single-handed

7

Bruno’s jacket is finished! Except for a good ironing and maybe another neck closure.

It’s fully lined, features hook and eye closures, shoulder pads, and sleeve caps, fully tailored and fits me like a glove!
Every single zipper was hand-sewn on.

@biodude18 Made all the various metal bits!! (Zipper pulls, button, jacket “handles” lol)

Overall I’m really pleased with it for being the second tailored jacket I’ve made, a lot of handwork went into it.

Judy & Gene Take New York | Part 4

The next morning, Judy woke sluggishly with a satisfied grin on her face. She stretched and rolled over. When she found Gene wasn’t beside her, her smile faded. A scribbled note was left on his pillow and she reached for it, rubbing her eyes before focusing on the words. 

Be right back, she read as she heard the front door open. Gene came in with a couple of coffees and pastries. 

“Hi.” He beamed. 

She melted seeing his charming and widened smile accentuated by the little scar on his left cheek. 

“Hello. You went out?” 

“I wasn’t expecting company over night and I had nothing to offer you for breakfast.” 

He set the coffees down on the end table and sat on the bed beside her. Leaning down, his mouth met hers. 

“I got you this…” 

He pulled up a single yellow rose and handed it to her. Judy’s heart fluttered as she took it from him and brought it up to her nose, smelling the beautiful fragrance. Her eyes met Gene’s and she smirked. 

“Kinda hokey, don’t you think?” 

“I suppose so.” He chuckled. “What are your plans for the day?” 

“I have a radio show at noon and a few publicity gigs after that… But I was thinking we could go out again later tonight?” 

“Well, I have a show at eight and I’d love for you to see it.” 

“Pal Joey?” 

“Mm-hm. After the show, I can take you for dinner at the best restaurant in town and we’ll see where the evening takes us from there.” He smiled, leaning in once more for a kiss. 

“That would be wonderful.” 

After sharing breakfast, Gene took Judy back to her hotel so that she could get ready for the day. Her longing for him was intense during her hours at the studio and promotional stops. Gene tuned in to her radio show and spent the rest of the day wishing he was with her. It was roughly 5:30 when Judy returned to her room to find a telegram slid underneath the door. 

I’ll be by to pick you up at 6:30. Can’t wait.
—Gene

Judy smiled at the note and placed it on the dresser before getting ready for the evening. She wore a stunning, midnight blue evening gown with subtly placed rhinestones and spritzed some of her favorite perfume just before the doorbell rang. Gene greeted her in a simple white t-shirt and slacks. 

“My goodness Judy, you look magnificent,” he said with a kiss. “You left this at my apartment… I thought maybe you’d like to accessorize with it tonight.” He winked, handing her the yellow rose.

“Thank you,” Judy said shyly.  

She took the flower from him and clipped it in her purse. The bright yellow in the rose accented the blue in her dress beautifully. 

“Are you ready to go?” 

“Yep, the theater is right down the street so I figured we could walk there. Is that alright with you?”

“Of course,” she replied. 

They exited the quiet hotel onto the hustle and bustle of the city streets. Gene took Judy by the hand and led her to the backstage entrance. 

“I’ve got to get changed, but I reserved a seat for you front and center,” he said with a grin. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I will. Break a leg, Gene.” 

Judy wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a tender kiss before heading back into the audience. When the show began, she felt butterflies in her stomach and her palms sweat as she watched Gene dance gracefully across the stage. She giggled at her cliched reactions to him and how quickly she was beginning to fall in love. 

After the final bow, Gene darted backstage and was startled when he saw Betsy Blair, the young woman he had been courting for a few months waiting for him with open arms. 

“Gene, honey! That was marvellous.” She boasted. 

“Betsy, what are you doing here? I thought you were visiting your parents.” 

“I came back early. Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see me!” She playfully frowned. 

“No, no. I’m just surprised is all.” 

He glanced towards the stage door and began to sweat nervously. When he turned back towards Betsy, Judy emerged from behind the curtain. She stood on her tip toes to look for Gene and when she saw the back of his head, she smiled and started towards him but when she got closer, she saw a young brunette kissing him with an intensity only a lover could induce. 

