textured rubber

Chopped - Bruce Wayne x Reader

I was matched with Bats over at @double-trouble-dc! Here’s some domestic fluff with Bruce trying (and failing) to cook a nice meal.

from @nightwingdiva

Words: 1220


You drum your fingers on the steering wheel of your car trying to figure out what to do. Dick had just called to give you a warning.

Bruce is cooking you a Valentine’s dinner.

He’s tried this twice before. Both times ended with severely inedible dinners. You understand why he’s trying to cook dinner. He takes you out to nice restaurants on a regular basis, and when you eat at the Manor, it’s Alfred who’s doing the cooking. So he’s just trying to make this Valentine’s Day special.

Even though he shouldn’t.

You groan internally as you decide last minute to stop by your favorite Chinese place.

You’re going to need it later.

As soon as you get home, you stash the emergency takeout in the spare fridge. You’re trying to give Bruce the benefit of the doubt; maybe he learned how to cook… something. But you’re not taking any chances on that. Still, there’s no need for Bruce to know that you have your doubts.

When you get close enough to the kitchen, you immediately smell it.

You don’t know what he’s trying to cook, but you can tell it’s not going well. Whatever he’s trying to cook smells painfully burnt.

“Y/N!” Bruce looks up at you when he notices you’re standing in the kitchen entrance. He’s standing next to the stove with a wooden spoon in a pot. Immediately he abandons his post and walks over to you, sweeping you up in a strong embrace and planting a sudden kiss on your lips. “How was your day, my love?” he says once he pulls away, though his arms are still wrapped around your waist.

“It was nice. But,” you gesture to the mess of a kitchen in front of you. Dick might have warned you about this evening, but that doesn’t mean Bruce isn’t trying to surprise you. “What is all of this?”

“I thought I’d try to cook you dinner,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“Well, I’m definitely surprised,” you chuckle, though whether it’s a nervous laugh or a genuine one you can’t tell. “But, hon, I think the pot is boiling over.”

Immediately Bruce turns around and runs back to the pot. He grabs two oven mitts and lifts it off the eye until the bubbles stop popping over the edge. He turns the knob controlling the heat after he sets the pot back down.

Then the oven starts beeping.

Bruce opens the door and a cloud of smoke fills the entire kitchen as he pulls out a pan of what you assume was once bread.

“Bruce, do you need any help?”

“No!” he responds defensively. He’s waving smoke out of his face as he sets the pan on top of the stove to cool. “I’ve got everything under control! I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

You hesitate for a moment before responding. “Okay. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

You walk away from the kitchen in the hopes that it will still be there by the time the night is over.

For the next thirty minutes, you listen to Bruce fumble around in the kitchen. At one point a loud crash almost sends you running in to check on him, but you catch yourself when you hear him swearing at the guilty saucepan that caused a metal avalanche. By some miracle, the smoke detector never goes off.

Then everything is quiet.

Part of you wonders if your husband has been killed by a burnt piece of toast or an angry spatula. However, your fears are dismissed when strong arms wrap around your shoulders from behind the couch.

“Dinner is ready,” Bruce says in your ear, and, even though you’re almost certain you’re going to need your emergency takeout, you can’t help but love him even more than before for trying to make tonight special. You stand up and he offers his arm to you.

“What are we having?” you ask with a smile as you take his arm.

“Braised beef and tortellini with garlic bread,” Bruce looks so proud of himself and it warms your heart. He leads you into the dining room where the table is set for two, with a beautiful bouquet of roses in the center with candles around them. The food is plated beautifully, and it at least looks good. Except for slightly burnt toast.

Maybe it’ll be a nice dinner after all.

Bruce offers you a chair before sitting across from you.

“Thank you for dinner, Bruce,” you say, and you really do mean it. It doesn’t look like it will be that bad after all. “It looks wonderful, and it’s so sweet of you to do something this special.”

“I hope you like it, Y/N. I know I’ve not been that successful in the past, but I really tried this time.”

“I can tell. It looks like your hard work is paying off,” you say as you get a forkful of food. You place it in your mouth with the mindset that it’s as good as it looks.

You are terribly wrong.

