn’t escape my notice that this was the second case in as many months that somebody claimed a presence in their room at the WHH where there clearly was none. I didn’t know what it meant, but I did think that it had to mean something. I knew better than to bring it up with C., of course, but the notion that something was going on was firmly planted in my brain. 

Maybe that’s how it started — maybe I was more concerned by the situation than I thought, so much so that it started to bleed into my dreams. That’s how dreams work, isn’t it? Your brain processes the stresses and ideas of the day, makes them into a textured, bizarre soup when you go to sleep.  

At least that’s what I told myself when, for the first time in a decade, I had a proper dream. 

Calling it a proper dream might have been somewhat off the mark. I was completely aware that I was asleep, that what I was seeing was not real in a physical sense. But compared to what I was used to, to the banal, half-forgotten snatches of grey memories that passed for dream in my psyche, this was a luxury unlike any other. 

The beginning of it was fairly mundane: the lobby of the Wooden House Hotel, with its obsessive wood-based décor and antique staircase. But there was an immediately obvious difference, at least to me, who had been staring at this very sight nearly all day every day for months. Some small incongruences that made it obvious this was not reality but a dreamscape. For one thing, absurd as it seemed to notice such a thing, the smell of the place was different. Purer, I thought, for its lack of car smoke or general city smells. Instead the dominating — almost overpowering — fragrance was that of fresh wood. Pine, perhaps, or cedar. A quick investigation confirmed that these were not plaques and veneers, that this place was genuinely, entirely made of real wood.  

Well, real as real as a dream could be. And this one was strange — strange for me, at least — in that instead of being less than reality, less intense, less defined, it was the opposite. The strong wood smell permeated my mind like nothing ever had in the waking world, the colors seemed searing in their intensity, their hue and saturation shifting and cycling between orange and red and black the longer I stared at it in wonder. Even the profound silence felt like it had a dimension to it. Not merely a lack of sound, but an active presence of quiet. 

I had begun the dream with my back to the entrance, and when I moved deeper into the lobby, I realized that the reception desk was empty of everything — not just of my personal effects; there was no computer, no documents, nothing on the desk’s surface but a telephone. A very old model, teal, with a modular cord and a rotary dial, which was a far cry from the hyper modern digital phone (disguised, of course, by wood-patterned plastic) that I answered daily.  

It was a strange feeling, looking at all these familiar things in this familiar place, but finding them all a little different — a little more intense, a little more interesting. 

The staircase, when I approached it, was also entirely new — more genuine antique than cheap imitation, though I didn’t think I’d ever seen a pommel carved in the form of a cornucopia before. 

Turning to the left, I finally noticed the window, and more importantly what lay beyond it. Not a landscape of grey cement, steel and glass, but a natural carpet of pale green and yellow grass inundated with bright midday light. I could spot the beginnings of a forest a little further away, and on the opposite side pieces of a city half-merged with the natural landscape in a way that did not make it clear whether I was looking at an abandoned city overgrown with vegetation or something that had been intentionally built in the ancient style, occupying the space without disturbing the landscape, almost as if in the hopes of remaining unnoticed. 

I turned back around, entertaining some notions of investigating my own room, to see how it differed from reality, but instead came face to face with a man who had just finished descending the stairs.  

He was dressed oddly in a pale cloak with white fur on the shoulders, and was himself extremely pale, with uniformly silver hair styled just as anachronistically as his clothes. In his white gloves he carried a black leather box with glistening silver at the corners and a carved lock keeping it shut in the front.  

His head was inclined to one side as he studied me in my entirety, a puzzled frown on his finely wrinkled face. 

“Are you lost, my Lady?” He asked finally in a gentle and smooth voice. He had a funny accent, and the epithet was bizarre enough that I was almost smiling when I replied. 

“I know exactly where I am.” 

He continued to stare at me, and eventually I prompted, “Were you leaving?” 

“Ah, yes. My stay here was... illuminating. As ever. Pity about the cost, eh? I count myself fortunate, that I am wealthy, and skilled at bargaining.” 

“Aren’t all hotels about this expensive?” 

As far as I knew the WHH was on the lower end of the scale, price-wise, except for the hideously expensive Room 58, which occupied the whole topmost floor and which nobody had booked for as long as I’d been working here. 

Also, there was no hotel on earth that allowed its guests to bargain in this day and age. Dream logic, I thought to myself.  

“There aren’t many places like this in the world, as far as I am aware... Perhaps, if my Lady will forgive this conjecture, it is possible you’ve not yet checked in, and do not wholly appreciate the weight of the bill...?”  

The question was leading, and I humored him. “Why would I check in? I work here.” 

His face seemed to shift slightly as he examined me again, and for the first time I noticed that his eyes were pale gold, and shone in a decidedly unnatural way. 

“Truly? And what is your position in this establishment, if I may ask?” 

“Receptionist,” I said, a little concerned about being the sole focus of his rapt attention. The vaguest shadow of a smile had appeared on his face, his golden eyes wide. 

“You were checking out, you said?” I said eventually, when the silence continued to stretch without him moving, or taking his eyes off me, or blinking. 

“That is correct, my Lady. But I am sure I will be back soon. As I said, I can afford it, and it does get cheaper every time, doesn’t it? I will be curious to see how you find the work.” 

“Sure,” I said with a polite smile, a little bewildered, but as always willing to play along. 

“And very curious about how it will find you.” 

I had the impression that the ‘it’ in question didn’t refer to the work, but he seemed to finally be leaving and I didn’t want to delay him with questions. 

“I wish you good luck, Receptionist. I hope we shall perceive one another again soon, in as whole a form as we may manage.” 

It was the strangest goodbye I’d ever been given, but it was also the strangest dream I’d ever had, and I did not think too deeply about it. 

The door swung open of its own accord as soon as he reached it, and he gave me a small wave as he crossed its threshold. He disappeared immediately in the blinding sunlight beyond it, and when the door slammed shut again with a loud and prolonged creak, I found myself awake, staring at the bland ceiling of my room, in my bland little world. 

I had heard people express their disappointment about waking from a good dream before, but as I trudged to the bathroom to prepare for my day, I was sure no one had ever been as heartbroken as I was to be awake.  

The rest of the day seemed to pass three times slower than usual, and everything and everyone I laid my eyes on ten times more dull and colorless. The hotel itself was almost offensive in how much it didn’t compare to its dream counterpart: the smog and the smell of warm garbage and piss wafted in every time someone entered or left, and the noise from the construction site nearby was filling me with an amount of irritation I hadn’t thought I was even capable of. Even the sight of the fake wood everywhere was rubbing me the wrong way. 

It was another facet of my unusual dream that I remembered it with perfect clarity — with more clarity, even, than I recalled most events in my waking life. 

I yearned to go back. Of course I did. Everyone would, I was sure. And why wouldn’t they? I had never felt so much, never perceived the world in as vibrant a way as I had during that dream. In just that twenty minutes or so, I had been filled with childlike wonder, acute interest, and even a bit of fear when the white-cloaked man seemed more inclined to stare unblinkingly at me than to leave.  

The real world, by comparison, was just so... grey. So muted. So far away from me, when that dream had seemed to take place directly inside my soul. 

I had always been able to cope just fine, simply because I’d never experienced anything different. That dream, though, was like developing a new sense of perception. Like lifting some veil that had kept me from experiencing all the intensity that was commonplace for most people. And now every moment that I couldn’t reach that world of vibrancy was unbearable. 

What was more unbearable still was the thought that that had been it. After all I’d never had any dream like it, not had any dream at all in almost a decade, so who was to say it would happen again in the next ten years, or ever? Who was to say that this had not been my one and only chance to get a taste, and I’d be left comparing the waking world to it and founding it wanting, forever?  

“Did something happen?” K. asked me eventually as we both pushed our dinners around in our plates in silence. “You look... different. Unusually colorful.” 

“Colorful,” I repeated. I was aiming for skeptical — I was dressed in grey and black, and my short hair was the mousy ashy brown it had always been — but I immediately knew that she referred to something beyond the physical. Maybe the dream had left some of its surreal hues on me, somehow.  

Or maybe K. had just gone completely off the deep end. 

“You don’t look so good yourself,” I told her, not unkindly. It was true — her hair hung limply and greasily on her face, and her skin was more grey than anything. She looked a decade older than she had last week. “Is... he... still, um, crying?” 

I’d read something about delusions, once upon a time, about how with some of them you’re not supposed to acknowledge them, because that would be confirmation to the person who is having them that they’re not imagining it, and make them worse. But in this case, if K. perceived him to be so real he kept her from sleeping, I doubted my acknowledgement would change much. 

“Yeah. Of course he is. He can never stop, I told you. I want to help him, but I can’t. He already paid, you see.” 

It was only because I hadn’t stopped thinking about my dream for a single second all day that her words gave me pause. 

“He paid... for the room?” 

K. nodded. “A steep price. But he was desperate. And even now, he thinks it’s worth it, to be here, to be away from the fog.” 

The white-cloaked man had mentioned something similar. The bill. A bill so exorbitant that he could only pay it by being both wealthy and a haggler. 

I looked at K. with different eyes once the connection was created in my mind.  

“Did you see the hotel?” I asked her, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Did you see the forest outside, the telephone? The white-cloaked man?” 

Now it was her turn to look at me like I was spouting nonsense. “What?” 

I tried to keep my voice level. “Did you have a dream about the hotel, too? Where everything was actual wood, and also colorful and interesting, and — ” 

“I wasn’t dreaming!” K. shouted, suddenly angry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about — I didn’t have a dream about the hotel, or whatever you’re talking about — it was real! He was there, in his room — in my room — and he was crying, what’s so hard to understand about this?” 

“Sorry,” I said insincerely, after a long moment of silence, “I must have misunderstood.” 

