#green ply

[korraply]

Korraply and its exceptional offering in the Indian plywood industry

Korraply has been a renowned name when it comes to offering plywood products like louvers, veneers, blockboards, doors, panels, etc. Korraply also manufactures its own brand of fire retardant plywood and marine ply that’s boiling waterproof and offers exceptional quality at reasonable prices.

[frnkiebby]

idiots~🎃

[brittlebutch]

800 yards of hand spun yarn already on its way to becoming a hand knit sweater vest <3

[milkweedman]

Ran out of WIPS I could work on, so now I'm winding ply balls bc all my spindles are full. Couldn't find a pebble to wind it around but did have a die to hand...

[rancid-men-stimboards]

Ply pride flag (2012) stimboard

X X X - X X X - X X X

[gray-ace-space]

demigirl / gray asexual / polyromantic flag combo

for @curlyburp but if by some chance it applies to u too go wild use it

[disgruntled-lifeform]

My dot dyed fibers became a tad felted but fear not, hand carders to the rescue!

[cottonkhaleesi]

All done 🦚

[mrsmarlasinger]

About to eat toilet paper 👍

[a1maska]

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[luveline]

i'm missing coworker!james so much... is he doing okay?

James is poorly :( fem

James is a cruel kind of ill. Desperate to escape the dreaded ‘man flu’, he tries hard to portray the common cold. Doesn’t whine, groan or moan, simply suffers the near constant sneezing and his twinging neck without comment. 

Luckily, he has two —two! because you like him enough to be concerned! barely!— nice deskmates who ply him with tea and worry alike. 

“Did you take that antihistamine?” Remus asks. 

“I did, yeah. You watched me take it an hour ago and try as I might, I haven’t regurgitated it yet.” 

“Don’t be disgusting, he’s just worried,” you say. 

A month ago, you might’ve said it with deep, genuine ire. James annoys you and his choice of imagery is hardly workplace appropriate, but for some reason you’re good to him lately. You’re softening, and why shouldn’t you be? James is a boy worth softening for. 

He sneezes hard into a tissue in his palm and knocks the desk, sending his small crowd of figurines skittering, their light green bodies scuffed with scratches. They fall over each day. You like rearranging them. 

You also like feeding James biscuits, and pretending you don’t like him. Or maybe pretending you do. It’s hard to tell what’s real. 

“Jesus,” he says, forgetting to be demure as he drops his forehead against his closed fist. “I can’t take it much longer.” 

“You need to calm down, is all. Every time you sneeze you trigger the inflammation in your nose, which makes you more likely to sneeze again,” Remus says. He doesn’t sound particularly pitying, but he does then stand to grab James’ mug as he heads to the kitchen. 

In an office made up of mostly Brits, it’s extremely common for everyone to make one another a tea or coffee when they get one for themselves, but it’s a sweet gesture for Remus to keep James topped up nonetheless. It also provides for moments like this: you and him alone. Not awkward anymore. 

“Do you have painkillers?” he asks.

You open the drawer of your desk and offer him your pouch. “Here.” 

Inside are many things. A box of lil-lets, plasters in sterile wrappings, throat soothers, ibuprofen, a treasure trove of cures for little ailments. 

“Just, help yourself to anything you want.” 

“You’re an angel.” James unveils a shiny purple chocolate bar. “I can have Freddie?”

“Freddo,” you correct. “Come on, James, it’s on the packet.” 

He doesn’t truly want it. He doubts he could taste it, and he drops it back in. 

“Oh, no, you can have it!” you say, softer. “I’m just being pedantic.” 

“Thanks, but I don’t think I can do chocolate right now.” 

“Right, um… well, I have a sandwich?” 

“What kind of sandwich?” he asks. 

“One of those impossible BLT’s. But I can get you a proper sandwich, James. They have those sesame seed rolls in the vending machine.” 

James doesn’t understand why you’re being so nice to him. “I must look awful,” he murmurs, letting his aching, pulsing head drop onto the desk. He sniffs uselessly. Fuck, he hates work. Why can’t he go home?

“You never look awful,” you say. 

James turns his face to see you’ve lowered your own, resting your cheek in your hand, your knuckles grazing the table. 

“You’re being too nice to me. I’m dying.” 

“You’re the one who’s mean to me, James. I’m your unwilling victim.”

“As opposed to being my willing victim.” James hates being ill, his lips are dry and his throat feels sharp and he’s changed his mind, he does want the Freddo. “Please be nice to me again.” 

“You know what’s good for this? Nasal spray. That’ll fix you.” 