The steak is dry and the pasta tastes like rubber. The textures are so conflicting that you have a hard time swallowing it. You look up to see Bruce forcing his own mouthful of food down as well. He cringes and stabs another piece of pasta with his fork, determined to eat his creation.

“Bruce, honey,” you put down your fork and Bruce looks up at you. It’s time to have this conversation. “I love you a lot, but please stop trying to cook for me. This is the third time you’ve tried and the third time you’ve failed. I’m sorry, but three strikes and you’re out. At this point I’m starting to wonder if you’re trying to actually kill me with your food.”

Bruce stares at his plate for a few seconds after you finish talking. He nods slowly before looking back up at you. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

“Don’t get me wrong, though! I love that you went through all this trouble. It makes me love you even more, if that’s even possible,” you reach across the table to take his hand. “But it’s time to turn in the spoon and apron.”

“Alright,” he leans across the table and kisses you on the nose. “No more cooking from me. I just hate that our Valentine’s date is ruined now.”

“Not entirely,” you say and avert your eyes. “A little bird may have told me that you would be cooking tonight.”

“Dick,” Bruce deadpans. In that moment he looks like a truly exhausted parent. You decide not to ask what kind of conversation he’d had with Dick.

“Yes, and I picked up some Chinese on my way in. I say we cuddle and eat egg rolls with a movie. All I need to make my Valentine’s Day memorable is you by my side.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bruce stands up and walks around the table to pull you close to him. “I especially like the cuddling part.”

“I do, too,” you say and run your fingers through his hair. You stare into his blue eyes for a moment before speaking again. “I love you, Bruce.”

“And I love you, Y/N. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Chopped - Bruce Wayne x Reader

I forgot this was a thing I wrote for the DC Valentine’s exchange in February until like two days ago. So I figured I’d post it here lol

So here’s some domestic fluff with Bruce trying (and failing) to cook a nice meal.

Words: 1220


You drum your fingers on the steering wheel of your car trying to figure out what to do. Dick had just called to give you a warning.

Bruce is cooking you a Valentine’s dinner.

He’s tried this twice before. Both times ended with severely inedible dinners. You understand why he’s trying to cook dinner. He takes you out to nice restaurants on a regular basis, and when you eat at the Manor, it’s Alfred who’s doing the cooking. So he’s just trying to make this Valentine’s Day special.

Even though he shouldn’t.

You groan internally as you decide last minute to stop by your favorite Chinese place.

You’re going to need it later.

As soon as you get home, you stash the emergency takeout in the spare fridge. You’re trying to give Bruce the benefit of the doubt; maybe he learned how to cook… something. But you’re not taking any chances on that. Still, there’s no need for Bruce to know that you have your doubts.

When you get close enough to the kitchen, you immediately smell it.

You don’t know what he’s trying to cook, but you can tell it’s not going well. Whatever he’s trying to cook smells painfully burnt.

“Y/N!” Bruce looks up at you when he notices you’re standing in the kitchen entrance. He’s standing next to the stove with a wooden spoon in a pot. Immediately he abandons his post and walks over to you, sweeping you up in a strong embrace and planting a sudden kiss on your lips. “How was your day, my love?” he says once he pulls away, though his arms are still wrapped around your waist.

“It was nice. But,” you gesture to the mess of a kitchen in front of you. Dick might have warned you about this evening, but that doesn’t mean Bruce isn’t trying to surprise you. “What is all of this?”

“I thought I’d try to cook you dinner,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“Well, I’m definitely surprised,” you chuckle, though whether it’s a nervous laugh or a genuine one you can’t tell. “But, hon, I think the pot is boiling over.”

Immediately Bruce turns around and runs back to the pot. He grabs two oven mitts and lifts it off the eye until the bubbles stop popping over the edge. He turns the knob controlling the heat after he sets the pot back down.

Then the oven starts beeping.

Bruce opens the door and a cloud of smoke fills the entire kitchen as he pulls out a pan of what you assume was once bread.

“Bruce, do you need any help?”

“No!” he responds defensively. He’s waving smoke out of his face as he sets the pan on top of the stove to cool. “I’ve got everything under control! I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

You hesitate for a moment before responding. “Okay. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

You walk away from the kitchen in the hopes that it will still be there by the time the night is over.