We didn’t say another word for the rest of the evening, and we left soon, each to our own bed for the torments and delights that awaited us in the night. 

To my immense relief, nearly as soon as I closed my eyes, I found myself back inside the dream-hotel. 

This time I had appeared on one of the floors, in the middle of the door-lined corridor. The smell of pine, or cedar, or whatever it was, filled my mind like a balm. The light streaming from the window brought out enticing colors that I wasn’t sure even existed in the real world. I breathed out loudly with the relief of being back here. 

Almost immediately, I started to hear some muffled sounds coming from one of the doors. ‘Room 9’ was embossed in gold on its wooden surface, much nicer than it was in the real world. 

As I listened, the sounds resolved themselves into something I could recognize: little agonized sobs. I wondered if I’d been thinking about K.’s issues more than I’d realized, if they were now showing up in my dreams. But I’d never quite managed to convince myself that these dreams were mine in the traditional sense. There was no way, I thought, that my mind was creating all of this. Too intricate, too beautiful, too intense to be created by my dull little mind, which had until now been incapable of crafting any dream more complicated than a mild and hazy recollection. 

No, I was a visitor here, and this place existed, by itself, somewhere. Perhaps not in the conventional way — but it was not a creation of my mind, of that I was sure. 

Which was why I wasn’t surprised when I heard another voice coming from Room 9. 

“Please... could you — I need — I really need to sleep...” K. was saying despairingly on the other side of the door. “I’m so sorry about your... um. I really do wish I could help you, but I can’t, you know you can’t be helped at this point, so could you maybe just let me sleep—“ 

“K.?” I called, knocking lightly on the door. “Can you hear me?” 

All sounds on the other side stopped abruptly, and I shivered as I felt a sort of secondhand terror seeping out of the door. 

“It’s — it’s here — it wants to take me back — I knew it would come after me, even here!” A young voice yelled in between sobs. “Liar! Liar! You s-said I’d be safe from the monster here!” 

“I’m not a monster,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I don’t want to hurt you or take you away, or whatever you’re afraid of. I just want to speak with K. Could you let her out, please?” 

“Out...? But why? I live here,” K. said, a little uncertainly. 

“Th-that door is staying shut!” the boy shouted, voice wracked with terror. Now that I could hear him more clearly, I thought he sounded strange — echoing, as though coming from further away than he was. The door trembled as he shouted, something black starting to seep out through the edges. 

“Okay,” I said, taking a step back and instinctively raising my hands to show I meant no harm, though he couldn’t see me. “Okay. I’m sorry. The door will stay shut. Can I speak to K. from here?” 

“Are you going to convince her t-to open the door?” 

“No. I suppose I’m not.” 

“Because i-if you try, I’ll use her up! I’ve already taken a little bit — I c-couldn’t help it — but if you try to make her open the door I’ll take everything — and there’s s-so much material, still: hair, skin, meat... and joy, so much joy, despite all I’ve already taken... but say something I don’t like, and I’ll consume her — I can use every part of the K., trust me... th-though if you’re the monster wearing a disguise, you must already know... “ 

“I’m not the monster,” I said patiently. “But alright. Your terms are acceptable. Feel free to... consume her... if I overstep.” 

K. made a frightened sound on the other side of the door. 

“K., I only want to tell you two things: first, I suppose this is not very restful sleep, but you are asleep. This is a dream. If you don’t like it, you could just wake up.” 

“Are you on that again?” She snapped. “I would know if this was a dream, okay? So why don’t you mind your own business instead of — “ 

“Alright,” I said lightly, shrugging, though she couldn’t see me. “You can do whatever you want. I’m just giving you things to think about. Speaking of which, my second point is: you’re in the wrong room.” 

“What? This is my room — well, it’s his room, but I also — “ 

“You’re a staffer, aren’t you? This, right here? This is Room 9. Second floor. Your room is in the basement, remember? Next to mine?” 

“This sounds like you’re t-telling her to leave,” the boy yelled, half-angry, half-frightened. The threat was not implied: a tendril of dark mist leaked out from the thin space between the bottom of the door and the floor. I took a step back pointlessly raising my hands again. 

“I’m done. I said what I wanted to say, and I’m going away now. You both can do whatever you wish with what I’ve given you.” 

Neither of them replied, but the mist retreated back inside the room, and the boy started to sob again. I turned to leave, as I’d promised, and as I passed Room 10 and 11 I felt suddenly watched. I stopped in front of Room 12, heart pounding. 

The door was ajar. I was sure that whoever was watching me was inside.  

I couldn’t see much — only a sliver of room: part of a couch, a slice of orange curtain.  

“Hello,” a voice that seemed to come from a hundred different directions at once said. “Would you like to come in for some... hmmm, some tea?” 

The way they said tea, the hesitation before it, like they’d struggled to remember the word, made me think that whoever was on the other side of the door hadn’t had occasion to entertain in a long time. 

“I prefer coffee, to tell you the truth,” I said politely, stalling as I studied what I could see of the room. I couldn’t see the speaker, but the longer I looked between the door and the frame, the less certain I was of what I was seeing. The curtain was now white lace, and the couch had morphed into a grey carpet. 

“Coffee...” it repeated, tasting the word. The word echoed in one hundred different pitches. “Of course. Coffee. Yes, we have it. Will you come in and eat some?” 

“Eat it?” I repeated, smiling a little. “That’d certainly be interesting. That’s not what you do with coffee, you know.” 

“No... ? Why don’t you come in and explain how to use coffee correctly? We would so love to know... “ 

I raised my eyebrows, narrowly repressing a snort. “I bet you would.”  

“Yes... yes, we would have you sat here, we would brush your hair as you explain, and caress your pretty face... that would be nice, wouldn’t it? Come in, and we’ll demonstrate...” 

I hummed. I did not know why I found its attempts to get me to step into the room so amusing — endearing, even — but I did, in a way I never had with anyone in the waking world. “You would caress my pretty face... and then?” 

“Then, we would hold your soft tender hand.” 

“Hm—hmm. And then?” 

“Lick your eyeball?” 

I laughed. The sliver of room had changed again at some point. I could now see part of a table, complete with tablecloth, plates and silverware. The curtain was gone entirely — the window was bare, the sunlight coming from it almost too bright to look at. 

“Only lick?” I teased. “Wouldn’t you like a bite, too?” 

“A bite? Oh... well, if you’re offering.... we wouldn’t say no,” it said, trying hard to sound nonchalant. But I could see the room blur and shift and flicker fast between a dozen different iteration of a dining room. “Come in... come in and let us discuss it... we like you; we like you a lot... we would only eat one or two eyeballs, we promise...” 

“Hmm. And then?” 

“And then maybe one or two legs, so you won’t think of leaving... come in, we’ll show you...” 

“I’d love to come in,” I said honestly. I don’t know why it endeared me so, why I yearned to know more about it, to see what it looked like, if it looked like anything besides the shifting room. Maybe because it was so easy to understand, unlike people usually were. But I was still wise enough to keep from stepping inside. It was thrilling, to converse so civilly with something that wanted to devour me, to stand so very close to it, knowing it was trying its best to lure me inside. “But I’m afraid for tonight I must decline.” 

“Are you sure? We have... hmm, we have — water. You could get to eat water if you come in, you know... and we would kiss your pretty mouth, wouldn’t you like that? Come in, and let us taste your tongue... “ 

I laughed a bit, charmed by the clumsy attempt, and shook my head. “It was a pleasure to speak with you. I look forward to the next time we meet.” 

“... Alright. Next time we meet, we will have coffee for you, and... and all the delicious morsels you can imagine... so come back soon... ” 

The disappointment was obvious — the dining rooms were gone, now replaced by a grey-curtained room, bare and muted. 

“Goodbye, then, for now,” I said apologetically, and continued on — Room 13, and then the stairs. I could feel the thing in Room 12 watching, still, but it didn’t bother me. I was sure now that it couldn’t eat me unless I stepped in there, so I had no trouble turning my back to it.  

There was no elevator. Up or down?  

I decided to go down, still curious about what I would find in ‘my’ room, and in K.’s, since she had ended up in on the second floor. But as soon as I took the first step down, I found myself staring at a white ceiling that I was quickly growing to hate. 

Awake again. 

That day I had even less patience than the day before for the blandness of the waking world. Everything in it seemed specifically designed to get on my nerves, from the noise to the guests, to K.. 

“Who knocks on people’s doors in the middle of the night?” She snapped at me over her untouched lunch. “And to say all those lies, too... I’m not an idiot, I know what gaslighting is, you know, and that’s exactly what you’re doing!” 

The smudges around her eyes were ever blacker than the day before. She looked so exhausted that even her anger was somewhat feeble. 

“Why would I lie about this?” I told her reasonably, studying my own lunch. It looked gross and unappetizing. I was sure that if I tried to eat something in the dream it would be more delicious than anything I’d ever eaten. Or better yet, maybe hunger and other pesky bodily needs were just not felt there. “Do I look like I — “ 

I was about to say Do I look like I care enough about you to do something so tiresome?, but at the last second I considered that that might come across as mean, even though it was a simple statement of fact. 

“Do you really think I’m the kind of person who does that?” I said instead. “I really, honestly did not get up once from my bed last night. I had a dream about the hotel, and you were in it, in Room 9.” 

“Are you trying to suggest that — what — we had the same dream? That we actually met, and talked, inside the same dream, which was inexplicably identical to reality?” 

“Was it?” I repeated with raised eyebrows, “Close to reality?” 

“Well — “ 

“Is that crying boy a relative of yours? Is he in your room right now?” I pressed. 

“I — I don’t— “ 

“Should we go have a look, then? We still have twelve minutes of lunch break.” 

