silver two finger ring

Beautiful Love

Summary: 8 years later, some things never change..

Genre: Cavity-inducing fluff

Warnings: None

Phil laid awake in his-their, their, bed, his arms behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room was filled with darkness, except for a sliver of moonlight that filtered through their window and cascaded onto the man lying on his chest, curls falling past his forehead.

It all felt so familiar.

The room, the way Dan laid oh so perfectly on his chest, the way his hair curled on end. It reminded him of that mid October day, the air crisp and chilly, eight years ago.

Phil suddenly remembered how nervous he was. The moment the train pulled into the station, the realization sunk in. His knees shook, his hands trembled, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He was paranoid that Dan changed his mind, had decided that he didn’t want to meet him after all.

That all changed the second he saw the timid mop of brown hair step off of the train and onto the platform. Dan was hugging himself, almost looking down as he walked, his cheeks a rosy raspberry color.

Phil fell immediately. He was doomed as soon as he laid eyes on Dan. His eyes went wide and the when Dan looked up at him and cracked that wide smile of his he was absolutely smitten.

That night was filled with lots of giggles and gentle touches, but the next night was spectacular.

The room was heavy. Giggles turned into desperate, intimate breaths, and their hips moved as one. Dan’s hair curled on end, his lips parted, legs wrapped delicately around Phil’s waist. His head was buried in Phil’s chest, love bites dotting his neck and collarbones like constellations. Dan’s thighs trembled the whole time, and he clung to Phil the rest of the night.

The rest of that night was spent in a dark room, Dan laying on Phil’s chest, Phil staring at the ceiling, whispering sweet nothings in Dan’s ear as he slept.

Much like it was eight years later. Except, now, they’re engaged, two silver bands decorated their ring fingers. Phil had finally found someone that made him think marriage wasn’t just a piece of paper.

They’d been looking for a forever home, browsing dog breeds that would complete their little family. They’d been doing everything together for the last eight years. And they wouldn’t have it any other way.

It was a beautiful love.



You’re trying to find out what Mick looked like when he had hair, and Leonard is willing to help…for a price…


“That’ll be thirty dollars…”

Thirty dollars?!

“That’s what I said, Doll Face.”

“But you didn’t mention anything about that last time!!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Leonard cast you a leery smile as he waved the back of the ever-so-mysterious photograph in your face. “Did I say that this was for free?”

A heated flush burned your cheeks.

While you have had many dealings with the kleptomaniac in the past - most of which resulted in his favor - he’d never charged you this much before.

Probably ‘cause he knows he can get away with it, you thought bitterly.

Leonard was the only one who knew of your crush on his partner and he exploited you as often as he could to keep it secret. Half the time, you hated him for it (for obvious reasons).

But, the other half…

You were happy.

He gave you someone to talk to without criticism and offered insightful opinions and memories that many couldn’t provide.

Although that still doesn’t change the fact that he’s an ass…

Pouting, you crossed your arms and stared at Leonard, hard. Of course, your actions didn’t phase him; but, for old time’s sake, he played along.

Fine,” he drawled, throwing his hands up in pretend surrender, “Because you’re a special customer, I’ll give you a discount…”

You narrowed your eyes.

“What kind of discount?” You asked him.

“A generous one,” Leonard replied in a deceptively charming voice. “I’ll give you the picture for free…if you do me a little favor.”

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anonymous asked:

Headcanon that within days of getting together, John and Sherlock elope in Paris without telling anyone. When they come back they say they were on a case. Mrs. Hudson puts two and two together when she noticed them sleeping on the couch with their hands entwined. On John and Sherock's ring fingers are two thin silver bands. Over the next few months, most have figured it out due to the sudden closeness when John and Sherlock think no ones looking or the small pecks on the cheek.

sldfkjadfadsf this feels like it could legit be canon.  Like they just run away together to get married and don’t actually tell anyone, everyone just sort of comes to realize it, that’s so cute.  :)

one night in a strange city

Originally posted by rapnamu

genre: fluff // before sunrise au
pairing: taehyung x reader
summary: an argument between lovers brings two together on one train
words: 1.1k

read on ao3

It’s nothing at first, just a light squabble between couples, one that would pass the moment they decide to give in to the other. It did make Taehyung glance at them for a split second before returning to his book, a minuscule smile playing on his lips as he steels his resolve to not end up like them in the future.

But it gets heated, and to top it off, they were arguing in German.

