#Sorry y'all

[trashgremlendoesart]

Dare I say-

It doesn't matter if I'm small and afraid, there are people who are smaller and more afraid

[imagine-your-nonhuman-fo]

no actually I decide I don't trust y'all with that last post

[oldinterneticons]

Top icons posted to @oldinterneticons in February 2024

[scales-n-art]

If this world is wearing thin

And you're thinking of escape

I'll go anywhere with you

Just wrap me up in chains

But if you try to go alone

Don't think I'll understand

Stay with me

Follow me on IG | Twitter | Patreon

[apoorhuman]

Mc: hey everybody!!!

The brothers: ....

Asmo: are... We seeing a ghost?

Satan: I don't think so, this is probably an illusion

Levi: what.. What if it's an hallucination?

Mammon: there's no way you idiot, what can even cause the hallucination?!

Beel: I believe tht this is a dream

Belphie: am I still half asleep?

Lucifer: excuse me, but who are you?

Mc: ARE YOU SERIOUS I HAVEN'T BEEN AWAY THAT LONG!!

[finemealprompt]

DP x DC Prompt #31

Bruce had been happy. Danny made him so happy. He was good with his kids, he knew about Batman and supported him, and accepted Bruce with all his flaws. Bruce was going to propose.

Then, Danny broke it off. Left Bruce. Empty, hollow, a shell of a man he used to be. He doesn't know what happened, or why. He's left with one question.

How did it end?

[swamp-teeth]

[pt.1]

lost but not far

[petshopbutch]

using a squeaky toy as a gag during sex would fix me i think

[mrspockomakeitso]

Terrible news gang, the mortifying ordeal of being known is actually the only way to be truly happy.

[cinamun]

A new chapter begins | Next

[niningtori]

thinking ab reader who is so hopelessly not-so-secretly in love with beomgyu and him "unknowingly" asking her to set him up with the girl he likes. turns out he actually knows about reader's feelings for him n takes advantage of them to help him get who actually wants. somehow he ends up hooking up w reader in the midst of it all just for fun... until reader has enough of his bullshit only for him to come crawling back once he realizes she's actually done w him 🙂‍↕️

[askacultleader]

{Me staring at everything in my notes and inbox and still not responding}

[welcome-to-green-hills]

do you think theyll make a snapcube reference? i think if they reference "ive come to make an announcement" the theater will be so chaotic lol

Hello, my dear!❤️✨

I... need to be honest here. The "Pissin' on the Moon" speech only makes sense to Sonic fans. It would not make sense to casual fans, as well as families attending the viewing. That, and it's been used too much.

[xappetites]

jouissance (4)

Phillip Graves x Reader | political marriage, Graves finds himself in trouble, Vance makes a house visit and reader loses her mind a little bit | word count: 1,778

Phil’s bleeding, he’s pretty sure. Currently he’s unclear on the whereabouts of the actual wound —and the severity of it— but both of those can wait. There’s heat radiating out of one corner of the room, a fire he feels more than sees crawling up the building.

That leaves only one way out, and if these assholes are smart, shooters are bound to stalk the rooftops, hidden among the racket of rain and wind outside.

He has to move the Shadows and he has to move them now, if any of them want a chance to tell the tale. So Phillip’s on his feet on instinct, with a second to spare for gratitude when no bones seem to be broken.

He wonders offhandedly who on Earth would be reckless enough to try mortar fire in the middle of a city, however mangy the cluster of buildings might be, before the second round hits and the floor slips right from under him.

…

Your husband’s an insidious one. It’s in the way he folds his clothes and shines his shoes. In how he gently coils his belts to rest between your row of everyday handbags and the gun safe. Little things that speak of a marriage and make sure his presence is always here, in this house he bought you. All charm and a wicked mind. So you have to look at these things of his and think about his accent, the glint in his eyes when you misbehave, his mouth on yours.

Phillip Graves is more than you ever dared wish for. Yours in a way that sparks holy terror in your gut. Against your better judgment and against your will, he sneaks into the routine and makes the bed feel empty without the expanse of his back to curl into.