She looked confused and shaken, like she was really starting to consider that maybe I was telling the truth, and I gently pushed her down towards the basement. Maybe once she was forced to see her empty room, she would accept that she was dreaming, and that the dream-Room 9 was not her room, and get out of there.  

She fumbled for the key for long moments once we stopped in front of the door marked ‘Staff — 02' and then hesitantly pushed it open, visibly preparing herself for finding the boy there.  

But there was no one. She made a noise between dismay and relief, and waited for me to say something, reassurances or explanations, or a simple confirmation. But I couldn’t really give her what she wanted. There was no one in the room, but there was... something. It was darker inside than it should have been at this hour, and even standing in the doorframe as I was was filling me with bone-deep despair, just like I’d been subjected to in the dream. 

I stepped in a little deeper, and the slightest resistance around my feet made me look down. That’s when I noticed a thin layer of dark mist on the floor.  

“Oh,” I said, heart suddenly thundering in my chest. Maybe I was the idiot here. K. had insisted that they were not dreams, and even I had thought to myself that the hotel was not a mere product of my imagination. And this was confirmation — the dreams were real, somehow. I realized I was starting to smile, and it took more self-control than I’d ever had to exercise to school my expression to its usual neutrality. 

The dreams were real. I was right, and K. was right. The dreams were more real than reality itself. The waking world was merely the grime on the mirror of reality — mere obstruction, a muddy veil hiding the resplendent world beneath. 

“What is that?” I asked K., pointing at a corner of the room where the mist was denser, between the wall and the closet. From it poked out a small pointy object — something I’d call a spire if it was bigger, and placed atop a building. It was smooth, and saying it was jet black felt like an insufficient description: it looked like it had no dimension to it, like all light was absorbed by it, instead of being reflected. The longer my eyes lingered on it, the more it felt like I was staring deep into some horrible void in reality.  

It was all very peculiar — I was sure that if I unfocused my eyes slightly, if I told myself that there was nothing strange there, that it was all a perfectly normal room, the mist would look like condensation from the air-con, and the black thing would look like some weird but harmless exotic object that K. had, for whatever reason, decorated her room with. 

The ‘normal’ world was only a few thoughts away — I could feel it just there, just a blink away, but I held desperately onto the reality I knew I was seeing. There was nothing I wanted less than to go back to the regular world. And it seemed this room was some sort of halfway point between the two. 

“It’s... an obelisk,” K. said eventually, staring at the thing with an indecipherable expression. “It’s mine. He made it. He keeps... adding a little to it every night. I think he’s lonely.” 

“Is that why he’s keeping you there?” I asked her distractedly, thinking now about whether I would see something in Room 9 and 12, if the dream world had bled through there, too. “Is that why you didn’t leave?” 

“I can’t — I can’t leave him. He took... he has some of my... things. And I’m — there’s my obelisk.” 

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that — by any of that. The boy had taken something from her, was taking something every night — and that somehow kept her from leaving? What was he taking?  

Hair, skin, meat... Joy, so much joy, still... 

I felt my blood run a little cold. It seemed like a massive violation, an unspeakably horrifying thing to have happen. I wasn’t entirely sure what ‘taking’ meant, exactly, and what it had to do with the obelisk, but I knew without a doubt that it was one of the worst thing that could happen to a person. But K. was already emptied out enough, apparently, that she wasn’t nearly alarmed enough. 

Maybe it was already too late. 

K., I know realized, had been staring at the obelisk since basically the moment we entered. She’d never taken her eyes off it. She was standing in front of me, facing me with her body, but her head was turned nearly 180 degrees to keep staring at the thing even as she tried to speak with me.  

I moved a little, to look at her face, and discovered on it an expression of such rapt fascination that I took an instinctive step backwards. Had she always had such dark eyes? I hadn’t paid enough attention to know, but i felt sure that they hadn’t been as they were now, utterly unreflective, without dimension or physicality. 

I took another step backwards, my heart hammering a rhythm of terror in my chest.  

“K.?” I called softly. “I think our lunch break is over. We should go back to work...” 

“Right...” she said after a very long pause. “Um... could you... could you maybe — I can’t seem to — ” 

I cautiously approached, and hesitated for a long moment, considering just leaving her there to her forced contemplation. A visceral terror had gripped my insides looking at her changed eyes, at the black hole spire in the fog, but at the same time... it was — interesting. I wanted to know more about it, to know what would happen if I did nothing, if K. stayed there, staring. Would she starve to death rather than stop looking? Would C. come to investigate her absence, and see the truth of what was happening? Or would he cling to the filthy, bland veil of reality as he knew it, and just catch her... what, comatose? A vegetable, all of a sudden, for no discernible reason? 

And I, what would I see, if this went on? Would she transform into something else? Like the sad boy, like Room 12? Would she leave this world to occupy the dream-hotel instead? Or would she be utterly consumed as the occupant of Room 9 had threatened? 

It was, in the end, the knowledge, or at least the strong suspicion, that K.’s end would come to pass whether I helped or not, that convinced me to carefully take hold of her arm and slowly drag her towards the door.     

Her arm was thin, thinner than it should have been, and cold. No, not cold — just... unwarm. Like I was holding a piece of rubber in my hands. Her face remained turned to the misty corner no matter how I turned her, at a humanly impossible angle. She started to make some sounds of protest as we reached the door, like she didn’t want to leave, to get too far away from the obelisk, but i managed to pull her through and shut the door behind her, locking it with her key for good measure. 

The air in the corridor was starkly different — lighter, cleaner. I felt my mood improve, like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. There was so much light, here. 

K.’s head swiveled around, facing me again, and she blinked, shaking her head. “Oh — what — ? Um, should we go back to work? Oh man, we’ so late! A. is going to tear me a new one. I hate this job.”  

“Sure,” I said uncertainly. “We’ll talk later, I guess.” 

She didn’t look as shocked or disturbed as she should have, given what had just happened in her room. Should I tell her not to go back in there? Would it even make a difference? 

I settled behind the reception desk and pasted my best neutral smile on my face, and managed to get through the day, somehow. A couple and their two children came to get two adjoining rooms for their week-long family trip, and my curiosity far outweighed any guilt I might have felt when I gave them rooms 12 and 13. 

In the evening, less than an hour before the end of my shift, C. came by in his bright purple suit — a little tight around the stomach — to ask how I was managing. I smiled and said that it was more interesting than expected, which was entirely true, and he seemed relieved and suspicious in equal measure.    

“Did... anything strange happen?” He asked, aiming for casual but unable to hide his nervousness. He was, as ever, sweating, and patting his forehead with a yellow handkerchief. 

“Strange?” I repeated, starting to suspect that he was not clueless about the nature of this hotel. “Oh, sure. Many strange things happened, and I don’t even know the half of it.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Well, did you speak to A., recently? Yesterday he threw an ashtray at a guest, did you know?” 

“I — as a matter of fact, I did receive a complaint about that — my lawyers are working things out with Mr P. as we speak —” 

“And yet A. is still here, not even suspended.” 

C.’s eyes darted here and there without settling on anything. “I value my employees, and wouldn’t hold a momentary lapse of ager against — ” 

“It’s not momentary, though,” I said calmly. “His personality changed in these months. He’s a different person compared to when I met him.” 

“A midlife crisis?” C. offered, smiling tightly as he mopped up his copious sweat. “What are you suggesting happened to him?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t presume to know... but I imagine he’s been having some interesting dreams lately.” 

I looked closely at his face, and I saw a muscle in his cheek jump, I saw him flinch ever so slightly. He knew. 

“Have you been dreaming, too?” I asked him. “Or do you know better than to spend too much time here, than to sleep in one of the rooms?” 

He was pale, now, his hands shaking. The yellow handkerchief was drenched. “You don’t understand — you don’t know anything — ” 

“So enlighten me.” Then, gentler, “I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong, for the record. I’m even... yes, I’m very thankful to be working here. It’s by far the best job I’ve ever had, the happiest time in my life so far.” 

He looked startled. “You — ? Truly? Do you even know — ” 

He closed his mouth before finishing the sentence. 

“Do I know what?”  

“Were you aware of how... colorful you are? Of what you are becoming?” 

“I’m — not unaware,” I said, feeling strangely pleased that he could already tell I wasn’t just boring old me anymore, that my place in the world was changing, that I was shifting to move a little into another world altogether. “But I’d still like to know — did you build this hotel on purpose? Are you also... one of them?” 

He shook his head, wild terror in his eyes. “I’ve never even been to that hotel. I’m — mostly a normal human. Building and opening the hotel wasn’t something I — I only did it for my father. It was his dying wish that I completed construction of the Wooden House Hotel, and that I opened it for business. He was — you don’t understand, he was obsessed with it. Near the end, it was all he could talk about. He spoke of it as though it was a person, and it didn’t even exist yet!” 

I understood the obsession — I even understood referring to it as a person. It was certainly more than a simple place — I knew it had a will of its own, just as I knew it had brought me to Room 9 on purpose. 

“I’m not a good person,” C. said, a deeply sad look in his eyes. “But I’m a good son — I built the hotel just like Father wanted. It took me more than twenty years, all plans based on Grandfather’s designs. It seems he, too, had been consumed with this project. I followed all of his specification as best I could — they were strange specifications, truly bizarre, but as I said, my filial devotion is my only redeeming quality, and I obeyed. I opened the WHH two years ago, and I haven’t slept once since. ” 

I felt a look of intense pity form on my face. He had never seen the true hotel, and his fascinating denizens. And he probably never would. 

“The WHH had only been open for three months when I came across my grandfather’s journals. I was renovating the family home, you see — once sleep is out of the equation, there’s a lot more time to fill — and I found boxes and boxes of journals hidden in a secret compartment in the attic. I pored over them, looking for a cure for my inability to sleep, for answers about the hotel, and the people who kept going missing, dying horribly, or getting sick in all possible ways... ” 

“And?” 