“Take me for dinner, Gene. I’ve missed you.” Betsy ordered after breaking from his embrace. 

“Uh—, I really wasn’t expecting you. I made other plans but… We do need to talk. Are you free tomorrow morning?” He asked, knowing he couldn’t continue seeing her after the night he had with Judy. 

“Oh… Yes, I suppose I am.” She replied in disappointment. 

“Great. I’ll call you.” 

He pecked her one more time and gave her bicep a friendly squeeze before scurrying off to find Judy. He looked around backstage but she was no where to be found. He went out into the theatre and walked the aisles to her seat. A heart breaking sadness came over him when he saw the yellow rose he had given her laying across the empty chair.

*Written by @fansofjoots & @ohmygarlands

Hera goddess of marriage & birth

Hera was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea, wife of Zeus and queen of the ancient Greek gods. Mother of Ares , Hebe, and Eileithyia; all with Zeus. Hera also gave birth, alone, to Hephaistos  in retaliation for Zeus’ similarly single-handed birth of Athena. She represented the ideal woman and was goddess of marriage and the family. However, she was perhaps most famous for her jealous and vengeful nature

greek mythology meme: olympians [1/6]

Type 0 Week Day 4 - Creation or Destruction
Creation as in “creating a happy future”

Sice/Seven - The creation of your own happy future only happens when you pursuit your dreams. And for Sice it happens to be the chef of her girlfriend’s orphanage. But for the next generation to come, this creation means living in a world of peace and happiness.
FF.net / AO3

Hello I like my fluff okay
(Orphanage AU / Happy Ending AU, setting like 15 years in the future. Lots of development happened, and since I wrote about Mama Seven a lot, why not Mom Sice for a change. Also finally introducing the character I cannot stop thinking about c: )


That Sice would eventually cook for a bunch of small hungry mouths she’d never expected, let alone that she would own a huge kitchen with every utensil she could ever imagine.

Four large pots seethed on the stove, each of them having the same ingredients that Sice single handed selected herself. Soup stood on the plan today, or more precisely flan soup – easy to make, albeit time-consuming, nutrient-rich, and low-calorie. Perfect for the mass amount of children living here.

Many of the kids love it, though some found the wobbly consistence odd and icky. Sice couldn’t blame them. She too had to get used to it, first time eating it when she arrived with her classmates in Akademeia, and it was definitely different from the food she got from Arecia. 

Keep reading

arm puns
  • Naruto:Oh no don't be scared of Sasuke - he's 'armless
  • Naruto:Tricks up his sleeve? There's nothing up his sleeve!
  • Naruto:Having trouble, Sasuke? Let me lend you a hand.
  • Naruto:Sasuke can take bad guys on single handed, no problem.
  • Sasuke:*mentally killing him*

“I injected artificial nectar into a Passion flower to give this honeybee a reason to let me get close,” writes photographer John Kimbler. “This is a single, uncropped, frame taken hand held.”

Monotone Hands

Warnings: None. But you’ll drown in the fluff tbh

Word Count: 2,757

Pairing: Phan, as usual.

Summary: (Highschool!Phan)

Phil Lester knew two things:

1) The boy with monotone hands sat next to him in Literature.

2) He was falling in love with the giant dork.

          Monotone hands. Bright face, shrouded by a cloud of smoke and boredom. Dark jumpers and grey jeans. I swear, he’s colorless. The colorless boy sitting next to me in Advanced Literature. The boy who would come in every single day with hands covered in swirls of grays and whites and blacks, and sometimes he would just stare at them for the entire period, and smudge the acrylics with his thumb. As if he wanted them to fade away forever.

I think his name is Dan. At least that what the roll calls him. Well, no, they call him Daniel, but he always corrects it to Dan. Just Dan.

      I’m interested in him. Not necessarily in a romantic perspective, but maybe in a curious way. I wanted to know why he was so grey. I wanted to know why his lips were always chapped, where he got that scar on his knuckle from.

I’m guessing he takes art. He had that kind of look, like he sees the world differently than everyone else. I notice, sometimes, that he doodles. In this little notebook that he slides into a satchel at the end of the hour as chairs squeak on the floor. They’re wonderful, the drawings, little pieces of life on a thick sheet of watercolor paper. People, birds, plants. Little things with big stories.