“You could fix me,” James says. You don’t answer. He presses his nose to the table. “My days are always good ones when you can't be bothered to pretend you don’t like me.” 

“Who says I’m pretending?” 

James whines. “That’s worse.” 

You tease a bit of his hair behind his ear. James is content to let you, content to never move again, balmed by the softness of your touch as you draw along the outline of his ear to his jaw. “Don’t press your glasses into your nose, you’ll start sneezing again,” you whisper. 

James refuses to move. “Stroke my hair,” he demands.

“No way.”

“You’re no fun.”

“But I’m having a much better day than you are.” 

He sulks. This is exactly why James hides your stuff and leaves you off of email chains you should probably be in. You’re horrible, awful, evil, with no sympathy for him and no friendliness, either. James was far better off when he was solely annoyed at you, and not whatever useless state of being this is where his mood depends on your willingness to make friends. If James could, he would—

“Are you okay?” you say, your voice as soft as your fingertip where it traces slowly through his curly hair. “Maybe you should go home and rest. I’m worried about you…” 

James might fall in love with you if you keep whispering sweet stuff like that. You hesitate at the nape of his neck before dragging your hand up through a tuft of curls. 

“If you don’t get better soon, your voice will go and I’ll have to talk to Lang and Co. on the phone again. You know I hate their finance team leader,” you finish. 

You sound so pretty that James almost misses your slight. Then decides he’ll allow it as long as you keep stroking his hair.  —

coworker james au

[korraply]

Why selecting high-quality Korra plywood is essential when building furniture ?

Selecting premium Korra ply wood or other plywood is crucial when building furniture for a number of reasons. When building furniture, plywood is a regularly utilized and adaptable material. The longevity, beauty, and functionality of the final piece of furniture can all be greatly impacted by the quality of the plywood used. Plywood of superior quality, such as Korra plywood, is designed to be sturdy and stable. Usually, it is made up of several layers of glued wood veneers, with the grain direction of each layer being perpendicular to the layer next to it. Because of its remarkable strength and stability, this construction is less likely to flex or distort with time. Hardwoods are typically used to make high-quality plywood, which increases its durability and damage resistance. 

[bookshelfdreams]

Finally it's dry. Well, more or less.

Honestly I'm not sure if I like this.

Fleece in the middle. Works well enough, I suppose.

Also made these:

Chubut, Falkland and Corrie, in that order :)

Today is Sunday, I have no plans, so let's dye some wool!

This is 1kg roving, blended from local (well, national at least) sheep breeds, the shop I got this from calls this blend "polar wolf". This will eventually be plyed together with the green fleece I got for christmas; I hope the different sheep breeds will take on the dye in slightly different ways, making for a uniform, but not too uniform colour.

It's really pretty! Honestly too pretty to be dyed, but needs must.

Now we will need lots of green dye.

And a BIG pot.

This baby holds a bit over 20 liters. Which, as it turns out, is not enough.

Luckily I recently dedicated another Big Pot to dying experiments.

I had already put all the dye into the big pot, so I had to roughly estimate how much wool I had left. Let's hope the stark difference in saturation is mostly due to lighting and my phone camera not liking green tones.

Now it needs to simmer for an hour or so.

[saltsparkle]

Always New on a Rambouillet & Silk blend by ThreeWatersFarm. Spun 3-ply fractal (2:4:8).

Reminds me of UV paint & candy. Managed to get a 2 ply mini skein out of scraps that made me wish I’d spun the entire thing 2 ply. Future high color/high contrast rovings need less competition I think!

The other oopsie in this one was that somewhere in the 4 split I reversed the split I was spinning from and ended on a silver dyed end instead of green, but that’s okay! Nothing is ever perfect-perfect.

[dadsbongos]

supe soldier at attention (for hours)

1.6k words / warnings - reader bimbofication (light), soldier boy is himself, very toxic kinda rapey mindset on this guy

summary - left to babysit the 100+ year-old by yourself, you make a bet you soon regret with Soldier Boy.

kinktober: day seven - humiliation, objectification @maniacpixiedreamboy is here!!!! ~~~

You’re so ashamed, but you cannot help yourself. It’s too late for you and your morals: you want to bite him, you want to kick him, your leg erratically thrums against the floor and your eye starts twitching when you look at him. Sadly, not even out of annoyance.

He’s fucking gorgeous. You want him to die.

“If you just got on your back you’d be happier,” Ben has the cockiest squint to his eyes, “Loosen up a bit, smile more, and you can get a man. Men hate hysterics, rocket.”

“Stop calling me ‘rocket’.”