“And I found out the true purpose of the hotel I had built. Can you guess, yet, now that you’ve... visited?” 

I knew. I had known for a while, perhaps. “We’re all... food, aren’t we? Staffers, guests, everyone. We’re... offerings that you’re giving them, to do with what they will.”  

“Not ‘we’, Receptionist,” he corrected me sadly, “They are the offerings.” He gestured between the two of us. “We are the ones who provide.” 

“What happened to the receptionist before me?” 

“He wasn’t having as good a time of it as you apparently are. He ended up booking a room, and... well. It was too expensive for him, unsurprisingly. He’s in the psych ward at the hospital next door, did I tell you? He’ll never recover, of course — far too much is missing from him — but, well. Obviously, you’re handling things in a... rather different way...” 

“I gave that family rooms 12 and 13,” I confessed.   

He nodded. “I don’t imagine you had much of a choice.” 

“I don’t mind. The — Room 12, I spoke with it. It was nice. I’m happy to feed it.” 

I heard C. swallow loudly in the relatively quiet lobby. He was looking at me like I — like I frightened him. Funny, considering he did the same thing as I just had, and he’d been doing it for two years, knowingly. 

“Yes... I imagine you are,” he said finally, and left through the front door, where his chauffeur waited. I knew that he’d do his best not to speak with me again. 

It was truly a measure of his hypocrisy that he would treat me with distaste, when he himself had done nothing to shirk the duties he perceived as so offensive. He could have closed the hotel once he’d realized its true nature — but he had not.   

I left only minutes after him, making my way to the basement in a splendid mood, wondering what awaited me in the dream-hotel today. 

I intercepted K. just before she reached her door, and asked her if she remembered what had happened in there during lunch break. 

“My obelisk,” she said, her body facing me even as her head was fully turned to the door, as though she was staring at the thing through the wood. “I want to — I need to — I — sorry, I can’t speak with you right now — you understand?” 

Her hands were already irresistibly unlocking the door, even though she wasn’t looking at them, as if they had a mind of their own. She was already halfway through the door before she even finished speaking. 

“I understand,” I told her, and moved to watch her stride into her room and kneel in front of the obelisk, which looked taller than it had only a few hours ago. The mist was darker, denser, and it seemed to shift to envelop her almost lovingly. She didn’t move after that. She didn’t even look like she was breathing. She certainly didn’t get up to switch on the light. 

She just stayed there in the dark and in the despair, unbreathing and unmoving. Watching. 

I closed the door softly behind her, and went to my own room, impatient to be asleep. 

This time the hotel had me appear on the fifth floor. The door of Room 34 was wide open, and the inside looked exactly as it did in the waking world: red linoleum, wooden bed frame, bedsheets and duvet in a darker red. It looked a little... hazier compared to the door frame, and to everything else I could see. A little blurred. It was empty, and I didn’t feel anything coming from inside, but I erred on the side of caution and looked in without stepping inside.  

The bed looked disturbed, like someone had just left it, and there was a small open suitcase in the corner, which also looked like someone had just rummaged through it. I instinctively turned to look on the other side of the corridor, and sure enough, there was a woman there, coming up from the staircase. She was long-haired, fairly plain, wearing unmemorable clothes in brown and tan. She looked scared, and confused, and I recognized her immediately: she was Ms R., and it seemed she occupied Room 34 in both worlds. 

“Oh!” She said, finally spotting me. Her voice was so soft i could barely hear her, like she was speaking from the bottom of a deep well. “Oh, you’re the — the receptionist, aren’t you? I’m so glad you’re here, I think I’m lost.” 

I glanced at Room 34. “Ms R, good day. You said you need directions?” 

“Yes, I... I was trying to find someone, anyone from the staff, but there’s nobody here — nobody — even in the common room, that’s way too strange, right, and... I’m — I was so sure it was evening, but look how sunny it is...” 

I smiled reassuringly. “There’s no need to worry. You were looking for a member of the staff? You’ve found it. How can I help?” 

“Well, I... I feel like I haven’t slept since I got here,” she confessed. “And I haven’t seen anyone around. It’s... really so strange, isn’t it? You’re the first person I’ve seen in... days. I don’t know what’s happening.” 

“There are many... individuals... here at the hotel,” I offered. “I could introduce you, if you’re feeling lonely?” 

“Lonely? No, I... I don’t think I like people, not really. At first I was relieved that there never seemed to be anyone about. But I can’t shake this feeling that I need to do something. That I must have come here for something. But I can’t remember... I can’t remember much of anything. Even my name...” 

“Your name is Ms R.,” I tried. 

She shook her head. “Yes, I... I have the feeling of having been that person, but — I’m not, anymore. I’m lost.” 

I noticed that I seemed to forget what her face looked like as soon as I glanced away from it, and that the bright midday light coming from the window didn’t seem to be hitting her correctly, like she was too feeble to register as proper mass. 

“Yes... I suppose you are,” I told her. “But look what you’ve gained in exchange for that: a stay at a beautiful hotel, meals included, and a wonderful vista of the forest.” 

She turned to look at the window, where the forest was visible in all its glory. The trees were a species I’d never seen before, yellow and pale green, and made for a breathtaking sight in the golden sunlight. “I — I guess.”  

“This is your room — Room 34. You’ve already booked it.” 

She looked curiously into the hazy room. “ Oh — thank you.” 

“No problem, Ms — ” I stopped. Her name wasn’t hers anymore. “No problem. I’ll be happy to help with any other issue.” 

She smiled a little, and nodded, and then went back into her room. Her feet made no noise.  

In the morning, before even going to breakfast, I knocked on K.’s door. Was she still contemplating the black spire, or had she managed to look away and go to sleep? I wasn’t even sure such a distinction applied, anymore. 

“K.?” 

There was no answer from within, and I gave up on it after trying and failing to force the door open. 

K. didn’t show her face all day, and didn’t reply to any of my attempts to get her to open the door. I was thinking it might have been time to alert C., or maybe to call an ambulance, but A., K.’s direct superior, came to look for her before I’d come to a decision. He seemed taller than usual, and also like he hadn’t been sleeping very well. He was furious, which was not unusual as of late.  

We barely spoke — I was aware of his penchant for throwing blunt objects at people unprovoked — before he decided that if K. didn’t show up to work on her own, he would drag her there by force.  

“Lazy, useless, spoilt children... ” he muttered casting his eyes about for something to use on the door. “Ungrateful wretches who deserve nothing but lashings and hard discipline...”  

He was speaking with a different voice than his usual, higher and with a different accent, and was ranting about willful youth like he didn’t realize he was doing it. I held my neutral smile, and didn’t comment. 

Having found a metal pipe somewhere, he eventually started bashing it against the door with almost inhuman violence. His face was contorted in a mask of rage, spittle flying from his mouth as he yelled invectives, hitting the pipe loudly against the door, again and again with no regard for his own physical integrity. And indeed, his hands were bleeding before long, fingers bent and broken without him even noticing.  

I started to suspect that K.’s life might actually be in danger from him, once he managed to get through. 

Once the door was destroyed enough for A. to tear away the pieces of it with his bare hands, he stepped inside. I peered around him and saw that the room was now back to its normal state — the fog was gone, the obelisk had disappeared, the light was allowed to come through unimpeded; but K. was still kneeling motionless in the corner. 

A. yelled her name and struck her shoulder with a swing of his open palm to make her face him, but instead the smack sent her to the floor, where she remained still. Her eyes were open, still the same dimensionless black, and her whole body was thin and dry, like a mummy. I had a strange suspicion that she was empty inside — that when the coroner opened her up, he’d find that all that normally filled a human being was just… gone. All her organs, her muscles, her nerves... As promised, she’d been consumed. 

A. stopped yelling and restrained his rage long enough to check her pulse — a little funny, when I was sure there was no blood, no veins even, left in her body — and then flung the pipe against the window with a howl of fury once he confirmed the rather obvious fact that she was not even slightly alive. 

The... tragedies, I suppose they might have been called, did not end there. The woman who had been Ms R. was declared missing after her employer had inquired about her whereabouts. Her phone, and all of her personal effects had been left in her room at the WHH, but there was no sign of her anywhere, and no one among her family and friends had heard from her in a long time. 

Then, later, Mrs F. showed up at my desk, requesting a second key to her husband and son’s room, as they had not replied to messages, calls or knocks since the night before. My heart skittered in my chest as I imagined just what might have happened in there.  

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you the second key. It’s not allowed, you see — it’s for our cleaning staff, and we’re not to give it away to guests.” A lie, of course — there was a third key. I let Mrs F. plead a little, and then relented, offering a small smile. “Oh, I suppose I can help you. I can open it for you, that way the key stays with me.” 

Her shoulders sagged in relief, and she nodded gratefully, clutching her small son to her chest. 

The elevator was slow, and Mrs F. was anxious, and in my state of agitated curiosity both of those things grated. 

“I didn’t think much of it last night because O. — that’s my other son, he’s nine — he likes to sleep early, and I thought my husband must have followed suit and gone to bed, even though it was only nine thirty,” Mrs F. ranted as I tried not to telegraph my impatience by tapping my foot or my finger. “And then today — they haven’t come out of there yet the whole morning — and it’s afternoon now! There has to be something wrong, right? I mean, obviously I hope they just — overslept, or something, but that would mean they’ve been sleeping for nineteen hours? I’m not overreacting, right? I mean I tried to call their room’s telephone — for hours — and they didn’t react. And that thing is so loud I could hear it from the other side of the wall!” 

“Don’t worry ma’am. We’ll get it sorted. I’m sure your husband and son are fine,” I lied, offering a reassuring smile. 