It was nearing fall, that kind of weather where it was too humid to wear a sweater but too cold to wear a t-shirt, and leaves crunch underneath your feet wherever you go. The bell had already rung, Mrs Whitaker had already started the lesson, and I was worried. No, I was so much more than worried. I was anxious.

Dan never missed a lesson. Never. He was the kind of person that showed up with a canteen of tea and a pack of tissues and worked through the day sick. I could tell, he had done it a lot this year. Maybe he just does it so he can go to Art.

It had already been thirty minutes into the loud period when Dan shuffled into the room, a steaming coffee in one of his hands, a bright orange pass clutched in the other. The class went quiet as he handed Mrs Whitaker the slip and sat down carefully in his assigned seat next to me. The class went back to the previous state of loud laughter and chattering.

I stared at his hands. No paint. No monotone. I furrowed my eyebrows, shortly after thinking a small fuck it, and ripped a piece of paper out of my binder and scribbled a note on it. I let it fall over Dan’s notebook.

He glanced over at me, quirking an eyebrow. I didn’t look back until he read the note and passed it back to me. His handwriting was messy and connected, while mine seemed to be neat. I almost laughed. My handwriting was shit, but I guess it isn’t as slanted as his.

“Why no paint?” I had written, and he responded,

“On my hands? I skipped art. Why do you care?”

“I’ve never seen you without it,”

He ripped up the paper, letting it fall to the far too clean floor.

I didn’t send him any more notes.

——

      The next day, there was an odd tension in the air between Dan and I. I could tell that he was glancing at me from the corner of my eye. I hope he couldn’t tell I was too. His hands were back to monotone, most of it being grey. My heart panged. I had messed up. The one chance that I had to understand, I blew. Great.

       I sighed at the notes in my binder. There were only a couple messy sentences and scribbles from testing pens. Shit. I had zoned out, and now Mrs Whitaker was talking about some completely different subject, how titles affect the whole story, or something. Perfect.

I pursed my lips and shut my eyes. Either fail the major test about this at the end of the semester, or ask Dan for his notes. I didn’t have any other friends in Advanced Literature-

Dan slid his notebook slightly over to my desk space. I glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at me, Just staring at the front of the classroom. I let out a tiny sigh of relief and started to copy his notes. I wasn’t going to complain, and Dan had obviously slid them over to show me.

His handwriting did suck, though.

——

      Christmas came and passed, half-term tests were struggled through, and every day in Advanced Literature Dan shared his notes. Even if I didn’t need them, he always made sure to turn his notebook a bit so I could read his slanted, shitty handwriting.

Maybe he thought he was making up for ripping up that note. Maybe he was just being nice. Either way, I was happy for his help. I really was struggling in that class.

But today was different. When he slid his notebook between us, there was a couple words squished in the margin.

Sorry about the note.

I pursed my lips. So that’s what this is about. I reached over and wrote beneath it.

No problem, but you owe me.

As if.

:(

He let out a chuckle, before glancing down at my shirt, and whispering, “You like Muse?”

“Who in their right mind wouldn’t like Muse?” I mumbled back, trying not to get caught by the teacher.

I could’ve sworn that Dan had mumbled, “I’m so glad I tore that note.”

——

          A couple months later, and Dan and I had been talking every day, and gotten to know each other so well they could recite exactly what the other’s schedule was, who the teacher is, and if they hate the class on a scale from one to ten. I knew that Dan’s favorite color was grey, but he always said red, people wouldn’t look at him odd. I knew that Dan’s favorite jumper was a big black one that covers his hands and nearly falls off of his shoulders. His lips were always chapped because he has a bad habit of biting them, and he got that scar on his knuckle because he broke a glass table as a kid. I knew that he hated the way that his dad would work late and the way that his mother would plaster on a fake smile when she talked to the neighbors. I knew that Dan’s eyes seemed to have a couple specks of gold peeking out of the color of milk chocolate. I knew that he hated the way that his soft brown hair was curly, so he straightened it, even though I always tell him how nice it looks curled.

And I knew that I was falling for the boy with monotone hands.

