#suede western boots

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Belted Blazer Romper from Anthropologie ($188) & Rancher Knee High Western Boot in Black Oiled Suede from Jeffrey Campbell ($259.95 via Nordstrom)

[coastallcowgirll]

[navajopearls]

[sarah7492]

Men's Styling Guide & Belt Guide for Suede Boots

There are many choices for suede boots in the market, if you’re planning to get a pair for yourself. Whether you prefer Chelsea, chukka, trainers, or boots, suede comes in different styles that you’d love. Read more https://www.alanic.clothing/mens-styling-guide-belt-guide-for-suede-boots/

[waisishoes]

High quality Women's Ankle Boots | Handmade Suede Leather Boots

https://www.etsy.com/shop/Waisishoes

[mediocre-shark-tales]

US Texas GP

Masterlist

Walking into the paddock at the Circuit of the Americas for the first time as a driver at my home Grand Prix was nothing short of surreal. The hum of the crowd, the familiar twang of American accents, and the sea of red, white, and blue paraphernalia felt different—this wasn’t just any race. This was my race.

Billboards and posters with my face adorned the venue, some with bold captions like “Homegrown Talent” or “The Lone Star of Formula 1.” I couldn’t help but smile as fans called out my name, waving signs and flags in support. For all the challenges I’d faced this season, this moment made it worth it.

I’d spent weeks planning my outfit for this race, knowing it would be scrutinized and remembered. I wanted something that paid homage to my American roots but also represented me—a mix of boldness, resilience, and a little flair.

The first piece I chose was the hat: a sharp, black Western hat with a silver band that caught the light with every step I took. Centered on the band was a bull head emblem, strong and unmistakably Texan.

Underneath, I kept it simple with a crisp white shirt, its fabric soft and well-worn, tucked neatly into high-waisted dark denim. The belt was a statement piece—a leather strap with an ornate rodeo buckle that glinted as I moved. Draped over my shoulders was a suede jacket with fringe, its design both practical and eye-catching.

The boots were my favorite part. Worn-in leather, scuffed just enough to show their authenticity, they echoed the long road I’d traveled to get here. And the lasso? A playful touch, slung over one shoulder, reminding everyone that I was here to rope in the competition.

The outfit wasn’t just clothing—it was a statement. It said, This is who I am. Take it or leave it.

As I walked through the paddock, I felt the energy shift. Journalists turned their heads, cameras clicked furiously, and fans cheered louder.

“She’s gone full Texan!” someone shouted, eliciting laughter and applause.

Franco was the first to greet me, his grin as wide as ever. “Hermosa, you’re stealing the show already. Lando’s going to be jealous.”

Lando appeared not far behind, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “You’ve outdone us all. I should’ve worn a cowboy hat.”

“You couldn’t pull it off,” I teased, adjusting the brim of mine.

“True,” he admitted, with a playful shrug.

As part of the home race experience, my media duties were doubled, if not tripled. I made my way to the press conference room, where a mix of local and international journalists eagerly awaited.

The questions were predictable at first:

“What does it mean to race at your home Grand Prix?” “How do you feel about the fan support here in the U.S.?”

I answered them all with the same passion I’d carried all week. “It’s incredible to see the support from my fellow Americans. Racing here is a dream come true, and I want to make everyone proud.”

But then, as always, the conversation shifted.

“Your outfit today—does it symbolize anything about your journey?”

I smiled, tipping the brim of my hat slightly. “It’s a nod to where I come from. I wanted to bring a little piece of home to the paddock, and, well, I think it worked.”

Another journalist asked, “With all the pressure of a home race, how do you plan to stay focused?”

I paused thoughtfully before answering. “Every race has pressure, but this one is special. I’m not just racing for myself—I’m racing for everyone out there who’s ever been told they couldn’t do something. That’s the focus.”

As the day wore on, I walked the grid with my team, taking in the sights and sounds of the track. The familiar roar of engines echoed in the background, and the smell of rubber on asphalt filled the air.

Fans leaned over barriers, waving hats and flags. Some called out personal messages—encouragement, gratitude, even a few heartfelt wishes of luck.