My hands shook as I twisted the key in the door of Room 12. What would I find on the other side of it? Would it be visible on this side? 

I stepped back and gestured for Mrs F. to open the newly unlocked room. I wasn’t sure if the thing could only eat me in the dream-hotel, but I wasn’t about to risk it. I watched from half a step outside the doorframe as Mrs F. stormed inside, and stopped dead in her tracks only a second later.   

“Oh — well, I’m embarrassed now,” she said, glancing back at me. “They’re really just sleeping. What on earth… S.! S., honey, wake up! It’s afternoon, you know — and O., baby, how long are you planning to sleep? I was worried sick!” 

They did wake up, and Mrs F. didn’t react when she looked at them, but I could see it. I could see how tired they looked, how S. limped and massaged his leg like it was numb, when he’d looked perfectly at ease last night. And O…. I don’t know why I thought it, but I was sure one of his eyes was gone. It was still there, physically, but it looked wrong, weak, a shadow of itself. It moved more slowly than the other one, half a second behind. O. himself looked subdued, quiet, eyes lingering in the corners of the room, searching. Frightened.  

His eyes landed on me, eventually, and he flinched, half-hiding behind his distracted and equally despondent father.  

I realized I was grinning.  

I smoothed my face into a more polite expression, and said, “Would you like to come downstairs to eat? I’m sure we can scrounge some breakfast up for you two.” 

“Yes, that would be perfect, thank you so much, you’ve really been so kind to us,” Mrs F. said, leading the way out of the room, expecting her husband and son to follow. But after she stepped into the corridor and turned around expectantly, she found them still in the middle of the room, not having moved an inch. 

“I lost my shoes,” Mr F. said, his words filled with more despair than fit the statement. “Can’t find them anywhere. It’s not even that big — we don’t even have so much stuff. It’s like they’re gone. But they must be here, somewhere… ” 

“S.? What the hell are you talking about?” Mrs F. said, starting to look concerned. “You’re always losing stuff, you… well, don’t you have another pair in your suitcase?” 

“I had three,” he said, grief-stricken. “They’re all gone.” 

“Is this a joke? What on earth —” 

O., the nine year old boy still clinging to his father interrupted her. “I’m sick. I need to lie down and sleep.” 

“Well — well, it’s true that you look a bit… — well, alright. I suppose you can rest for today. And since you’re being so weird today, you can stay and look after him, S.. G. and I will enjoy our vacation today — and we’ll buy you a pair of shoes while we’re at it. And answer the damn phone, please.” 

Father and son continued to look grave as Mrs F. said her slightly belligerent goodbyes, and shut the door in their faces.  

“I’m so sorry about all this,” she told me. “I don’t know what to do with them — I was so worried, and they were just asleep! I guess if O. is sick, that might explain it… maybe he infected S., too. Well, sorry for the bother.” 

“Oh, no bother at all,” I said pushing the elevator button. “In fact, I could arrange to have their meals delivered to them for the time being, if you want?” 

“Oh, you are an angel.” 

* 

The dream brought me to the second floor again. Right in front of Room 12, which was still ajar. Inside, it was red. The curtain, the floor, the table cloth. All bright red. Like arterial blood, my mind supplied out of nowhere. 

“Hello!” The multi-pitched voice exclaimed loudly, just as the feeling of being watched settled upon me. “Hello hello hello! We apologize for our forwardness last time — we had not realized you were the Receptionist! How rude of us! Unforgivable! Would you like — hmmm, would you like a token of our apology? We have a fresh eye!” 

“Oh, there’s no need for that at all,” I said warmly. “I didn’t think you were rude at all. It was fun talking to you.” 

“You flatter us,” it said coyly. Maybe it was because of the change in tone, or because today it spoke much more loudly than last time, unable to hide its excited mood, but I noticed two new voices in its chorus. They were starkly out of sync with the others, their tones not matching. They were too late, or too early, compared to the others, and they sounded like they were screaming in terror instead of speaking words.  

A young boy’s voice, and an adult man’s. 

I smiled. “Did you like you meal?” 

“We like it! Delicious! Tender! Frightened! We are nibbling, to make it last — we are enjoying it, we are enjoying it! Thank you, Receptionist!” 

“No problem — I’m happy to satisfy you. Enjoy your dinner. See you soon, I hope.” 

“Soon!” 

I walked away whistling, and stopped just in front of the staircase. I stared at the bright shifting colors, at the antique wooden pommel with the little angel with a thousand blinking eyes and a hundred gently flapping wings. If I tried to take a step downstairs, I was sure I would spring awake. 

Are you ever going to let me see my room? I thought at the hotel. 

No answer, but I was sure I’d been heard.  

I needed to see it, to know, to check if there was something else there. What if it was killing me? I felt better than I ever had. Nothing missing, nothing lacking. If anything, I was gaining something. Colors. Life. Excitement. Purpose, even. 

But who was to say? I wouldn’t know until I saw it, and the hotel was oddly reticent about letting me. 

I thought about it for a long moment, and eventually turned back towards the corridor, and went to stand in front of Room 9.  

“Are you still there?” I said unnecessarily. He was there — still sobbing loudly. 

“Y-yes,” he said. “I overheard just now — didn’t know you were the Receptionist. S-sorry about last time. Sorry. You’re not going to m-make me leave, are you? I’m sorry, I’m r-really sorry.” 

“No, I’m not making you leave.” Probably didn’t even have the authority to. “Apology accepted.” 

“D-do you want to come in? You can see K., if you w-want.” 

It was fairly unwise, but… “Yes, please.” 

The door creaked open and what lay beyond did not surprise me overmuch. Black fog up to my chest, so dense I couldn’t see my feet. From the fog emerged several obelisks, much like K.’s, but bigger and, I knew, stronger. I couldn’t look directly at any of them for longer than a second before I felt my eyes sink into them, my neck lock in their direction, a need to look inside the void taking a hold on my mind — 

But it was easy enough to look away and disregard the urge. Perhaps because something else had already laid a claim to me. Thanks to my allegiance to the hotel, I made for slippery prey. 

In the corner, half-submerged in fog, I finally noticed the sad boy. He was crouched into a ball, peering at me with his black-void eyes over his knees. He must have been around O.’s age, if such a measure applied to him still — which I didn’t think it did. His hair was dark and limp, his body dried up like K.’s had been. I could see his clavicles clearly when he stood up, and all of his ribs. There were dark spikes coming out from his shoulder and his leg, which had broken through both his skin and his grimy jeans. 

Most eye-catching of all, a black wing — leathery like a bat’s — stretched out enormous from his back.  

“I thought you’d escaped the fog,” I said, remembering what K. had said as I waded through the dark mist to come closer. The despair and terror in the air was making my head spin.  

“I escaped the m-monster. Maybe. F-For now, at least,” he corrected me, wiping away the black sludge dripping from his eyes with a clawed hand. “I c-can’t escape the fog any more than you could escape th-the air you breathe. It’s filling up everything that’s-missing, you know. Everything I g-gave up to have this room. I can’t ever be happy again. All — all I have is sadness, and fear, and the fog.” 

His voice was flat even despite the sobs that shook it, echoing and empty. So distinctly hopeless and mourning that my eyes were prickling in what I could only assume was second-hand sadness. Empathy? Sympathy? Something I had very little experience with, at any rate.  

“You said K. is here?” I said after watching him sob for a few moments. It was oddly captivating. The black sludge kept leaking out of his eyes no matter how he wiped it with his monstrous hands. His face contorted in a mask of pain that never shifted even by a millimeter.  

He pointed a razor-sharp finger somewhere in the left-hand side of the room, and I turned to look, but there was nothing — nothing other than fog, and… 

He was pointing at one of the obelisks. The smallest one, which I recognized immediately, as it had been in the corner of K.’s room. “It’s mine,” she had told me. 

There was a foul-smelling mass on the floor in front of it — I recognized a lung, kidneys, an intestine… they looked darker, blacker than they should, and some part of me knew that they were in the process of being absorbed by the obelisk. Nourishment for the void.  

“I t-took her heart for myself,” he confessed, tapping a black-tipped claw on the right side of his chest, where a vertical scar shone blackly like a gap in reality itself. “I thought m-maybe it would let me feel her joy, b-but it didn’t work… ” 

Should’ve tried with the brain, I thought, but didn’t say.  

He looked up at me with big empty eyes. “C-Can I try yours…?” 

“I’m afraid that’s not on the cards at this time,” I said politely. 

His abyssal stare lowered to my chest. “It w-will be painless. The fog will fill the emptiness… d-dampen your pain, your sadness… I can put you with K., you’d have company, forever… would th-that convince you?” 

One of his long, curved claws was pressing on my sternum, having already sunk through my tie, my shirt, and a few layers of my skin. It was true: I felt no pain. I was sure I would feel no pain even after he cracked my ribs open and extracted my still-pulsing heart. 

My breath was coming faster as his claw sank deeper. It scraped against bone, and I had to assume he could feel the way my heart was thundering.  

I swallowed. “An attack on myself might be construed as an attack on the hotel itself,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm with some effort. “And showing hostility towards the hotel will get you escorted out of the premises —” God, I hoped, “— where you will receive no further help from our establishment, and will be vulnerable to your tormentor.” 

The claw stopped digging half ways through my sternum. “I’ll get k-kicked out… ?” 

I hissed through my teeth as his claw shook as he sobbed, sinking half a centimeter deeper. 

“Yes,” I said confidently, even though I had no idea whether the hotel would even care if I lost my heart, or if I was consumed. “It’s considered rude to maim a member of the staff.” 

His buskin mask face seemed to crease further. “Oh.” 