Taehyung doesn’t mind the language, neither does he mind a couple’s argument. But to hear an argument — in a language he doesn’t even understand — can’t even blend in as background noise and he finds himself huffing as the two start to get louder. The woman throws her paper down and gets out of her seat, the man — presumably her husband, since he wore a silver band around his ring finger — immediately follows her and the two walk out of the train carriage.

Who was the asshole who told him that a train ride from Budapest to Vienna would be a lot more peaceful than taking the airplane?

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Pull me Closer (Part 2)

Summary: You visit the Harvelles.
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Other Characters: Sam Winchester, Ellen Harvelle, Jo Harvelle
Word Counting: 1.1k
Chapter: 2/35
Chapter name: Harvelle
Warnings: Set in season 2. Cannon divergence. Jealous Dean. The Winchesters are literally ignoring John’s death and pretending things are just fine. Gifs aren’t mine

(Series Masterlist)

Y/N could not take her eyes off the scene in front of her. Her gaze followed Dean under the Impala as he fixed Baby.

He was dealing well with all that was happening better than her and Sammy, and that was scary.

In over a week with Bobby and even after the letter, they hadn’t talked about John’s death or that the yellowed eye demon was behind it.

Much less the fact that he had given his life for her.

She had talked to Sam. She cried on his shoulder and he had cried along with her.

She felt guilty somehow, even when John had done it without asking or saying something to her. Even though Sam had comforted her and said it wasn’t her fault, it was still difficult.

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Spinner rings arrived in time to get here before my birthday next week yay! [Photo image of right hand of white person, pointer finger has Blue Oasis spinner ring, ring finger has multiple silver rings.]

I got two, the blue oasis is size 7 and fits both my pointer and index fingers as I’m “in between/half” sizes. I thought Flight in size 8 would work on my pointer/thumb, but unfortunately it’s too big, so will try exchange.

I love it so much so far! Lots of action today. It has a metallic sound when spinning (I like it) which a work mate has already commented on, so I’ll need to be careful not to overdo it.

Thank you @stimtastic

bedeliainwonderland  asked:

Bedannibal + 4 (in front of the fireplace). Thank you ♥

Thank you so much for the prompt! ❤️❤️ Be warned, this thing is disgustingly fluffy 😂 Set somewhere between s2 and s3.

The fire snaps and crackles behind its metal grate, and occasionally a brazed log cleaves and withers into molten red and ashy white cinders. Outside, snow falls slowly, lazily, blanketing the rustic cottage in a layer of white, muting all sounds from the world outside.

This is the hidden time when the sky bruises a dusky purple-indigo, the moments that hover between the final vestige of night and the first exhale of dawn. These are the lost hours only found by passion, by soft blankets, by firm limbs and pliant, willing skin. Time seems to close its eyes, unobtrusively creating a lull in the general flow of things, a hush, a precious interlude, keeping all the secrets inside like tightly closed lips.

He sits on a large fur rug on the floor in front of the stone fireplace in the bedroom, leaning back against the foot of the bed with his legs unfolded before him, warmed by both the fire and the heat of her body. Bedelia is facing him, sitting astride his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. A heavy knitted quilt is loosely swathed around her, bowed low across her back like the gently curving arch of a raindrop.

It would have been impolite to let his new wife shiver in bed as he made love to her. And he prides himself greatly on his ability to be a perfect gentleman. The best thing to do, he had concluded earlier, was to lead her to the soft rug in front of the hearth and make love to her there instead. A conclusion upon which he had then proceeded to act - twice.

“Are you warmer now?” he teases in the afterglow, trailing the tip of his nose down the column of her throat, pressing a kiss to the divot at the base of her neck, tasting the sweat.

“Yes, thank you,” she murmurs, and places her palms on his face, covering his cheeks with her fingers so he can feel their warmth for himself.

She seems calm, almost lethargic, insouciant in her state of satiation. He had not expected this. He had hoped for it, longed for it, burned for it while they had both sat demurely in their respective seats within their respective boundaries. 

“Is this the role you intend for us to play?” she asks him quietly, in that same low voice she uses to offer him wine, to thank him for dinner, to stick him with a pin when he is deceptive or avoidant during therapy.

“I am not playing,” he tells her. “This,” he says, seriously, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer, “this is not a game to me.”

She holds his gaze steadily in that mesmeric way she has, the way that could have seen right through his person suit, had he been wearing one.

Finally she sits back and shifts off him, unfolding like a golden scroll of parchment on the thick rug, holding the blanket up for him. He follows, a sailor guided by his very own polaris, slipping beneath it and stretching out behind her.