One little girl, no older than six, caught my eye. She was wearing a tiny cowboy hat and holding a handmade sign that read, “Girls can race too!”

I walked over, crouching to her level. “You’re absolutely right,” I said, signing the brim of her hat. “And one day, I’ll be watching you out here.”

Her eyes lit up, and her parents thanked me profusely. It was a small moment, but it reminded me why I fought so hard to be here.

By the time I returned to my motorhome, the sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the paddock. I took a moment to stand on the balcony, looking out at the track. Tomorrow, the real work would begin—practice sessions, debriefs, and the constant grind of preparation.

But for now, I allowed myself a moment to soak it all in. This was my home race, and I was ready to give it everything I had.

The atmosphere in the garage buzzed with energy as I stepped in, already suited up for FP1. It was my only practice session before heading into a jam-packed sprint weekend schedule. With just one hour to learn the track and figure out how the car would handle here in Texas, there was no room for error. Every lap counted.

The familiar weight of my regular helmet rested in my hands as I made my way to my car. This one wasn’t flashy, but it was comfortable—a trusted companion that had been with me all season. I planned to save the special designs for later, where they’d make the biggest impact.

My team had worked closely with me to craft two helmets that truly represented what this weekend meant to me.

For the sprint race, I wanted something bold—something that screamed America without apology. The design featured an angry eagle, its wings stretched wide as it tore through the imagined sound barrier, painted to resemble the American flag. The sunset hues blended seamlessly with the imagery, creating a helmet that felt larger than life.

On the top sat a reimagined Route 66 sign, reshaped into my race number, 66. It wasn’t just a nod to my roots, but a symbol of the journey I’d taken to get here.

The race helmet, however, held an entirely different meaning. It was a replica of Logan Sargeant’s design. Though I didn’t know Logan personally, I respected his journey and the fact that he, too, had carried the weight of representing America on the grid.

We made only subtle changes: swapping out his name and number for mine, adjusting the sponsors to reflect my team, and making sure the craftsmanship was impeccable. I’d asked for it to remain a complete surprise, something for the fans and paddock alike to discover only once I stepped out onto the track.

Sliding into the cockpit, I felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. The team gave me the all-clear, and I fired up the engine. The Texas heat radiated off the tarmac as I rolled out of the garage, ready to get a feel for the track.

The Circuit of the Americas was a beast of a circuit. Long straights, tricky esses, and elevation changes that could throw off anyone not paying attention. But I loved it. There was something about racing in my home country that made me want to push just a little harder, take the corners a little sharper.

FP1 was productive, though not without its challenges. The car felt decent, but there were a few areas where balance issues cropped up. I spent the session giving constant feedback, running through different setups to prepare for both the sprint and the race.

“Car feels a little light in the rear through Sector 1,” I said over the radio after my third lap. “We’ll need to stabilize it for the race pace.”

By the end of the hour, I felt confident. There were still improvements to be made, but I had a solid foundation to work from.

I returned to the garage as the session wrapped up, my mind already switching gears for the upcoming sprint qualifying. With about an hour to spare, I decided to stretch my legs and shake off the lingering tension. The Texas sun was relentless, but the walk between garages helped me cool off while keeping my muscles loose.

With my racing overalls tied around my waist and a water bottle in hand, I jogged lightly from one end of the paddock to the other, weaving through the crowd of team personnel and fans. Just as I rounded a corner, someone barreled straight into me at full speed.

The collision sent me sprawling onto the pavement. I landed hard on my backside, groaning as I caught my breath. The other person, however, was already profusely apologizing, their accent immediately familiar.

“Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going!”

I blinked, looking up into the grinning face of none other than Liam Lawson.

“Liam?” I exclaimed, my surprise quickly morphing into delight.

Liam Lawson—the guy I’d been through hell and back with during my karting days, my confidant, my pseudo-brother—stood there, a sheepish grin plastered across his face. We’d been inseparable as kids, supporting each other through the highs and lows of our careers. Even now, as we both fought tooth and nail for a permanent seat in F1, there was never an ounce of jealousy between us. Just unrelenting pride for one another.