I felt the claw and the pollution it brought slowly leave my body, and breathed a sigh of relief only when I was free of it. There was no blood, and no pain, but a deep anguish made me stagger back as I saw I tendril of fog slither towards the cut, clearly intending to fill it up with its own foul substance. 

But a mere fraction of a second before it could enter me, there was a profound warmth in my chest, and the sudden fragrance of resin in the air, and the wound was closed, shored up with trembling, pulsating colors. The misty tendril dispersed when it came into contact with it. 

I realized I was in tears. “Thank you — thank you —” 

Even my shirt and tie had been patched up with the shifting colors.  

“I’m s-sorry,” the boy said, sniffling. “I d-didn’t mean to… I was just thinking you look so happy, and… C-can I still stay? Please, I s-swear I won’t do it again… ” 

“This time you will be forgiven. But next time? You will be delivered to the fog from whence you came, to suffer whatever fate the monster has in store for you. Keep that in mind if you want to keep this room.” 

He nodded, looking even more miserable than before. “I’ll b-be sad forever, won’t I…” 

“I’m sure you will,” I said, smiling down at him. “Just how it goes sometimes. I suggest you learn to cherish what you have left: you’re safe, aren’t you? And staying in a wonderful top of the class hotel, where every day is fascinating and every guest intrigues. You even have a few friends,” I added, nodding at the obelisks, careful not to look directly at them. Difficult when I felt that them watching me. “And hey, if you wanted to try another heart transplant, there’s always room service.” 

He didn’t look happy — he couldn’t, as I understood it — but his sobs slowed down a bit, and he nodded, and didn’t look at me as I left. 

When I woke up, I went to stand in front of the mirror, and studied my chest. I expected it to look unchanged, or only slightly off. Instead, I found that the disk of skin directly on top of my sternum was an irritated red-orange color and ran a few degrees hotter than the rest of my skin. It pulsed like a second heart. It was the answer to the question: Does the hotel care if I get hurt, killed or eaten?, and it was an answer that moved me beyond anything I’d ever felt. I mattered to it. It cared about me. 

I was distracted all day thinking about my encounter with the sad boy in Room 9. About the hotel keeping me safe from the obelisks and the fog and healing my wound. I returned to my room during lunch break to stand in front of the bathroom mirror with my shirt unbuttoned, palm pressed hard on the oval of hot skin in the middle of my chest, which now looked yellowish. 

I had the sensation of closing my eyes, and when I re-opened them I found myself back to work, sat behind the reception desk as always. Maybe I’d operated on autopilot, or perhaps i’d lost a few minutes to my distracted pondering. Either way, I had my customer service smile at the ready when the first guest of the day came. 

It was an old woman, holding something in a bundle of cloth close to her chest. She was wizened and austere, and of Middle Eastern origins, judging by her appearance. She wore several layers of burgundy and dark pink, the edges finely decorated with gold detail. A veil covered her hair, the small gold rings affixed on either side of it clinking together as she moved. Her eye-sockets were empty and dark, but this fact didn’t seem to inconvenience her in the least: she came to a stop in front of the desk, and her face was turned unerringly towards mine. 

When she spoke, it was in a strange lilting language that made my skin prickle. I had no idea what her words meant, but she was facing me, and it sounded accusing.  

“I’m the Receptionist,” I said politely.  

She gave the impression of being surprised, and of looking me up and down, even though of course that couldn’t have been what she was doing. 

“Will you be wanting your usual room?” I asked her. I didn’t know where the knowledge that she was a regular was coming from, but I trusted it. “Room 53?” 

She snapped something short, which I took for assent, and turned to the staircase, climbing the stairs with more dexterity than I would have expected from someone without eyeballs. 

I opened the large leather-bound ledger in front of me and wrote Eyeless Woman next to the printed words: Room 53.  

While I was at it, I wrote Sad Boy next to Room 9, and Lost Woman next to Room 34. After some deliberation I scribbled Dining Room next to Room 12.  

My pen hovered over the space next to Room 58. I knew there was something in there — I could feel it from here — but I had no idea who or what it was. In the end, I just wrote occupied.   

The vintage teal telephone next to my elbow started to produce an ear-splitting whine. I startled, and the world around me seemed to shift. I found myself staring at the computer monitor. The little clock in the corner said 7:15 pm. 

The phone was still ringing, but it was the wood-themed modern phone, distinctly quieter. Slightly confused, I picked up the receiver. 

“Wooden House Hotel.” 

“Yes, hello, uh… this is C..” 

Great. “Good evening. How may I be of help?” 

“I’ve received… um. This might be unpleasant to hear, but I’ve received several… notes, shall we say, about your behavior today. Um. I understand the stresses of the job, of course, so if you wanted to… to have a little vacation, or… you know. It can be arranged.” 

“A vacation?” 

“Yes, I… your mother called, you know. Inquired after your health, complained that you don’t reply to her messages… maybe you’d like some time to visit her?” 

“Are you trying to make me leave? Are you sure you should be sticking your nose into this?” I said, rude as anything. He didn’t get to interfere when he’d essentially washed his hands of all that happened here. He didn’t get to deprive me of my reason to live because of his own guilt. 

“Wh— This is my hotel, of course I — why, I could have you fired for your impertinence!” 

I burst into laughter right into the receiver. Once the mirth subsided, I said, “I don’t think you could.” 

There was a long pause on the other side. His voice was different — wary — when he finally replied, “No. No, I expect it would be very difficult indeed. I apologize.” 

The line clicked shut on his end.  

* 

Some of the colorful joy of that other world started to remain about me even in the waking. The veil was thinning. The excitement and the splendor and the smell of pine were out of reach, but only just. I felt them close by, and I found myself smiling more often than ever when I saw a flash of red and gold-fringed fabric in the corner of my eye – the blind woman going about her day, standoffish and incomprehensible as always – or when I caught sight, for brief moments, of  

[anjalisinghmarketing]

The Essential Guide to Edge Band Tapes Transforming Furniture

Edge bands are tiny subtleties for furniture aesthetics, durability, and functional elements. Therefore, understanding how essential edge banding is makes a massive difference if it’s a manufacturer, designer, or furniture user. In the blog, we will explain different types of edge bands, their features and uses, and we will introduce a Pvc edge band manufacturing company in India.

What is an Edge Band?

Edge banding is skinny strips applied along the edges of materials such as plywood, MDF, or particleboard to achieve a finished smooth look. It covers raw edges, protecting the core material from moisture, heat, and other mechanical damage. Typically, edge bands are made of different materials, such as PVC, ABS, acrylic, or even wood veneer, so they can be selected according to various needs.

Features and Usage of Edge Bands

Durability and Protection: Edge bands provide furniture with a durable solution in terms of protection against the environmental elements, such as moisture, household chemicals and daily wear and tear, allowing it to last longer. They also provide resistance to impacts, making the furniture sturdier and even more hardy.

Aesthetics: The edge bands hide the jaggies of the wood panels pretty well, but they look like a stunning finish when they are high-gloss. Edge bands come in tons of colors, textures, and finishes—from wood grain to matte to high-gloss- and can be matched to the style of the rest of the furniture.

Versatility: The edge is well-suited for most applications, from shelves over cabinets and doors to tables and countertops in a kitchen, etc. It is applicable to a diverse variety of furniture with edges—beveled/curved or straight—working or fitting to each one very well.

Ease of Application: Applying edge bands is not hard and can be done manually or with an automatic edge banding machine. This allows furniture manufacturers to add some ease to their products with minor inconvenience.

Why Choose E3 Group for Edge Bands?

E3 Group is one of the leading PVC edge band manufacturer in India, whose motto is very prominent on innovation and quality. E3 Group offers one of the widest ranges of edge banding solutions to meet the needs of the most diverse furniture industry. These are just a few reasons why E3 Group stands out:

Massive Product Line: From PVC edge bands to acrylic and ABS, E3 Group offers a massive variety of colors and textures, as well as different sizes, to suit many design personalities.Quality Products: The E3 Group ensures that precision-made edge bands are maintained to high standards of quality and durability, withstanding high levels of heat and moisture.

Eco-friendly Manufacturing: E3 Group provides for the sustainable manufacture of products that are non-toxic and safe for use in residential and industrial premises.

Customized Edge Banding: Each customer has a different requirement, and so does E3 Group, which also provides customized edge banding to help designers and manufacturers meet their design requirements.

Conclusion

Edge bands, as part of interior decoration, are essential but function for aestheticism and, at the same time, have functional functionality. This is either to cover your cabinet’s edges or achieve a glossy finish on your tables, surely one of the most vital ingredients—edge banding promise: quality and innovation. A lot of people nowadays are on the lookout for a perfect ally to fulfill their expectations of edge banding. The company’s pvc edge banding suppliers are spread across PAN India to provide you with edge banding solutions in your city, no matter your color or demand they will give you the perfect solution. E3 Group commits to providing you with elegant furniture that lasts longer and is, indeed, time-tested with its edge bands.

Source Url:- https://e3groupindia.com/edge-band-manufacturer-in-india/

[petermorwood]

Maybe it's mental association with Mr Brown*, but I've always thought of Mr Young as driving a Rover or a Wolseley. It just so happens that my own Dad was a Wolseley man.

Mr Young's car would be quite old - "elderly" and "two decades" are canonical - so might possibly be something like these, with their sedate exteriors and wood-veneered, leather-upholstered "gentleman's club" interiors:

Despite its age his car would still be concourse-handsome because he washes and waxes it regularly, and it would still run like a sewing-machine because he attends to proper maintenance at the correct intervals in which proper maintenance should be done.

The result is, his car wouldn't look like it's just come out of the factory.

The patina from all those years of careful ownership make it look far better than that.