The wool blanket is pleasantly large, so that the tassels adorning the perimeter of the quilt are spread on the floor in a comfortable contour of their bodies. He thinks of sand ceremonies, of being united by such an outline, two separate lives symbolically becoming one, joined in marriage. The softness of her hair finds the pillow of his arm and he curls his body around hers like a question mark, though he has fewer doubts with each passing moment. Their legs twine like the logs burning in the hearth before them. Her back presses into his chest with the swell of every breath, a tide rising to meet its shore.  

He takes her hand in his, thumbing the two new rings on her fourth finger, the polished silver of them glittering in the orange glow from the fire that has painted everything in this room the colour of a velvet sunset.

“I am not playing, either,” she murmurs.

She threads her fingers through his, both their rings clinking together. He thinks of the sound as the clinking of champagne glasses, a celebration. She tucks his arm between her breasts, his hand testing the weight of one teardrop-shaped swell.

Moments pass in which the only sound is the softly erratic sparking from the hearth, the only movement the lick of the flames as their flickering shadows dance across the cottage walls and spill across the wooden floor like ballerinas on a stage.

He is content, for once, to simply observe.

Yamato Ishida: Random Facts

  • Yamato’s name is written in katakana and is the ancient name for Japan, but the way it is usually written in kanji means “Large/Great Peace/Harmony”. Yama is also “Mountain” in Japanese. Ishida means “Stone Rice Field”.
  • He was born between 2 April 1988 and 1 April 1989 – most likely in Hikarigaoka, Nerima. Because of this, he is more likely to be 10 years old rather than 11 years old in the first season of Digimon. Thus, in the second season he is more likely to be 13 throughout the season and 14 by the end of the season (in the 02 movie: Diablomon Strikes Back).
  • He is in the 5th grade in the first season and the 8th grade in the second season.
  • His father, Hiroaki Ishida, is the director/producer of the news division at Fuji TV. His mother, Natsuko Takaishi, is a journalist and writer.
  • His parents divorced in 1996 because his mother got fed up with his father being a workaholic. It was Yamato who decided that he was going to live with their father and that Takeru was going to live with their mother, since their parents couldn’t decide. He figured that since Takeru was younger he needed their mother more.
  • He is probably, at the very least, a quarter French.
  • His French grandfather is named Michel (who is most likely Natsuko’s father), and his Japanese grandmother is named Kinu (who is most likely Hiroaki’s mother). Michel lives in Paris, France and Kinu lives in Shimane, Japan.
  • His schools include: Dai-yon Elementary School, Odaiba Elementary School, Odaiba Middle School, Tsukishima High School. He also most likely got a university degree in Engineering to eventually become an astronaut.
  • He lives with his father in Odaiba, Tokyo in apartment 202.
  • “I live alone with my dad, but since he’s busy with work, I do most of the housework. Of course that means I cook meals every day. We have a lot of condiments and tablewear. I cooked when Takeru came over recently, too. But since it’s just us guys, the place is kind of messy, which is embarrassing.” (Digimon Adventure Character File)
  • His official Toei Animation profile states that he excels in both academics and sports.
  • His best friend is Gabumon.

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5 +1 Fic (+1)!

And with that, folks, this behemoth is finally complete! Since the last two parts were mean, this part is at Jerejean’s wedding, since I’ve written the proposal and after the wedding. I hope you enjoyed, and this is going to be uploaded as a whole thing to A03 in a minute, if you wanna give it love over there. Thank you again!

Part 1 Here, Part 2 Here, Part 3 Here, Part 4 Here, Part 5 Here

Jeremy felt like his entire body was a livewire. So much preparation had led to this day, and now that the ceremony way over, it was overwhelming in a different way. Now there were so many people to greet, while still trying to get to the reception on time and Jeremy felt like a bumblebee flitting from flower to flower.

The only thing keeping him from ricocheting off the walls was Jean’s steady presence by his side, hand in his like a vise grip. It was grounding, the way he could always feel Jean next to him, bringing him back when it felt like he was spinning in so many different directions. He wanted to just curl up and nuzzle into his side, but he couldn’t because they were standing and had to talk to people. It was horribly inconvenient.

He looked down at their joined hands and drew strength from the two silver bands on their ring fingers.

They were married.