You crave him, wherever in the world he is at the moment, risking his hide as a way of life. Because of course, you had to find him in the line of fire. 

You’re not made for easy, you’re made for finding the perfect husband and being in constant danger of losing him. He has the scars to prove it too, so close to that sharp brain of his. And he wears them with the kind of balls that your friends back in Hudson Yards try to match with distressed jeans and design pre-scuffed boots. Worse is the joy he finds in the work: obvious, magnetic. Such an intrinsic part of him that you couldn’t even wish to stop him.

Worst is that when Vance shows up in the middle of the afternoon, after Phil’s been gone for weeks, you don’t even flinch.

“Mrs. Graves,” he says. Standing on your porch with the straightest back you’ve ever seen, looking for all the world like he’s carrying the metaphorical neatly folded flag.

The thought slides sluggish into your awareness. You don’t know if that still happens, Phillip being  a contractor, saving the ‘real’ military’s asses by doing their fucking dirty work. And it’s so inconsequential that it takes over —the question—, for another second of staring blankly. 

“Ma’am,” Vance tries again, gently herding you into the house by the elbow.

He’s not wearing gloves, you notice, and he seems to be trying to keep a hand on you, even if it feels like he’s not used to this kind of constant touching. It’s something you’ve seen Phil doing more than once, so it stops you dead, makes you stumble into the stupid decorative side table your in-laws insisted on gifting you.

“What happened?” It’s breathy, punched out of you. Two half words in a long exhale. 

“We lost contact with Commander Graves’ team at around o’ five hundred this morning—“

“It’s damn near six pm.”

“We have protocols—“

Of course they do, Phil is adamant about doing things right or not doing them at all. So it’s been twelve hours, plus the drive, of no one knowing where your husband is. And it’s not even that fact that makes Vance hesitate. It’s the next few words out of his mouth that turn this into a scenario that warrants the face he’s making.

“And— satellite images show signs of a fairly large explosion, close to their last known location.”

The shit table catches your weight once again, rattling up a storm. You lean on it, simply because, unlike Vance, it doesn’t look at you like you’re on the verge of exploding.

You might be, actually. Your head feels like a lit fuse, building pressure under your tongue. Anger simmers under the shock, an impulse to bite, to leave claw marks on what’s yours.

“We still have no concrete information,” Vance’s palm finds your elbow for the second time. 

Maybe he expects your knees to buckle, but he stays close. Phil close. So you take a couple steps back. 

“A team was dispatched for search and rescue, we should have news by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

Vance looks at you like you’re supposed to respond to that, fulfill the social contract in some way you can’t fathom right now. Are you meant to thank him for the bad news? This can’t be the first widow-to-be visit he makes, but it is yours, which makes the etiquette unclear. 

He moves, in the end; does that universal half turn, half vague gesture towards the door one does when trying to excuse themselves from something. Your body moves with him, follows on instinct.

You’ve never been one to wait— call it being a spoilt brat, but you need something to focus on if you’re going to simply hold out for any amount of time; your phone, a book, even people watching. But all your mind goes to at the moment is blood and fire and Phillip and every single black dress you own.

The rage in the pit of your stomach strains at the leash. At Vance, at the Shadows, at Phil. And you’re bound to demolish the house, if you’re left alone in it for more than the five minutes of this interaction. Might end up cutting into ribbons all your funeral-appropriate clothes.

“I’m coming back to base with you,” it comes out flat. Not begging, not a demand. Because it isn’t, it’s a statement of fact, a certainty that throws this Shadow off his game. Makes him sputter like an old chainsaw for an excuse he thinks you’ll take.

“I’m supposed to go right back, I— there’s no time to pack for the night…”

You hand Vance your phone, leave him there palm outstretched while you shove laptop, chargers and wallet into a bag. A process that takes all of five minutes, in which you’ve correctly assumed he won’t dare fuck off without you. Not before you pluck the device back from his very light grip, keys jingling as you unlock the truck in the driveway.

“I’ll follow you.”

…

It occurs to you, quite late, that the correct reaction to this would be to cry. Not that you can focus on it, with the strange bureaucracy of security checks and Vance’s unrelenting escort into the Shadows’ facility, but maybe you should.