*****

As The Good Book puts it:

It was an elderly car, but well preserved. Not using Crowley’s method, though, where dents were simply wished away; this car looked like it did, you knew instinctively, because its owner had spent every weekend for two decades doing all the things the manual said should be done every weekend. Before every journey he walked around it and checked the lights and counted the wheels. Serious-minded men who smoked pipes and wore moustaches had written serious instructions saying that this should be done, and so he did it, because he was a serious-minded man who smoked a pipe and wore a moustache and did not take such injunctions lightly, because if you did, where would you be? He had exactly the right amount of insurance. He drove three miles below the speed limit, or fifty-five miles per hour, whichever was the lower. He wore a tie, even on Saturdays.

* Mr Brown is from the "Just William" book series by Richmal Crompton. These are some of my well-used reading copies.

For anyone who'd like to compare "that little devil" William Brown ("William - The Outlaw" etc.) with THE Little Devil Adam Young ("William - The Antichrist")...

...several of the earliest Williams (pub. dates 1922 to 1927) are on Gutenberg.

Crowley has the Bentley, he is the Bentley’s and the Bentley is his. The question on everyone’s minds is would Aziraphale have a Morris minor with a tartan blanket in the boot and a picnic hamper?

That's Mr Young's car you're thinking of.

[plastic1extrusion1machine]

#jwell #bamboo #charcoal wood veneer #pvc #board making machine

[devanbald]

Mastering the Craft: Advanced Woodworking Techniques

Woodworking is a timeless craft that requires patience, precision, and skill. While many beginners start with simple projects to learn the basics, advancing your woodworking skills opens up a world of creative possibilities. Moving from basic joints to intricate details, advanced woodworking techniques allow you to create complex, professional-quality pieces. If you're ready to take your woodworking to the next level, mastering these advanced techniques will help elevate your craft.

Perfecting Joinery: Dovetails, Mortise and Tenon, and Finger Joints

Joinery is the backbone of woodworking. Mastering advanced joinery techniques can significantly improve the strength and aesthetics of your projects. Dovetail joints, for example, are often used in fine furniture and cabinetry. The interlocking nature of dovetail joints offers exceptional strength while adding a decorative element. Cutting dovetails by hand requires a steady hand and attention to detail, but it's a rewarding skill that showcases craftsmanship.

Mortise and tenon joints are another essential joinery technique. This method involves inserting a tenon, a projection at the end of one piece of wood, into a mortise or a cavity, cut into another piece. Because of its durability, this type of joint is commonly used in chairs, tables, and frames. While it can be cut by hand, many woodworkers use mortising machines or routers to ensure precision.

Finger or box joints are another advanced joinery technique often used in box-making and drawer construction. These joints involve cutting a series of interlocking "fingers" into the ends of two pieces of wood, creating a strong connection that resists pulling apart. Mastering the finger joint technique requires accurate measurements and precise cuts, but it results in a clean, professional finish.

Mastering Hand Tools for Precision Work

Advanced woodworking requires a deep understanding of hand tools and how to use them for fine, detailed work. While power tools are incredibly useful, hand tools like chisels, planes, and saws allow for more precision and control. Knowing when and how to use these tools can drastically improve the quality of your work.

Hand planes, for example, are essential for smoothing wood and creating flat, even surfaces. A well-sharpened plane can create a flawless finish, often superior to that achieved with a power sander. Block and smoothing planes are particularly useful for trimming small amounts of material and achieving smooth edges.

Chisels are indispensable for cutting mortises, cleaning joints, and carving intricate details. Learning to sharpen and maintain chisels properly is crucial, as a dull chisel can lead to inaccurate cuts and damaged wood. Use chisels to remove small amounts of material and clean up tight corners in your joinery work.

Hand saws, such as dovetail or Japanese pull saws, offer the fine control necessary for detailed cuts, particularly when working on joints or cutting delicate pieces. While it takes time to develop the skill to make perfectly straight cuts with a hand saw, the ability to control each cut manually is an invaluable skill for any woodworker looking to improve their craft.

The Art of Veneering and Inlay Work

Veneering and inlay are advanced techniques that allow woodworkers to add decorative elements and fine details to their projects. Veneering involves applying a thin layer of wood to a substrate, often a more expensive or visually appealing species. This technique allows you to create stunning surfaces while using less material. Veneering requires careful planning, as each veneer must be applied smoothly and securely without bubbles or gaps.

There are several ways to apply veneer, including using a vacuum press or traditional methods involving clamps and cauls. Mastering veneer work involves learning how to prepare the substrate properly, apply glue evenly, and apply consistent pressure to ensure the veneer adheres seamlessly to the surface.

Inlay work, on the other hand, involves embedding contrasting materials into a wood surface to create patterns or designs. This can be done with different wood species, metals, or even stones. Inlaying requires careful precision, as the cavity for the inlay must be cut to exact dimensions for a tight, seamless fit. Advanced woodworkers often use chisels, routers, or inlay kits to achieve the precise results necessary for this decorative technique.

Shaping Wood: Curves, Bending, and Sculpting

Creating curves and bending wood adds elegance and complexity to woodworking projects. While most beginner projects focus on straight cuts and right angles, incorporating curves into your work takes it to the next level. Learning how to bend wood without cracking or breaking it is a skill that requires understanding the properties of the wood and using the right techniques.

Steam bending is a popular method for creating curved shapes. This process involves heating the wood with steam to make it pliable, allowing you to bend it into the desired shape. Once the wood cools, it retains its new form. Steam bending is commonly used in furniture making, particularly in chair backs, armrests, and other curved components. It requires special equipment, including a steam box and bending forms, but the results can be stunning.

Another approach to creating curves is through laminating, where thin strips of wood are glued together and clamped into a curved form. The laminated strips hold the curved shape as the glue dries, creating strong, durable components. Laminating offers more control over the curve than steam bending and is ideal for larger projects or projects where precision is critical.

Wood sculpting allows you to shape wood into organic forms for more artistic projects. This requires a combination of chisels, carving tools, and sometimes power carving tools. Sculpting wood gives you the freedom to create intricate designs, making it an excellent technique for adding artistic flair to your woodworking projects.

Finishing Techniques for a Professional Look

Once you've mastered advanced woodworking techniques, the final step is perfecting your finishing skills. A great finish can make all the difference in the presentation and durability of your work. Finishing techniques range from simple, clear coats to more complex methods like French polishing or glazing.

Sanding is a critical part of any finishing process. For advanced woodworkers, knowing how to properly sand each piece—starting with coarse grit and gradually moving to fine grit—ensures a smooth, flawless surface. Hand-sanding tight spots and edges is necessary to avoid scratches or uneven surfaces.

Staining and applying a clear finish are also important steps in protecting your project and enhancing the natural beauty of the wood. Oil-based finishes, such as tung or linseed oil, penetrate deeply into the wood, providing a rich, durable finish. For more intricate work, French polishing—a technique that involves applying thin layers of shellac and rubbing them into the wood—offers a high-gloss, professional-grade finish.

Glazing, another advanced finishing technique, involves applying a translucent layer of color over a base stain or paint. This technique adds depth and dimension to your woodworking project, highlighting details and creating a unique aesthetic.

Mastering advanced woodworking techniques opens up endless possibilities for creating intricate, professional-quality projects. Whether it's learning precision joinery, mastering hand tools, incorporating veneering and inlay work, shaping wood, or applying advanced finishing techniques, these skills add to your craftsmanship. By continuing to hone these techniques, you'll elevate your woodworking projects, allowing you to create unique, timeless pieces that showcase your dedication to the craft.

[amp-speciality]

AMP Speciality’s Unique Approach to Manufacturing: Hardening Agents and Press Pads

In today's fast-paced industrial world, efficiency, durability, and product quality are key factors in achieving success. AMP Speciality, a leader in industrial solutions, offers a range of advanced products designed to meet these demands, including UF Hardener, MF Hardener, Press Pads, and Anti-Blocking Agents. Each of these products serves a unique purpose in enhancing performance across multiple industries, from wood processing and laminate production to textile and plastic manufacturing. Let’s explore how AMP Speciality's solutions help industries improve their operations and product quality.

UF Hardener (Urea Formaldehyde Hardener)

UF Hardener, or Urea Formaldehyde Hardener, is a critical component in the wood and laminate industries. Urea formaldehyde resins are commonly used as adhesives in plywood, particleboard, and other wood-based products. The role of a UF Hardener is to initiate and accelerate the curing process, ensuring a strong bond between the wood fibers or layers of laminate.

AMP Speciality's UF Hardener is designed to offer fast curing times, making it ideal for high-volume production environments where efficiency is paramount. By promoting strong, durable bonds, UF Hardener helps manufacturers produce high-quality wood products with excellent structural integrity. Moreover, UF Hardener enhances resistance to water, chemicals, and wear, ensuring that wood products maintain their performance over time.

Industries that rely on UF Hardener benefit from increased production speed, reduced waste, and improved product durability, making it a key ingredient in modern wood processing and furniture manufacturing.

MF Hardener (Melamine Formaldehyde Hardener)

Similar to UF Hardener, MF Hardener (Melamine Formaldehyde Hardener) is widely used in the production of laminates, coatings, and decorative surfaces. Melamine formaldehyde resins are known for their hardness, water resistance, and high durability, making them ideal for use in products such as countertops, flooring, and high-pressure laminates.

AMP Speciality’s MF Hardener enhances the curing process of melamine resins, resulting in improved surface hardness and a more robust end product. MF Hardeners are particularly valued for their ability to create scratch-resistant and heat-resistant surfaces, which are essential for applications in kitchens, furniture, and industrial workspaces.

With AMP Speciality’s MF Hardener, manufacturers can achieve higher quality surfaces with exceptional durability, ensuring that their products can withstand the rigors of daily use in demanding environments.