Liam extended a hand to help me up, his laughter bubbling over as I dusted myself off. “Fancy seeing you here,” he teased.

I smirked, immediately falling into our usual rhythm of playful banter. “Look who it is—newly promoted F1 driver Liam Lawson. The same guy who conveniently forgot to tell his best friend about said promotion, so she had to hear about it through the media.”

Liam winced dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Ouch. Straight for the heart.”

“You deserve it,” I shot back, crossing my arms but unable to hide the grin spreading across my face. “Seriously, Liam, how could you not tell me?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. “It all happened so fast. I was going to call, I swear, but then everything blew up, and I didn’t want to jinx it.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stay mad at him for long. This was Liam, after all—the same guy who had stayed up all night helping me perfect a karting setup before a big race and had cheered the loudest when I’d landed my reserve driver role.

“Well, I’m proud of you,” I said, pulling him into a quick hug. “Even if you’re a terrible best friend.”

“Thanks,” he said with a laugh, stepping back. “But I’m not that terrible. I brought something for you.”

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small container. “Hannah made cookies, and she insisted I bring you some.”

I couldn’t help but grin. His girlfriend, Hannah, was amazing—kind, funny, and incredible in the kitchen. She was the one person I could see Liam settling down with, and I secretly hoped they’d make it official someday.

“You’re forgiven,” I said, grabbing the container and popping the lid open to sneak a cookie. “Barely.”

We spent the next few minutes catching up, trading stories and laughs like no time had passed. Seeing Liam here, in this moment, reminded me just how far we’d both come. The journey hadn’t been easy, but having someone like him in my corner made it all worth it.

As the clock ticked closer to sprint qualifying, I reluctantly said goodbye, knowing I had to refocus.

“Good luck out there,” Liam said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Show them why you’re a part of the future of this sport.”

“You too,” I replied with a wink. “And next time, don’t make me find out through a press release, Lawson.”

He laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Yes Sir.”

As I jogged back toward my garage, the encounter left me feeling lighter, a renewed sense of determination coursing through me. Having Liam there was a reminder of why I loved this sport and the friendships it had given me along the way. Now, it was time to focus and make the most of my home race weekend.

The moment I strapped back into the car, all the outside noise disappeared. The roar of the crowd, the hum of conversations, even the buzz in the garage faded into the background. It was just me, the machine, and the track ahead. The familiar ritual of adjusting my gloves, checking my visor, and gripping the steering wheel calmed my nerves. I was ready.

The green light for Sprint Qualifying flicked on, and the engines roared to life. The Texas air was dry and crisp, the track shimmering under the afternoon sun. I was hyper-aware of every little detail—the vibrations under my seat, the hum of the car as I weaved through the out-lap, and the occasional crackle of my engineer's voice over the radio.

“Let’s bring it home today, 66. Focus and execute,” my race engineer, Landon, reminded me.

The first run was solid but unspectacular. My times were competitive, but not groundbreaking—hovering around P8. The team made quick adjustments to the car, tweaking the front wing and tire pressures to give me just that little bit more grip. I sat in the cockpit as the mechanics worked around me, closing my eyes and replaying the corners in my head.

Stay calm. Be smooth. Push where it counts.

The second run felt different right from the start. The track was warming up, the grip improving, and the car responding beautifully. As I hurtled down the long back straight, the roar of the home crowd grew louder. Even inside the car, I could feel the energy.

“Purple Sector 1,” Landon’s voice came through, even-toned but with a hint of excitement.

My heart raced, but I forced myself to stay focused. The esses flowed under the car like a rhythm, and I nailed the exit onto the next straight.

“Good exit,” Landon confirmed.

The car was alive under me, every input translating perfectly to the track. I pushed through Sector 2, catching a slight slide out of Turn 12 but recovering without losing much time.

“Green Sector 2. Keep it clean,” Landon instructed.

The final sector was always the trickiest, but I braked late and hard into Turn 15, carrying just enough speed without overshooting the apex. The last few corners blurred together in a haze of precision and adrenaline as I blasted toward the finish line.

As I crossed the line, I held my breath, waiting for Landon’s voice.