For the next thirty minutes, you listen to Bruce fumble around in the kitchen. At one point a loud crash almost sends you running in to check on him, but you catch yourself when you hear him swearing at the guilty saucepan that caused a metal avalanche. By some miracle, the smoke detector never goes off.

Then everything is quiet.

Part of you wonders if your husband has been killed by a burnt piece of toast or an angry spatula. However, your fears are dismissed when strong arms wrap around your shoulders from behind the couch.

“Dinner is ready,” Bruce says in your ear, and, even though you’re almost certain you’re going to need your emergency takeout, you can’t help but love him even more than before for trying to make tonight special. You stand up and he offers his arm to you.

“What are we having?” you ask with a smile as you take his arm.

“Braised beef and tortellini with garlic bread,” Bruce looks so proud of himself and it warms your heart. He leads you into the dining room where the table is set for two, with a beautiful bouquet of roses in the center with candles around them. The food is plated beautifully, and it at least looks good. Except for slightly burnt toast.

Maybe it’ll be a nice dinner after all.

Bruce offers you a chair before sitting across from you.

“Thank you for dinner, Bruce,” you say, and you really do mean it. It doesn’t look like it will be that bad after all. “It looks wonderful, and it’s so sweet of you to do something this special.”

“I hope you like it, Y/N. I know I’ve not been that successful in the past, but I really tried this time.”

“I can tell. It looks like your hard work is paying off,” you say as you get a forkful of food. You place it in your mouth with the mindset that it’s as good as it looks.

You are terribly wrong.

The steak is dry and the pasta tastes like rubber. The textures are so conflicting that you have a hard time swallowing it. You look up to see Bruce forcing his own mouthful of food down as well. He cringes and stabs another piece of pasta with his fork, determined to eat his creation.

“Bruce, honey,” you put down your fork and Bruce looks up at you. It’s time to have this conversation. “I love you a lot, but please stop trying to cook for me. This is the third time you’ve tried and the third time you’ve failed. I’m sorry, but three strikes and you’re out. At this point I’m starting to wonder if you’re trying to actually kill me with your food.”

Bruce stares at his plate for a few seconds after you finish talking. He nods slowly before looking back up at you. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

“Don’t get me wrong, though! I love that you went through all this trouble. It makes me love you even more, if that’s even possible,” you reach across the table to take his hand. “But it’s time to turn in the spoon and apron.”

“Alright,” he leans across the table and kisses you on the nose. “No more cooking from me. I just hate that our Valentine’s date is ruined now.”

“Not entirely,” you say and avert your eyes. “A little bird may have told me that you would be cooking tonight.”

“Dick,” Bruce deadpans. In that moment he looks like a truly exhausted parent. You decide not to ask what kind of conversation he’d had with Dick.

“Yes, and I picked up some Chinese on my way in. I say we cuddle and eat egg rolls with a movie. All I need to make my Valentine’s Day memorable is you by my side.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Bruce stands up and walks around the table to pull you close to him. “I especially like the cuddling part.”

“I do, too,” you say and run your fingers through his hair. You stare into his blue eyes for a moment before speaking again. “I love you, Bruce.”

“And I love you, Y/N. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

catsandcannolis  asked:

I think fidget toys are great for people who ACTUALLY need them. Being Autistic AND dealing with anxiety issues means stimming when necessary for me. I have a fidget cube and a spinner which I use at work a lot. Nobody questions it though, which I'm thankful for. I'm currently looking for a green or purple tangle toy since I've heard they're great for stimming. Anyone have a suggestion?

Tangles are awesome!! I definitely recommend getting one. There are a lot of options to chose form which can be overwhelming. However, the main choices are Tangle Therapy/Relation, Fuzzy Tangles, Hairy Tangles, Metallic Tangles, Textured Tangles, and assorted Tangle Jrs. 

Tangle Therapy/Relax: textured, rubberized, bigger than the tangle jrs. 

Fuzzy Tangle: soft, almost felted. Feels really nice, but the fuzzy stuff wears off pretty quick

Hairy Tangles: Rubber strings all over Tangle. Provides great sensory input but can’t be used as easily as other tangles.