You could probably try, in the same way that social deception usually comes to you. Second nature, beaten into your body by private schooling and parents that mostly think of you as an asset in whatever scheme they happen to be cooking up at the time. Whether that’s looking pretty at a charity ball or securing the Graves’ deep pockets for future political endeavors. 

Crying for the stony faced, hurried soldiers you pass by on your way to Phil’s office would be easy, all things considered; it just feels wrong under your skin. You’re not fucking here for them, you’re here for the husband that is definitely coming back. Because he made a promise to keep you and, despite the things your world has thought you about promises, you fucking trust him.

Nausea, on the other hand, comes a lot more naturally. Bile climbing up your throat like an awful tide you have to pause to fight every couple steps. It burns in your throat and threatens to make you tear up out of nothing but physical discomfort, but it just doesn’t have the same flare, doesn’t get the same reaction.

“The bathroom next to Phil’s office is private, right?” Vance levels you with a look so strange that you feel the need to add the truth at the end, amend your question, “—I’m gonna be sick.”

Even now it’s unbearable to be assumed as a fragile little greenhouse flower that can’t cope with a shared toilet. Especially when he already looks at you out like you’re an alien learning how to act human and not quite hitting the mark.

“Commander Graves has his entire private quarters back there, not just the bathroom,” Vance doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down his pace, but this is the most surprised you’ve seen him. “He used to spend a lot more time here, before he met you. You’ve bumped up time off for all of us.”

Your expression must be a sight, with the chuckle it gets out of him. It loosens his stance some, makes him look at you like you’re a person and not a grenade he has to jump for the first time today. The silence suddenly not so fucking tense between you, until he punches in the code to your husband’s office and he stands there a foot away, starting and stopping a sentence for a couple times.

“He always comes back, Commander Graves,” Vance settles for in the end; not empty assurances, just what he knows from experience.

You can appreciate it, can take the hand he settles on your shoulder amicably. Though he’s not Phillip and hasn’t earned the privilege to comfort you.

He leaves you, promising an update on first light, no matter how much you insist on ‘as soon as you have one’. You’re not gonna sleep anyway.

Even after you shower and rummage around drawers for one of Phil’s spare shirts, you settle on the office chair with your laptop to try and pretend to work. Your husband’s desk is clean, sparsely furnished with a pen holder, a couple stacks of post it’s and presiding over all, a framed copy of your wedding photo.

The tightness in your chest comes on so suddenly that it knocks the breath right out of you. And it forces out the most embarrassing, raw sound you’ve ever heard yourself make. It’s an animal sort of cry, growl and sob and the clarity that losing Phillip Graves will unmake you in ways you don’t want to imagine.

[patheticrafeenjoyer]

jj looks just like his mama <3

like..... JUST like his mama <3

[forsoobado137]

im curious why you hc spain as bisexual only because of his marriage with austria. he's only expressed interest in men, wouldn't that make him gay?

Sorry, I didn't mean to make it seem like he's only EVER been with a man because of his marriage to Austria😅. I just wanted to write a solid reason to be like "hey, he's into dudes too!" I kinda just imagined him as bisexual by default, though maybe that's because I'm also bi so sorry for being a bit biased. But now that I'm thinking about him more, he hangs around a LOT of dudes lol. So maybe he is gay/more attracted to men.

Also I didn't mean to say that Austria hates being queer. I meant it in like a joking "Yeah, I was literally married to a man, but that doesn't mean anything" (it does). I just see him as someone who isn't really concerned with putting a label on his sexuality. Like he's queer in all but name.

And also I feel like a lot of nation marriages are very political, since it's literally about political entities uniting. Though I don't doubt that Austria loved Spain and Hungary or all the other's he's gotten with.

Also I just want to add that I think some of the nations are unlabeled because of pressure from their regimes and also a bit of denial. Like some of them know who they are and who they love, but admitting to that is a very hard thing to do sometimes, especially since they're already faced with a lot pf public scrutiny as is.

So sorry to any spaus fans or just fans of Spain and Austria if I messed up! I'm not super familiar with these characters, so I just went off of my own personal thoughts.