Press Pads

Press Pads play a vital role in the laminate and plywood production process. These specialized pads are used in hot pressing machines to ensure even heat distribution and pressure during the manufacturing of laminates and veneers. Press pads help maintain consistent product quality by preventing defects such as surface unevenness, blistering, or delamination.

AMP Speciality provides high-performance press pads designed to withstand the high temperatures and pressures required in laminate production. By using reliable press pads, manufacturers can achieve smooth, high-quality finishes while extending the lifespan of their pressing equipment. AMP Speciality’s press pads are engineered for durability, ensuring minimal wear and tear, which ultimately leads to lower production costs and higher productivity.

Anti-Blocking Agent

In industries that produce films, plastics, and coatings, anti-blocking agent are essential for preventing surfaces from sticking together during production, storage, and transport. Blocking occurs when smooth surfaces, such as plastic films, come into contact and adhere to each other due to pressure, heat, or static electricity.

AMP Speciality’s anti-blocking agents create a micro-thin barrier between surfaces, reducing surface adhesion and allowing for easy separation of materials. This ensures smooth handling, efficient packaging, and easy application of products such as plastic films, adhesives, and coatings. Whether you’re manufacturing food packaging, industrial films, or plastic sheets, AMP Speciality’s anti-blocking agents help prevent costly production delays and ensure a flawless final product.

Conclusion

AMP Speciality is committed to delivering high-quality industrial solutions that enhance production efficiency, durability, and overall product quality. With their UF Hardener, MF Hardener, Press Pads, and Anti-Blocking Agents, businesses across a wide range of industries can optimize their operations and achieve superior results.

Explore AMP Speciality's full range of innovative solutions by visiting at https://ampspeciality.com/ and see how their products can help streamline your production processes and improve product performance.

[willpaul229]

Spotlight On Rare Woodworking Machinery Found At Auctions

Auctions spotlight rare woodworking machinery, offering unique opportunities to acquire vintage and specialized equipment. Items like vintage industrial lathes, custom-built planers, CNC routers, and combination machines frequently surface, providing exceptional value. Rare sanders and exotic tools, such as veneer presses and dowel-making machines, often appear, catering to collectors and professionals. These wood tool auctions present a chance to upgrade workshops with high-quality, hard-to-find machinery at competitive prices.

[plywood-timbers]

MDF Board Applications: Versatility and Practicality in Modern Construction and Design

Medium-Density Fiberboard (MDF) has emerged as a versatile and widely used material across multiple industries, from furniture manufacturing to construction and interior design. Known for its smooth surface, uniform density, and affordability, MDF offers several advantages over traditional wood and other engineered wood products. Its applications are numerous, driven by its ability to be easily shaped, painted, and finished, making it a staple material in both residential and commercial settings.

1. Furniture Manufacturing

One of the most common applications of MDF is in furniture production. MDF is preferred by manufacturers for making flat-pack and modular furniture due to its consistency in thickness, which results in fewer manufacturing defects. The smooth surface of MDF can be easily veneered, laminated, or painted, allowing furniture designers to achieve a wide range of finishes from high-gloss to wood grain.

From cabinets and shelving units to wardrobes and dressers, MDF’s ability to hold screws and fittings securely makes it a popular choice in creating sturdy, affordable furniture pieces. The material can also be easily machined and customized, allowing for intricate designs and moldings that would be difficult and costly to achieve with solid wood.

2. Cabinetry and Shelving

MDF is extensively used in the creation of cabinetry and shelving for both residential and commercial applications. Its smooth surface is ideal for painting or veneering, giving it a polished finish that can fit into any interior décor. Kitchen and bathroom cabinets, in particular, benefit from MDF’s cost-effectiveness and adaptability. MDF is also highly stable, meaning it won't warp or crack as easily as natural wood when exposed to moisture, making it suitable for environments like kitchens and bathrooms.

Moreover, its density provides structural integrity for shelves, allowing them to bear weight without bowing. Many retail outlets and offices use MDF shelving due to its reliability and sleek, professional appearance when painted or laminated.

3. Interior Paneling and Wall Features

MDF is a popular choice for wall paneling and creating feature walls. Its smooth surface can be easily painted to match any design theme, while its workability allows for intricate molding and detailing. MDF paneling is often used in offices, homes, hotels, and other commercial spaces where a modern and clean aesthetic is required.

In addition to flat paneling, MDF can be used to create raised panels or beadboard effects, adding texture and visual interest to walls. It's also ideal for wainscoting and other decorative wall treatments. Many designers and architects choose MDF because it’s easy to install and more cost-effective than solid wood options.

4. Doors and Moldings

Another significant application of MDF is in the manufacturing of interior doors and moldings. MDF doors are favored for their smooth finish, which makes them ideal for painting and finishing. These doors are also resistant to warping and expansion, which is a common issue with solid wood doors, especially in environments with fluctuating humidity levels.

MDF is also used to produce crown moldings, baseboards, and window casings. Since MDF can be easily routed and shaped, it allows for detailed profiles that would be expensive to achieve with solid wood. The material’s consistency ensures a smooth finish, making it easy to paint and integrate into existing decor.

5. Acoustic Panels

In recent years, MDF has found increasing use in acoustic paneling due to its sound-absorbing properties. MDF panels are commonly used in theaters, recording studios, and conference rooms where sound control is crucial. The density of MDF helps reduce sound transmission, making it an excellent material for soundproofing applications. It can also be perforated or grooved to enhance its acoustic properties, making it an essential material for designing modern acoustic solutions.

6. Exhibition Stands and Displays

MDF is a popular choice for creating temporary structures like exhibition stands, retail displays, and kiosks. Its affordability, combined with its ability to be easily machined into different shapes, makes it ideal for creating custom displays. The smooth surface allows for easy branding, as MDF can be painted or laminated with graphics to meet specific marketing requirements. Furthermore, its durability ensures that the displays can be reused multiple times, making it a sustainable option for businesses looking to minimize waste.

7. Crafts and DIY Projects

Hobbyists and DIY enthusiasts often turn to MDF for various craft projects. Its ease of cutting, shaping, and painting makes it a favorite for creating everything from home décor items to custom furniture pieces. MDF is available in different thicknesses, allowing for flexibility in design. It is also relatively lightweight, making it easy to handle for home projects.

Conclusion

MDF’s widespread applications in furniture, cabinetry, interior design, and even soundproofing are a testament to its versatility and practicality. Its affordability, workability, and adaptability have made it a favorite material among manufacturers, designers, and builders alike. As industries continue to seek cost-effective and sustainable alternatives to solid wood, MDF remains a key player in modern construction and design.

[motimac]

Enhancing Precision in Woodworking: A Comprehensive Guide to Veneer Sanding Machines

Introduction

In the world of woodworking and furniture manufacturing, achieving a smooth and flawless finish is crucial for both aesthetic appeal and durability. Veneer, a thin slice of wood applied to surfaces, is particularly sensitive to sanding processes. A veneer sanding machine is a specialized tool designed to delicately sand veneer surfaces without causing damage. In this article, we will explore the key features, benefits, and the importance of veneer sanding machines in modern woodworking.

What is a Veneer Sanding Machine?

A veneer sanding machine is designed specifically for sanding thin sheets of wood veneer. Veneer, typically around 0.6 to 1 mm thick, requires careful handling to avoid tearing or sanding through the surface. Unlike standard sanding machines, veneer sanders are equipped with precision mechanisms to ensure even pressure and consistent sanding across delicate surfaces.

Key Features of Veneer Sanding Machines

Variable Speed Control Veneer sanding machines come with adjustable speed settings, allowing users to choose the appropriate speed depending on the material’s sensitivity. Slower speeds are ideal for thin veneers, reducing the risk of damage.

Precision Rollers and Sanding Heads These machines are built with precision rollers and heads that ensure uniform pressure is applied, preventing uneven sanding and maintaining the integrity of the veneer.

Vacuum Suction for Dust Control A key feature of modern veneer sanding machines is their integrated dust extraction systems, which keep the work surface clean and free from sawdust. This not only enhances the finish but also protects the machine from clogging.

Soft Contact Sanding Pads The soft, flexible contact sanding pads in veneer machines ensure that the veneer surface is sanded smoothly without harsh pressure that could lead to scratches or tearing.

Benefits of Using Veneer Sanding Machines

Enhanced Precision and Control Veneer sanding machines offer unparalleled control during the sanding process. The delicate nature of veneer requires careful handling, and these machines ensure that even the thinnest layers are sanded evenly.

Increased Efficiency Automating the sanding process with a veneer sanding machine greatly reduces manual labor, allowing craftsmen to focus on other intricate details. The consistent performance of these machines improves production speed without compromising on quality.

Prevention of Damage Sanding veneer manually or using inappropriate machinery can result in cracks, chips, or an uneven finish. Veneer sanding machines are designed specifically to avoid these issues, making them indispensable for high-quality woodworking.

Sustainability and Cost-Effectiveness Since veneer is a cost-effective alternative to solid wood, ensuring its proper treatment and finishing extends its lifespan. Veneer sanding machines help minimize wastage and increase the durability of the final product, making them an eco-friendly and cost-effective investment.

Applications of Veneer Sanding Machines

Veneer sanding machines are used in a variety of industries, including

Furniture Manufacturing Whether it’s tabletops, cabinets, or intricate inlays, veneer sanding machines help furniture manufacturers achieve a perfect finish on veneer-covered surfaces.

Interior Design Veneered surfaces are commonly used in high-end interior designs, from wall panels to decorative elements. Sanding machines ensure these finishes are flawless and smooth.

Musical Instrument Production Instruments like pianos and guitars often feature veneered surfaces. A veneer sanding machine is essential in maintaining the delicate texture and finish required for such instruments.

For more info:-

Sanding Belt for Metal

Wide Sanding Machine