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Viking Silver Hoard Group, 9th-11th Century AD

An assemblage of Viking silver ‘hack’, with a ceramic pot comprising: two finger-rings with faux-twist detailing to the bezel; a penannular braided ring; eight D-section ingots; seven rectangular-section ingot fragments; two thick round-section rods; a narrow tapering round-section rod; eight Northern denier coins, one pierced at edge and most showing the characteristic 'peck’ marks seen on coins that have passed through Viking hands; a squat ceramic pot with everted rim. 369 grams total, pot: 87mm diameter (3 ½").

Some days are just crappy.

A broken coffee machine at work and no chance to get the usual fix of caffeine any other way, brash and arrogant customers, a computer which is determined to win the “lamest-ass-on-earth”-award and a really sticky coke spilled all over his pants.

Yeah, Dean is more than ready to leave this shitty mess behind and call it a day.

And fortunately his mood improves immediately when he gets home and finds Castiel in the kitchen, a freshly baked pie right next to him on the counter. It’s like a fucking dream come true.

“You made pie?” Dean asks in awe.

Castiel smiles warmly. “You sounded stressed when you called me a few hours ago. I figured some pie would cheer you up.”

Dean pulls him closer instantly and presses a quick kiss onto his lips before he grabs a nearby fork and promptly digs in, plates or manners be damned. And as soon as he tastes the soft dough and the delicious apples he can’t help but moan in pleasure.

“Fuck, Cas, this is great!” he praises. “I’m seconds away from falling on my knee and proposing.”

Castiel chuckles amused, raising his hand and touching the silver band on his ring finger. “You already did, two years ago. Remember?”

Dean rolls his eyes. As if he would ever be able to forget the day when Castiel appeared rain-soaked at his doorstep after work, complaining about late buses and rude people and being a grumpy little shit and Dean just couldn’t keep himself from blurting out his proposal right into Castiel’s surprised face.

“Of course I remember,” Dean says. “But you don’t mind another proposal, right? Or maybe ten?”

Castiel links his fingers with Dean’s, his eyes glinting with so much love that Dean’s throat feels very tight all of a sudden. Even after all these years he’s not used to the way Castiel looks at him. And he’s sure as hell that he never will be.

“I don’t mind,” Castiel agrees, grinning. “Although it won’t be as romantic as your first one. You informed me that you hoped to marry me and that the toilet is clogged at the same time.”

Dean flushes and lowers his gaze. “I was nervous …” he mumbles.

Castiel chuckles and kisses his temple. “Enjoy your pie. And maybe next time I will propose to you.”

Dean smiles brightly.

He’s seriously the luckiest guy ever.

When Sam and Dean return to the bunker after a long fight, bandaged and bruised, Cas is there to greet them. Dean walks straight into his arms and collapses, silent, and the angel slips his fingers through brown strands of hair, whispering calming sounds into the older Winchester’s ear.

They don’t say anything.

And later, when Sam passes by Dean’s room, the door open and ajar, and peeks in to see the angel curled up next to his brother, trenchcoat laid haphazardly over them both, he just shuts the door and thinks about how tangled their legs were, and how at peace Dean finally looked.

He doesn’t say anything.

A few days later, Sam wakes up to the smell of eggs, bacon, and something sweet. He stumbles into the kitchen, hair a mess and barefoot, to see Deansmiling. Genuinely smiling, with no broken pain hidden behind those pearly white teeth or no aching heart behind those bright green eyes. His arm is on Castiel’s, demonstrating by physically showing him how to properly flip a pancake as not to splatter the batter everywhere. Their touch lingers before he pulls away to greet Sam.

He doesn’t say anything.

It’s winter now, and Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, mouth parched, only to find the pair he’d been travelling with dancing slowly in the dark to some Christmas song – probably put on by Cas – with steaming mugs of hot cocoa left on the counter, forgotten about. He stares for a bit, then smiles, and walks right back to his room.

The next day, he doesn’t say anything.

Cas loses his grace, and everything gets quiet. None of them speak much anymore, though the battle they had long fought was won recently. Sam tries to help Cas, but nothing seems to work, and every now and then he can hear the ex-angel crying into his brother’s shoulder. He believes he even sees Dean kiss his forehead every now and then, rubbing his back as he shows him the finer things in humanity.

They don’t say anything.

Sam has a dog now, a border collie that is a year old. On the way out, he passes by Dean’s room, door closed, and hears familiar noises coming from within. He figures Dean must really be teaching Cas the “finer things” of humanity, and grins on his way out, happy for the unestablished couple.

He doesn’t say anything.