Metallic Tangles: Tangle Jrs that are shiny and smooth. Great for manipulating and look nice

Textured Tangle:Hard plastic with some joints having different textures. Good for additional sensory input

Assorted Tangle Jr.: Comes in a variety of colors and patterns. Smooth. Manipulate easily. 

Once you figure out what kind of tangle you want, there are quite a few options of places to shop for them. I highly recommend Amazon as they have a wide variety of tangles and the prices are usually pretty good. I’ve heard Ebay can also be a good option. 

I hope you find a great tangle!

-Sabrina

The Signs as Textures

Aries: Flexible rubber of a tire just barely in need of air
Taurus: Stacks of terra cotta pots lining shelves in the gardening section
Gemini: Sugary foaminess of whipped cream mashed against the roof of your mouth
Cancer: Cotton circle skirts of sundresses swishing in summer
Leo: Delicate softness of a cat’s pink underbelly
Virgo: Sticky glossiness of photographs on the wall
Libra: Smooth porcelain of fine china on the top shelf
Scorpio: Heavy and domineering cast iron of an ancient gate
Sagittarius: Leather seats stitched into a high class car
Capricorn: Wool lining an old bomber jacket
Aquarius: Granular gravel of roof shingles holding up stargazers
Pisces: Acrylic paint plastered and swirled on a tall canvas

Hi this is my stim toy collection for the spinner ring giveaway,

Starting from the top theres:
Magnetic roller
Spiky football
Magnets
Science putty
Fidget cube knock off
Glow in the dark putty
Mini rubik cube
Bug apple
Spiky ball
Skikey monkey
Key ring kelidascope
3 tangles (fuzzy, super textured and relaxl
Bendy rubber stick
Rubber band ball
Metal loops
Juggling ball
Winny the pooh key ring
Water timer pen
Putty rubbers
Boink
Stretchy hedgehog
Balance eagle
Pop out beans
Bug runner

I also have a few more water timers, snow globs and a regular tangle that’s not pictured. I had a spinner ring that was my favorite but it broke.

These giveaways are awesome and can’t wait for the next ones!!

Madlen Kyoto Sneakers

New high top sneakers for your sim! Male version only! Come in 7 colours (leather/gold/rubber texture). Joints are perfectly assigned. All LODs are replaced with new ones.

You cannot change the mesh, but feel free to recolour it as long as you add original link in the description.

If you can’t see this creation in CAS, please update your game.
If you’re experiencing thumbnail problem, update your game (latest patch should solve the problem).

Hope you’ll like it!

Enjoy!

DOWNLOAD

2

The Relax and Therapy have been re-released with new color schemes, earning them new names.

The smaller Tangle Relax, seen in the top picture, is now called Imagine. The larger Therapy is now called Think. This is the description on Tangle Creations about Think:

“NEW! Introducing the Tangle BrainTools Think! With latex-free rubberized and textured bumps, the Think is perfect for fidgeting anytime, anywhere! Slightly larger in diameter than the Imagine, the Think is the latest addition to the Tangle family of fun and effective fidget toys! Perfect for kids and adults of all ages both at home and in the classroom!”

I like the new logo and color schemes.

While I have not personally bought these yet, it seems that they are exactly the same material and size as the relax and therapy, respecively.

They are indeed the same price.

Metaphysical (Gianni Kosta Remix) - Autograf, Gianni Kosta

Synopsis: Fluffy shenanigans in an infinity pool overlooking Numbani.

Pairing: Rocket Angel/Pharmercy (Angela “Mercy” Ziegler/Fareeha “Pharah” Amari)

By the time Angela makes it up the elevator to the hotel’s roof, and the infinity pool overlooking Numbani’s city center, it’s 13 minutes to midnight. The team dispatched to the city to negotiate with the Vishkar Corporation had arrived in the early evening, and Angela had met a colleague doing research in nanotechnology for dinner. Their discussion stretched into the later hours of the evening. Angela emerged from the conversation promising her colleague a fresh perspective on their research.