“It’s a compliment!” he cringes when your scowl only deepens, “Can’t fucking give a compliment these days?”

“It’s not a compliment, it’s degrading, and you’re the worst man I’ve ever been forced to interact with.”

Hughie is another man you think should drop dead, even though you usually like him. Usually you think he’s thoughtful and kind, but today he’s left you alone with Benjamin. Dreaded Soldier Boy. Butcher’s ace in killing Homelander. You’re not sure the stress of having him around is worth a quicker victory.

Ben cocks his head at you, brow raised, “Dollface, if I reached into your pants right now you’d be soaking.”

“Try it and I’ll break your hand.”

“As if you fucking could,” Ben snorts, leaning back against the opposite end of the couch with folded arms, “You look like a gambling soul, let's put numbers down.”

“Fine. I win and you shut the fuck up anytime I’m in the room,” you uncross your legs, thighs spreading along the motel couch cushion. Confident you can maintain composure even with his hand on you.

“When I’m right,” he rocks forward onto a knee, with the other leg propped against the floor, “I’m gonna make you see God, finally put a fucking smile on that sour ass face.”

Ben surprises you by not instantaneously jamming a hand into your business. Rather, he slowly sears his palm up the plump of your inner thigh, face closing on yours. Green eyes study how your breath hitches, heat radiating off your cheeks and lapping his. He squeezes your thigh suddenly, plying the fat and skimming a thumb high toward the hem of your underwear.

“That’s not fair,” you chide petulantly.

“Shouldn’t matter,” he continues, breath fanning your cheek and fingers digging beneath the leg of your panties, “If you don’t want me, you won’t be wet either way.”

Your eye does twitch with annoyance now. Just as you go to yank his hair or pull his ears or spit in his eye, he’s tugging your underwear down and tucking fingers into the divot between your thighs. Warm fingertips slipping along the seam of your cunt, he laughs in your rapidly cooking face. Reveling in your wispy gasp when he strokes two fingers over your weepy hole, thumb rolling your clit.

Hips snap against his hand, nails drilling bluntly into his wrist, “Fuck you!”

“Like a faucet,” he muses, “You brats love pretending to be tough. Need someone to fuck you boneless and remind you of your place.”

“You’re the worst!” your voice jumps when he spoons a finger inside you, slithering his other arm around your shoulders to cradle you against his broad chest.

Ben condescendingly scruffs his cheek against your head, adding a second digit.

You hadn’t thought being wrong, in the nightmarish scenario you were trapped in, would matter because he’s supposed to be bad at this. He’s supposed to rub the crease of your thigh or blandly jab you off for fifteen minutes to no avail before getting bored.

He’s not supposed to know how to swivel your clit with rhythm, and he’s not supposed to know to curl fingers towards the pouch of your stomach. He’s not supposed to tweak your nipple or fondle your chest to any success. He’s not supposed to make slick gush and marr the couch cushions.

“Oh, fuck, fuck you,” you whine, head burying into his neck to hide from the sight of yourself humping his hand.

“Gotta spread this pussy open first,” he grunts, practically searing your crotch how hard he’s staring. Fingers scissoring apart, stretching your walls.

When your huffs and coos progress into moans muffled against a bitten lip, Ben tightens up -- using his arm muscles to finger-fuck you harder. Rapidly losing traction the more slick drools out of you, Ben abandons thumbing your knob completely. Letting the meat of his palm roughly grind against you instead. Your body jostles under such attention, and he nearly rips your shirt off with the hand previously squeezing your chest for a better view.

The new position and breakneck motion has you splashing, lewd sucking festering through the room.

“S’fucking wet, rocket,” he slurs against stray hairs, panting onto your scalp with tight puffs, “What do you say, can you take it right now?” you hum non-committedly, by far more interested in how your thighs are tensing and gut churning, “C’mon, gambler, make another bet. Think I’ll make it inside? Or will I just slip right fucking out of this wet cunt?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

pap!

Your cheek stings faintly, his palm just above the sore flesh. Slight pain sparks from the tail of your earlobe, rounding your cheek, and spiking the corner of your lips. From there it fizzles to pleasure and you’re moaning. Legs spreading wider as if he could get anymore welcome between them.

To your shock, the bastard slapped you -- and to your horror, you actually liked it.

“Don’t be rude, rocket, I’m doing your pretty pussy a favor,” then he’s sliding out of you.

“No, no, no…” you snivel, shaky thighs desperately trying to clamp shut around his sodden hand. Just before you can mumble out a ‘please’, you silence yourself. No way are you that hot for him.