      We were sitting in his bedroom on a weirdly cold Saturday, him laughing at some  stupid joke that I just made, and my eyes were glued to him. He was sitting at his overflowing desk, covered in lead and paint and sticky notes. I couldn’t help but notice the way that he covers his mouth with his hand, the way that he hunches over, shoulders shaking. He grinned at me and stood up.

“Oh, yeah,” He started, flopping next to me on his bed, “Can you model for some art shit tomorrow? I need to paint someone for a huge project, and I think it would be kinda awkward asking someone else,”

“Sure,” I said, ignoring the way that my stomach was in knots at the fact that our shoulders are bumping on the mattress, and that our knees were touching. His bed was far too small for two gangly teenage boys.

      I glanced at his hands. There were faint stains of black and grey, and I still didn’t know their reasoning. At first, I thought it was a kind of aesthetic thing, but after knowing Dan for a while, I knew that it was so much more than that.

“Dan?” I asked.

“What?” He replied, picking up my hand, playing with my fingers. Another thing I learned about Dan in these past months is that he liked touching. He liked throwing his legs over me when he sits on the couch sideways, he likes it when our shoulders touch. It’s not like I was going to complain.

But I couldn’t help the way that my heart seemed to break every time I couldn’t kiss him.

“Why are your hands always grey?”

He paused for a second, then continued to play with my hand.

“I don’t know. I just like to paint in black and white, I guess,”

“No, that’s not it. You suck at lying, Howell,” I snorted, turning to him. He glanced at me, before looking at the ceiling.

“I… I don’t know,” He mumbled, “It’s just that everything seems so grey right now. I’m sure it will get better, but… I just don’t know.”

      I swear to god, with every word that he said, my heart broke bit by bit until it shattered into a million pieces. What they say is true, about how you can feel the pain in your chest. All I could do was grab Dan and pull him into a hug. He laughed into my chest weakly, and wrapped his arms around me as well, and rambled, “Phil, I’m sure I’m fine. It’s okay.”

But it just wasn’t.

——-

       The next day, I showed up at Dan’s front step, shivering as I rang the doorbell. I pulled my arms tighter to myself. It was far too cold to be spring.

“Oh, hello Phil,” Mrs Howell said, opening the door with her usual smile, “Come in. Dan’s upstairs.”

“Thanks.” I mumbled, giving her a weak smile before rushing to Dan’s room. For some reason, she always seemed to be way too strict.

“Hey,” I said, opening the door to Dan’s room, shutting it behind me and plopping down on his bed shortly after kicking my shoes off and throwing my coat over Dan’s head. He wrinkled his nose at me, chuckled, and threw the coat over a shelf.

“I’m just about ready,” Dan responded, “Can you sit in the chair?” He gestured over to his desk, setting up an easel with the sound of metal against metal. I sat in the leather desk chair, swirling around once, to meet a grinning Dan staring right at me.

“What?” I ask, squinting at him, stomach erupting in butterflies.

“Nothing, you absolute nerd,” He chuckles, before grabbing a medium sized canvas and setting it on the easel, sitting down on a tall stool that always sits in the corner of his room.

His room was amazing, a cozy shade of warm grey and covered in little pieces of paper filled with doodles and notes. His bed was always messy and covered in quilts faded with age; There was a small bookshelf that was overflowing onto the ground and covered in cups of tea. Some posters were sitting along the walls, rolled up, forgotten. The ground was a white kind of fluffy carpet that your feet sunk into. A slight sign of youth through little plushies that were thrown on the desk and shelf littered with art supplies.

I pulled my knees to my chest, staring at Dan as he pulled out brushes and acrylics. He was a wildfire. Blaring heat that seemed to sting your eyes, a strange kind of beauty that mystified millions. He was out of control, terrifying even, but utterly gorgeous.

“Alright,” Dan started, pushing his fringe out of his eyes and off of his forehead, (Jesus. He even had a pencil behind his ear.) “Get however you’d like. I’m just going to sketch you out first, and then paint. It’ll take a while,”

“I’m fine here,” I pulled my knees tighter to myself. Dan grinned, and tugged the pencil out behind his ear, and started to sketch. I closed my eyes.

