#vintage ice cream cone

[teesmine]

Ice Cream Cone Tank Top Size S, M, L, XL, 2XL, and 3XL for Men and Women

Ice Cream Cone Tank Top These shirts are dainty, cute, and perfect for daily wear. This original typographic design is screen-printed with high quality. Fully machine washable

MATERIAL: 100-percent-cotton Pull-On closure preshrunk 100% cotton jersey 6.1-oz. banded neck and armholes double-needle bottom hem quarter-turned to eliminate the center crease

Payment Method PayPal only Cannot cancel of order after payment, Please make sure before ordering

Processing time: 2-3 business days. I will never sell you an item that I don’t have or can’t get in the quickest possible turnaround time! If for some reason an issue with filling your order in the quoted time occurs, I will address the issue with you immediately.

Ice Cream Cone Tank Top Size XS, S, M, L, XL, 2XL, 3XL, and visits other product

[luzzarm]

Jerry LEWIS and the radio personality Barry Gray swapping their ice cream cones at a Carvel stand

New York, 1961

[williammarksommer]

Churro Dipped Cone

Untitled California series

Hasselblad 500c/m

Kodak Ektar 100iso

[cerealkiller740]

1956 Sealtest Ice Cream advertisement

[y2kbeautyandother2000sstuff]

Bonne Bell Vanilla Twist, Dreamy Cream Pop, and Chocolate Dip Ice Creamies Ice Cream Cone Lip Gloss

early 2000s

Found on Ebay, user Night Owl Book Club

[goshyesvintageads]

National Dairy Products Corp, 1956

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

SWEET TREATS OF THE SUPER-SEVENTIES FOR YOUR RETRO SWEET TOOTH.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on assorted Trix Rabbit scratch-n-sniff premium stickers -- ice cream w/ strawberries, double scoop chocolate ice cream cone, root beer float, & strawberry milkshake, c. late 1978-'79.

From the private collection of Jason Liebig, a.k.a., "Waffle Whiffler" via Flickr.

Sources: www.flickr.com/photos/jasonliebigstuff/532302729 & Pinterest.

[boybasher]

[thmadethis]

❄️ Stay Frosty... SNOW CONES! ❄️

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I finished up this design that I originally did for inktober by adding in the cool alien tracker. Instead of aliens, we have a wonderful array of snowflakes! Of course this piece features Frost (who didn't last too long in the movie) and of course a tasty treat straight from the LV 426 colony cafeterias!

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This design is now in my shop along with a black and white version and you can get it on a bunch of 🥶COOL🥶 items!

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COLOR VERSION: https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/155128498

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B&W VERSION: https://www.redbubble.com/shop/ap/155132914

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Want something cool? THIS IS WHAT I DO! ☝🏼 Wanna work together? DM or message me through my site 🔗 IN BIO!

[blushypuffpost]

[caseyno-royale]

One of my favorite toys from the eighties. When I was a kid. You would push the ice down with the Snoopy chimney plunger. Grind up the ice with a hand crank ice gratter. Scoop it with a little red shovel into your cup, and then add your syrup flavor that was in the snowman.

[dimas-shirt]

I Love Ice Cream, don't miss it, Get my cool chlothing product by clicking the link below 👇👇

https://dimasshirt.threadless.com/

[oddphotos362]

[bi-writes]

more little thoughts about curvy!sunshine!fem!reader and dark!simon (18+)

thinking about being so indifferent to his violence because it has never been directed at you. you had a bad night at the pub--an asshole tried to grab your ass in the brand new white dress you bought, with a puffy little mini skirt, and you had wanted to wear it out and get dressed up. the man had ruined your night; you just wanted to spend it with simon, drinking and spending time together, and as soon as he had his hand up your dress, and simon saw the tears in your eyes, all he could see was red.

you're sitting on the curb outside, sniffling, tears still a little damp on your face as you lick at the cone of ice cream you're holding. you click your heels against the pavement, and you look to the side when you feel a big, warm presence take a seat next to you. his shirt looks damp and sticky, and your eyes dart down to see how his boots smear blood against the ground. you smile a little through your soft tears, reaching over and sliding your arm around his. the tension in his muscles relaxes, and you lean up and kiss his cheek gently.

"did he squirm?" you ask softly as you trace his ungloved hand, running your fingers lightly over the fresh bruises there. "i know you hate it when they cry."