Ben clicks his tongue, shaking his head and wrangling you by the backs of your knees so you're laid on the cushions. Sousing your bare ass in your own fresh made puddle. Furiously schucking down his own pants to expose himself, Ben then lays your thighs against his chest. Ankles left dangling over his shoulders.

“I was close,” you frown up at him.

“I know,” he replies flippantly, slapping the flushed head of his cock over your mound, smearing pre-cum over your glossy slit, “But your attitude was shit, and I’m not giving out charity orgasms to mean sluts.”

“Hey!” you scoff, following derision interrupted when he thrusts inside -- punching out a breathless, raspy, “Said ‘hey’!” from the bowels of your lungs.

“Speak up, then,” he leans, louring over you solely to crush your knees against your shoulders, “What?”

“‘m not a slut!” your voice waivers.

Laughing, again, in your face, Ben winks all smarmy and grotesque and punch-able, “Obviously. Sluts get dick, you’re just playing pretend.”

Any offense you could vocalize is chopped short as he bruises his pelvis to yours. Leisurely pulling out to admire the sheen you’ve webbed down to his balls before pushing back into you. A meager whimper is all you can manage, his cock hot and heavy and splitting you wide. You’re not sure if it’s the weight against your chest or raw delusion, but you swear you feel him in your throat.

“Can’t breathe,” you wheeze up at him.

He grunts low, chest vibrating against the backs of your thighs, swallowing hard, “Squeezing me good, rocket. You like that?” one of his hands cinches the sides of throat, slowly building pressure, “You like being choked?”

You sputter, hips thrashing to sink his cock deeper in you. That's answer enough.

“You might be a genuine slut, then, doll. Sloppy and happy to get slapped and choked, you’re a messy fucking bitch.”

Despite your previous reservations, Ben can feel you spasm around him. He thrives off it.

Unfurling the fingers around your neck, Ben keeps his palm settled over your windpipe while arresting your jaw. Teeth grit and pace quickening, he nearly growls, “Say it, rocket. You wanna cum, don’t you?”

Pathetically, you nod, tears beading your lashes. All from some cock battering your insides.

“Say it.”

“I’m a slut!”

He withdraws, histrionically slow, “Doesn’t sound like you want it enough.”

“Please!” you cross your shins over his back, ankles locking, and fully wail all dignity out the window, “I’m a real slut! Rocket’s a slut!” you’ll say anything just to gain his favor right now, “I’m your slutty rocket, Soldier Boy, please I wanna cum!”

“That’s fucking right, baby,” he returns to squeezing your throat, using the iron grip to pull you into his every thrust, “Keep screaming for me like a nice cunt.”

Mouth agape, you unleash debauched moans and squeals as that delicious tingle rages hotter and hotter from hips to chest. Sizzling you from the inside out until you’re throwing your head back and raking nails over his hand, arms, and back; any skin you can grapple.

“Fuck, fuck, ah! Ben!”

“Cumming on me, rocket,” phrased like a question, but you both know it isn’t. He’s too arrogant to even hint at amazement, “So much prettier for me like this.”

He fucks you through your orgasm, even as he twitches and splatters inside you. And frustratingly even as he’s cumming you’re the one to cry out,

“Oh! Hah.. ohmyGod!”

“Yeah, that’s it. Feeling nice now, dollface?” he prompts, patting your cheek with the hand he used to choke you, “Give me a smile, pretty thing.”

You don’t have the energy to roll your eyes, only scraping enough strength together to grin up at Ben. Lips pressing tightly.

“Show me teeth,” his hips roll into you again, earning an overstimulated sulk, “I can keep this up all night.”

You comply, baring teeth in a full, albeit exhausted, beam.

Ben squishes your cheeks, murmuring low enough to mistake as being only for his ears (you’re sure he means for you to hear him, though), “Total fucking rocket, baby.”

[crookedtines]

Just finished spinning my first little skein of Rambouillet! It's a completely different beast than Corriedale. It's so bouncy, spongy, and soft. You can see the Rambouillet and Corriedale side by side in what I decided is their ideal form.

The Corriedale (white) is itchy scratchy but spins very nicely into fine yarn. This is about as fine as I can easily go with my spindle, but I have a lighter spindle on the way! The ideal use case is a finely woven band/ribbon. To be dyed as needed.

The Rambouillet (green and white) is just screaming knitting yarn. I gave it my first attempt at chain plying and love the result. It looks like yarn! Like the yarn I've been buying since I was a kid! So cool. Guess I gotta (re)learn how to knit now.