And I could feel myself falling for the boy with monotone hands even farther.

——

“Do you want to take a break?” Dan whispered into the silence an hour later, “I’m done with sketching.”

I shook my head no, keeping my eyes shut.

“Good,” He said softly, “I didn’t either.”

I could feel his grin from here.

——

         The hazy heat of the late afternoon sunshine was warm on my face, and I could hear the soft brushing of Dan working on his canvas, and the leather was soft and comforting against my back. I sighed, letting out a lazy smile.

“We’ve been doing this for six hours, Phil,”

“I’m fine, are you?”

“I’m… I’m the happiest I’ve been in a while.”

I opened up my eyes, adjusting to the brightness in the room, before looking over at him. He was grinning lazily, hair still pushed back, little smudges of paint on his face. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach twisted into knots. He looked so warm.

“I think I’m done,” Dan whispered, looking at the canvas, and wiping his brush on a little cloth that he had sat on a shelf beside him.

“Can I see?” I say, and stretch out of my position in the chair.

“‘Course,” He replied, standing up, and smiling at me, “Thank you, so much,”

“I loved doing it, Dan.”

I walk over to the easel, and all I could do was grin. So, so wide that my mouth hurt and my eyes crinkled.

Dan had painted me so well it was like a photograph, in warm sunlight on a cracked leather chair, knees pulled up to my chest, eyes closed. I was smiling like I knew a secret, and my hair was messy. My jumper was too big for my body, slightly falling off my shoulders. He even painted the mismatching patterns on my socks.

And I was full of color.

My jumper was green and my eyelids and cheeks were a soft pink. Golden sunlight hit my face. My socks were purple and red and my jeans were blue. I seemed to have an aura of color, and all around me was grey, and black, and white.

But I was so, so bright.

I turned to Dan, tears coming to the rim of my eyes. He was looking at me with a nervous-giddy expression, eyes crinkled in a half-smile.

“I swear to god, everything is so bright with you around,” Dan whispered, grin growing.

“I’m so glad you ripped up that note,” I replied, pulling him by his collar, pulling his lips to mine.

——–

“Com’on, Lester, move your ass!” Dan laughed at me, pulling my arm, “I have something to show you,”

“Five years, Dan, and you’re still a pain,” I smirked, and he quickly replied,

“You love me. Keep your eyes closed. It’s a surprise.”

I let out a huff, grinning, as he continued to tug my arm around a corner, and through a couple doorways, from what I could tell, until we came to a stop, in a more crowded room.

“Okay, open.”

My eyes blinked open, and my hands immediately went to my mouth, eyes already watering.

In a large plaque at the top of a clean, white wall, was the words Daniel James Howell imprinted in large letters, and below it, was what must have been fifty paintings. And in the center, was the one that he had painted exactly five years ago.

All around that one portrait was paintings full of color. Lush green forests and loud cities and landscapes and rooms, and around the edge of the wall were a couple black and white paintings of people and buildings. All of them so well done, it was almost like a photograph. It was like I was giving the world color.

At the bottom of the wall, written in Dan’s shitty handwriting,

I swear to god, everything is so bright with you around.

Philip Michael Lester, will you marry me?

       I spin around in the crowded room full of murmurs, but all I could see was the boy with vivid, colorful hands, eyes crinkling at the corners, down on one knee, holding a little velvet box with a golden band inside. His hands were covered in different colors of paint, greens, blues, purples, pinks, reds, yellows.

I nod, words getting stuck in my throat, before escaping, in a quiet,

“Of course, you dork,”

And I sprint right into his arms, Dan giving a surprised noise, before pulling me into a kiss.

I could feel him smiling.

i honestly cant sleep because.. i keep thinking about how big roadhog is.  he’s 7′3″.  he weighs 550lbs.  he’s so big.  his one (1) single hand could crush my fucking skull like a goddamn cracker.  he makes the 6′5″ junkrat look like a tiny lil baby man next to him.  im?  im just,?

‘We won! You won! We won!’ shouted Ron, thumping Harry on the back. 'And I gave Malfoy a black eye and Neville tried to take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handed!’
—  That time everyone forgot that Ron Weasley punched Draco Malfoy in the face before Hermione ever did.