"didn't 'ave time t'cry," he grumbles. he leans over, kissing your forehead through the mask, holding you close. "cut his throat out before he could even think about it. and then i took his hands, luv--" you take a lick of your ice cream before you smile up at him. "didn't deserve 'em since he's had a feel 'f ya."

he lets you paint his nails. you sit on his big thigh, holding his hand up as you smooth black polish over his nail bed. you clean his cuticles and under his fingernails, giving him a nice little manicure before practicing your nail-painting skills. all he does is sit there and grumble as he watches a football game on the telly, not really paying you any mind. when you finish, you smooth lotion over his cracked knuckles and smooth some oil over his nails until they're nice and soft. when you finish, he makes you watch him stuff those fingers into your pretty pussy. he never takes his eyes off the game, but his lips twitch into the lightest smirk as he feels you writhe and squirm beside him, laid back on the couch as you wet his freshly painted nails with cum.

he never lets you cry, not really, because he fucking hates it. if you cry, he tilts your head up towards him, shoving his mask up before dragging his pink tongue up your face and ridding the pretty planes of your cheeks of any evidence. his solution to your sadness, if that doesn't work, is to put his head between your thighs and eat.

he never says no to you. wherever you want to go, he will take you. whatever you want to buy, he will buy it for you. even if it's something you technically can't have, like the vintage purse you see as you window shop with a not for sale tag on it. or the last pair of sparkly barrettes that the woman in front of you snagged first, found at the bottom of your shopping bag the next day. or the job you applied for that you knew you wouldn't get because you bombed the interview--only to receive confirmation in the middle of the night that you got the job, telling simon monday night that your new boss got mugged only a few hours after your interview!

(the bruises on his face are gnarly--and he seems to always avoid you like the plague.)

you break all his supposed boundaries in front of other people, but what they don't understand is that he has boundaries with everyone except for you. when you visit him on base, everyone tenses when you run into the rec room looking for him, slipping into the chair he sits in and taking your place on his lap. but ghost doesn't flinch as he does if others touch him. no, he just places his hand on your back to steady you. when you're out at the pub with his teammates, they stare wide-eyed as you cup his masked cheeks and kiss him all over his face--his eyes, his nose, his cheeks--but all ghost does is pat your ass soothingly and stroke along your hair gently. he stands out in crowds, so imposing and large and broad, and he ignores the stares when a pretty girl bounces into his orbit, taking his hand and pulling him along because simon, i saw this dress, but i need your help getting the zipper up--

there just isn't anyone like you. ghost feels dead, on the inside. he doesn't feel right. he knows something is so wrong inside of him. he wants to eat your glow. it's what he has loved about you since he met you. the unconditional devotion, the big heart you give him, the wet look in your eyes when he does anything for you, even when it includes the bloody stuff. even if he does the wrong thing, even if he kills the wrong man, and you know he is overreacting, you are never mad, never angry. you just kiss his scars and coo in his ear, "it's okay, you didn't know any better, you were just doing it for me, weren't you, baby?"

you give him the validation that he needs to be violent. you tell him it's okay. you aren't afraid of all the gore, of the terrible things he does, of all the things he rights with wrongs. he is quick to anger, and he finds it easy to be judge, jury, and executioner, and all you do is bat your lashes and open your legs and tell him it's okay, simon--it's okay, come here, i miss you.

you suffocate the things that scream in his ears. when it's too loud, you push him to lay down, climb up over him, put your thighs around his head and quiet the noise. you sit your pretty pussy on his mouth, and you ride his face, smoothing a hand over the balaclava that he is too busy to take off. you used to be afraid of being too heavy, of making it hard to breathe for him, but simon is a big boy, and maybe he wants to die, because you taste so sweet, and he always chubs up so easily with his hands digging into your hips and his tongue deep inside of you.

it aches, everything hurts, the world is too loud, but it isn't like this in your flat. it's just right. it's normal. it's safe. simon can be himself, and so can you, and when he is too brooding and terrifying, he looks at you, because if you're still smiling, he isn't too much of anything. and when you think you're talking too fast, when you are second-guessing the dress you want to wear, you look at him, because if he is there, nothing will ever be wrong, and no one can ever hurt you.

simon isn't a good person. you know that. he's quick to the knife. he likes to bite. he commits war crimes, and then he comes home, and no one asks him to explain himself, and no one tells him to stop what he's doing, and when he does it over and over again, all he gets is validation, medals for a job well done, and maybe you're an instigator, too, because you let him fuck you in every position whenever he comes home, a reward for bringing death to whoever was stupid enough to end up at the wrong end of his rifle.

but it's really, really hard to care. as soon as he steps through the door, dropping his duffel bag onto the floor, all of your doubts disappear. all you can do is stare at him in all his gear, swallow the drool that threatens to spill, smile--welcome home, teddy bear!

he is a bear. but you've never been on the receiving end of what scares people. if someone were to ask you what to do, you don't think you'd know what to tell them. you wonder what it is you would tell them if they begged for your help.

run away? or play dead?