“You’re P4!”

For a second, I didn’t believe him. “Repeat that?”

“P4, P4! Excellent job!” Landon’s voice was louder this time, barely containing his excitement.

The realization hit me like a tidal wave. P4. My best qualifying result yet. I was on the second row of the grid, closer to a podium than I’d ever been. And in my home race, no less.

“YES!” I screamed into the radio, pounding my fists on the steering wheel. “YES, YES, YES!”

The emotions bubbled over as I slowed the car and brought it back to the garage. Pride, excitement, disbelief—it all hit me at once. My engineer’s voice was drowned out by the cheers of my team as I rolled into the pit lane. The Aston Martin Team near the entrance of Parc Fermé were alive with energy, mechanics and engineers high-fiving each other, their faces beaming with pride.

As I climbed out of the car, the roar of the American crowd greeted me. I pulled off my helmet, letting the cheers wash over me. My home race, my people, and they were celebrating with me.

Lando appeared out of nowhere, grinning ear to ear. “P4? Are you kidding me? That’s insane!”

I laughed, still trying to catch my breath. “I can’t believe it.”

“You better start believing,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Because that was incredible.”

Franco rushed over next, practically tackling me in a hug. “That’s my girl! P4 at home? You’re a legend!”

The overwhelming support from my team, my friends, and the fans brought tears to my eyes. I wiped them away quickly, not wanting to let the moment overwhelm me too much.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice trembling with emotion as I waved to the crowd. “Thank you so much.”

As I basked in the energy of the moment, a familiar voice called out from behind me, cutting through the noise of the garage.

“Well, well, look at you!”

I turned to see Liam Lawson striding toward me, his ever-present grin plastered across his face. Right beside him was his girlfriend, Hannah, looking just as thrilled. Liam wasted no time, wrapping me in a bear hug that nearly lifted me off the ground.

“P4!” he exclaimed, shaking me slightly. “In your home race! That’s huge!”

I laughed, squeezing him back. “I know! I still can’t believe it.”

Hannah stepped forward as Liam let go, her expression warm. “We’re so proud of you,” she said, pulling me into a gentler hug. “You’ve worked so hard for this, and it’s amazing to see it paying off.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice cracking slightly as the emotions started to creep in again.

Liam ruffled my hair playfully. “Not gonna lie, I’m a little jealous. But seriously, this is your moment, and no one deserves it more. You’ve proven all those doubters wrong today.”

“Thanks, Liam,” I said, grinning. “Now you just have to catch up and get P4 for yourself.”

“Oh, I will,” he shot back with a wink. “But don’t think I won’t brag about this for you in the meantime.”

Hannah chuckled, giving me an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Just soak it all in. You’ve earned it.”

As they stepped back to let me continue celebrating with my team, I watched them go with a full heart. Liam and Hannah had been constants in my life for years, and having their support on a day like this meant the world.

With their words still echoing in my mind, I turned back toward the garage, taking in the scene around me. Mechanics and engineers buzzing with excitement, Lando and Franco trading jokes, the hum of the crowd still faintly audible in the background—it was all so surreal.

For the first time, I felt like I truly belonged here. This wasn’t just about making a mark in F1 anymore—it was about showing the world, my team, and myself what I was capable of.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky and the garage buzzed with post-qualifying excitement, I let myself savor the moment. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but tonight, I was living my dream.

[fashiondivablog]

Thursday Trend Talk: Boho Chic is Back (But Did It Ever Leave?

Fringe boots, slouchy suede bags, and flowy dresses, boho chic is having a moment again, but let’s be real, it never truly went out of style. With brands like Isabel Marant keeping the look alive, the effortless mix of Western, 70s, and laid-back luxury is back in the spotlight.

This time, it’s all about sleek suede boots, fringe details, and flowy silhouettes that feel more elevated than festival-worn. Whether you’ve always loved the vibe or are just now embracing it, boho chic proves it’s timeless.

Are you into it, or is this trend not for you?

[pamwritessometimes]

Fridays are for beer and heartbreak

Beau Arlen x Reader

Summary: Your favorite patron’s there to mend your broken heart.