The rooftop pool had always been part of her plans. She hummed a jaunty pop tune that Lucio had arranged and which was quickly ascending the charts. Not a surprise. That man’s talent could, had, and would shape the world. Angela allowed herself to think briefly of the next generation with hope, then shook her head to shed the wayward thoughts. She might be on the wrong side of 30, but she still had plenty of time to make her impact.

Keep reading

Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better.

Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.

Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever.

Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions.

Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them.

Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides.

Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not.

Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to.

Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced.

Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real.

There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla:

There is no wrong way to have a body.

I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body.

And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap.

You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real.

Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me.

— 

Real Women by Hanne Blank

Published with author’s permission.

10 weird sharks

1. Stethacanthus

  • An extinct species of shark thought to have died out over 300 million years ago. This shark lived during the late Devonian and early Carboniferous eras. It is most known for it’s dorsal fin that resembles an anvil or ironing board. Based on fossils, scientists have been able to come up with what the Stethacanthus looked like.

Keep reading

My head is empty, but my palms are full. I’m itching with desires that never really entered my brain until now. Your skin meeting mine, skin on skin…. Your lips melting into my mouth, your lips melting into me. I can’t decide if it feels right. I can’t decide if anything is supposed to feel right. My hands clasping onto sheets that have taken the texture of rubber. I wonder if I’ll ever get this right. My hands are aching from words that cannot leave my mouth, words I cannot form together well enough to write on paper. There is this jumbled mess inside of my body of the words that I couldn’t say, the sentences that never came out the way that they should have, and paragraphs that resulted in rambling about every single thing that didn’t mean anything at all. My hands keep reaching out to turned backs, and my face blushes red every time I think of awkward moments that were meant to be sensual moments. I wonder if I’ll ever make it past tonight. My knees are wobbly, maybe I’ve been standing for far too long, or maybe it’s because of all of these God damn weights on my shoulder that were never mine to carry in the first place. My pores are stitched together with good intentions, but a sense of anxiety, or maybe just uncomfortableness that consumes me until I am barely, just barely existing at all. The Stars make my head hurt, and the moon makes my veins hurt. I can’t stop thinking about the time that I introduced you to the sky, or the compatibility between that and you introducing me to your mind. My back has resided on too many beds that would have never even felt right. My hands have taken the liberty to place themselves between too many thighs that they wouldn’t remember the next night. White lines, while lines. White lines to feel at home again. One: my lover breathing on my neck and the sound of her feet against the pavement, while I’m dancing like an idiot at the dead end of her best friends neighborhood. Two: the rhythmic breathing of my mother, as she’s fallen asleep at the table again. She’s so fucking beautiful. I could never be that beautiful. Three: the music flowing through my speakers, waiting to be made sense of in as many possible ways that I could ever imagine. I wonder if I’ll ever be right.
—  rambling nonsense

Regina Harris

anonymous asked:

how did you even MAKE tiny crocs?

ahhh basically

take fun foam, make your pattern for the crocs, trace it onto the fun foam and then cut it out. fit it over the feet to make sure it’s roughly the right size

take a low heat source then (I used a tealight candle because these are so small) and heat the foam pieces (one at a time) just enough so that it’s maleable but not going to melt or catch on fire

shape the foam until you have the upper foot/toe shape, then fill in the sides of the crocs with the same technique, glue them together, then make the bottom the same way.  paint them and then cover them with a glue-sealant (mod podge is fine), paint them again, then seal them again (matte works best for keeping the same texture as the rubber crocs)

once done, cut out one more piece (a smal strip) for the .. ugly ass.. sandal.. handle.. part. what is that thing anyay??

paint it (both sides) and seal it. it doesn’t have to be shaped. for a working pair of crocs you’ll need to hinge it (using thread would work) and then hide your thread/replicate the croc button/seal with a drop of resin.. let that dry, etc. for a non-working pair (like this doll’s, I would have made them work if i’d had time to mess with it) just glue it down with super glue in any position you like

oh one step I forgot:

before painting, you’ll want to punch the holes

take an upholstery needle (girth of your choice) and heat it with your flame (don’t burn yourself, and the needle will get hot so don’t hold it bare-fleshed). once it’s very hot, poke the holes into the top of the shoe… then again for the side with the oblong holes.

THEN seal and paint it.

re-voila, tiny crocs!