[mephistopheles]

someonr on reddit said that on the vintage the godfather poster he looks like an ice cream cone and i can’t unsee it

[irisintheafterglow]

Timeless (pro!bakugo x you)

summary: in another life, he still would have turned your head.

word count: 0.7k

cw/tags: swearing, just straight fluff, gn reader

note: i think my favorite line of dialogue i've written so far is now "kicking ass, looking hot." hope you enjoy this lil drabble!

likes/reblogs/feedback is always appreciated <3

In your excitement, you pull out your phone and dial his number. He answers after two rings and you smile softly. You didn’t usually call him when he was on patrol unless you missed him, so hopefully he didn’t give you any shit about that. 

“Hi darling, whatcha doing?” You fiddle with the ring hanging around your neck, a habit you’d only picked up after you two started dating. 

“The usual– kicking ass, looking hot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re the one who called me, babe, so you must be missing me. What’s up?” 

“Just wanted to tell you about these funny little photos I found in an antique shop by the deli. I snagged that good French bread you like, by the way.” Your fingers continue to card through the pictures in the cardboard box, one shoulder pressing the phone up to your ear. 

He hums contentedly on the other side of the phone, completely ignoring the first part of what you said. “You’re the greatest part of my life.” 

“I better be. But, anyway, these photos, Kats.” You could practically see him rolling his eyes in boredom, but continue trying to explain them anyways. “They’re cute; it’s like little black and white photos of lovers from the 50s, and in one of them they’re in front of their first house in the 60s.” 

“Why are you telling me about random extras from ancient times?” 

You scoff at his warped sense of time. “First off, this was only a few decades ago. Second…I actually don’t really know.” He snorts from the other side of the phone, and you fight to keep your voice to a whisper as you backtrack, trying to verbalize the vague train of thought in your mind. “I’m serious, Kats. I don’t know what it is about these photos. They just remind me of us.” You pick up one of a young couple standing in front of a vintage car at the beach. The boy has a smug look on his face, and his girlfriend is shaking her head exasperatedly. He must have said something stupidly endearing, just like the boy on the phone with you. 

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I just saw them and I like to think that, even if we were living in a different time, we’d still find our way to each other, somehow.” Another one caught your eye in the box, a family picture at a rest stop in the mountains. The parents tenderly hold a baby each in their arms, beaming at the camera and surrounded by towering trees. The image made your heart ache a little bit, so second-handedly happy for them that it was making you sad. You never would tell him, but you were really missing your boyfriend. 

“You bet your sexy ass I’d find you in another lifetime.” You roll your eyes. His crass language, however intelligent he was, really overpowered his intellect sometimes. 

“I don’t think you’d be using that kind of language if we were in like, the 1400s, Kats.” You find a funny one of a little boy triumphantly holding an ice cream cone in a bathtub and it reminds you of baby photos your boyfriend’s mom had showed you when you met her for the first time. 

“Then I’d kick the shit out of all the other suitors or whatever to win your delightful posterior.”

“Ew,” you laugh, covering your burning face with a hand. “Please don’t say that ever again.” 

“I know you’re blushing. Bet you look cute.” 

“Mhmm, blushing ‘cause of how fucking embarrassing you are sometimes,” you reply fondly, waving farewell to the older woman behind the antique counter. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I love you too. You free for lunch or are you headed back to the agency?” 

Your heart stutters. He always seemed to know when you were thinking about him, or missing his company. “I’m free right now, but aren’t you on patrol–”

“Aight, see you in a sec.” 

“Wait, Kats–” You look at your phone in disbelief. He’d hung up on you. Shaking your head, you have a seat on a bench and wait for the telltale noise of explosive rumbling to reach you. 

He was insufferable, yes, but you wouldn’t trade him for anybody else, this century or otherwise. 

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