Dean shows him a ring, small and silver, with two dates etched into the inside. One was the day he and Cas had met, their relationship rough and hostile. The other was the day that Sam assumed they confessed to each other, the day they realized how hard it is to find what they had in this life and threw away all their qualms with the subject. Sam congratulates him, promising to support him all the way. Cas walks in and the box is shoved in a pocket, and beer on the table is drank.

They don’t say anything.

He proposes, and it’s accepted with a teary-eyed Cas, who still doesn’t quite understand the concept of marriage (but Dean promises to explain it). Nonetheless, the two are happily engaged, matching silver bands on their ring fingers. Sam watches them leave for bed early, closing the door behind them with drunken giggles from the used champagne glasses that lay on the table.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not many people show, after all most are six feet in the ground by now, but the wedding is nice nonetheless. Flowers of all kinds are assorted amongst white cloths, and a pastor has them repeat their vows. Sam is the best man, so of course he has the best position: standing right beside Dean as his two companions declare the marriage official with a kiss. And this time, he hears it. The three special words.

“I love you.”

Years later he is sitting in his front yard, the same border collie laying next to him. He eyes the red shirt walking up his driveway, and a man in black following behind. He greets Dean and Cas, and they talk for hours, eating TV dinners and drinking beer and watching a re-run of some cop show, just like the old days. They reminisce and look back on their lives, thinking about the past and how far they have come. And finally, Sam takes a breath, smiles at the two, and says it.

“I’m proud of us.”

Of Tattoos and Scars || Drabble

Alternatively called; Fuck you Cassie I don’t have time for this: the story of my life based on this post

First it was simple. Broken bones and broken hearts, freshly healing scars and therapy of all kinds led them both to the same place at the same time with the same goal in mind. Wings were what they were after, a symbol of freedom, of survival. They had made it through the darkness and wanted to remind themselves they could still fly with broken wings. The ink that was pressed in to their skin was raw and painful and meticulously painted so they would never forget. The first time they met, she didn’t like him. His laugh was more a caw than something remotely human, and he chattered on constantly, mostly about ravens. He was getting raven’s wings across his shoulders and down his spine, and she would never in her life forget it even long after she would forget his name. She wished she didn’t care so much about her tattoo, not so very different from his, because she’d have left just to avoid his easy manner. She mistrusted men with shining smiles.

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lenfaz  asked:

“i’ve been travelling a lot and somehow you’re in every single city i go to seriously what the fuck who even are you how are you doing this”

I hope you like my take on this ‘Before Sunrise” inspired tale. This prompt led me there and I had to go with it. (smuff ahead) This is the final installment in my follower milestone fic project. Thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting on these stories these past few weeks. I have had the best time with this! 

The tickle of the grass on the back of her hands and the silky slide of his hair between her fingertips combine in a complete sensory overload, one she is finding herself completely welcome to sink into. The moonlight casts a bluish tint to his dark locks tangling with her golden strands on their foreheads, sweat and the early morning dew coating their skin as they lose themselves completely in the feel of each other. Pulling back from his mouth to breathe, her gaze lands on a leaf poking from beneath his ear, a smile tugging at her lips as she softly plucks it from his hair.

She’s somewhere between Berlin and Hamburg, waking to the landscape speeding past outside the window, fatigue still settled deep in her muscles from sitting too long in the same position. Thankful to have a row to herself, she stretches her arms wide, cracking her back until the resulting pop releases in her spine. She spies a head of dark hair a few rows up, headphones mashing the thick flyaway strands, her fingers suddenly itching to run through and seek out the hidden auburn beneath the brown.

She’s addicted to the fullness of his bottom lip, her teeth nipping and tongue tasting as she slips and slides against his mouth. A deep groan escapes his throat when she sucks it between her lips, his head falling back deeper into her hands as she leans further into him. The tickle of his tongue as it slides along her jaw causes her to shudder, the resulting chuckle as he senses her response empowering, urging her to not hold back as she recaptures his mouth and begins a new assault of her own.

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harry and louis’ wedding aesthetic; crisp whites and cool-toned accents. subtle nautical decor. harry’s hair in a half-up crown braid and nails painted a light blue. louis clean shaven and hair up in a quiff. fitted black suits. flashy boots for harry and polished brogues for louis. playing with ring fingers. anticipation in the place of anxiety. sure steps and hooded gazes. promises of forever and misty eyes. two simple silver bands that cool burning left ring fingers. a soft press of two pairs of pink lips and the joining of two hearts.