A/N: It's just a little something I came up with the other day. If I'm being honest, I've never seen Big Sky, but I'm a simp for a man in cowboy boots, so... enjoy. 🤍

Warnings: none? oh, maybe that English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry for any mistakes.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad day. For what it's worth, it was a relatively nice, sunny day in Montana terms. Sure, my boyfriend declared the final break-up of our relationship, but to be frank, I was utterly unfazed by his antics; we’ve been in an on-again-off-again relationship for a year now. Not that it was serious in the first place. At least, not for him. And, if I’m honest with myself, maybe not for me either. So yeah, it was a relatively okay day.

Still, there’s something about hearing the finality in someone’s voice, even when it’s a toxic someone, that leaves you feeling a little hollow. The break-up itself wasn’t anything spectacular. Just another drawn-out argument that ended with him muttering some lame excuse before walking out. It had happened so many times before that I almost laughed when he slammed the door shut behind himself.

I was free. Really free. But that didn’t stop the ache sitting heavy in my chest.

I pushed through the rest of my day, the usual routine of prepping for the evening rush at the bar. A glance in the mirror told me I looked the part: western boots, worn-in jeans, a dark brown suede jacket I loved more than I probably should, and my hair pulled back just enough to stay out of my face but still look effortless. I should have felt like myself. I was supposed to be this confident, tough woman who didn’t need anyone to mess with her head, but tonight… I just didn’t have the energy to be that.

The bar was packed, as it usually was by this time of the night. The usual crowd was in full swing, with the sound of old country and blues tunes playing from the jukebox and the steady clink of bottles being set on tables. It was one of those oldie bars that still had that charming and rustic atmosphere, like time stilled between its four walls. That night, I stayed behind the counter more than I usually did, letting the other servers handle most of the tables. I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk or listen to the same old stories I’d heard a thousand times. I didn't have the energy for that either.

Then, Beau walked in. Right on schedule.

He had this easy confidence about him, something I noticed the first time he came in months ago. It was in the way he held himself, like he could command a room without trying, but somehow never made a big deal about it. Tall, broad shoulders, chestnut hair that always looked like he just ran a hand through it after a long shift. And those eyes, green, like the pines up in the mountains after the rain.

He always came in around this time on Fridays, right after his shift ended. Sheriff of Helena by day, patron at my bar by night. There was something comforting about the routine of it. Maybe because he was the closest thing I had to a friend here, even though we were more like two people who enjoyed each other’s company but kept everything else at arm’s length. Still, there was always something unspoken between us, something that hung in the air when he sat down at the bar.

Beau slid onto the barstool closest to me, the one he always sat at, and gave me a smile that eased the ache I’d been feeling all damn day.

“Evening” he said in that slow, easy drawl of his, laying his hat on the counter. “How’s it going, darling?”

I forced a smile, pulling a cold beer from behind the bar and sliding it across to him without asking. He always ordered the same thing, and I always had it ready for him.

“Same as always” I replied, but even I could hear the flatness in my voice.

His eyes narrowed a little as he studied me, and I could feel his gaze linger on my slight but easily visible frown. He had a way of seeing through me like he could tell when something was off even before I said anything. 

“You sure about that?” His voice was anything but pushing. It was the way he asked, like he already knew the answer but was giving me a chance to speak first.

I glanced away, grabbing a towel and pretending to wipe down the already squeaky clean countertop. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just… had one of those days, you know.”

Beau took a long sip of his beer, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. “Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

I let out a breath and leaned on the bar, dropping the towel and meeting his gaze.

“He broke up with me. For real this time.” I hadn’t planned on saying it, but the words came out before I could stop them.

He raised an eyebrow, but there wasn’t any hint of surprise in his face. It’s like he not only knew it was going to happen, but anticipated it too. “You mean, finally?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, a short yet sharp sound that felt good coming out. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Beau didn’t say anything right away. He just sat there, watching me with those damn eyes that made it hard to keep things light. I couldn’t keep anything light with him. Not now, not ever.

There was something deeper there tonight, something that had always simmered between us but felt more dangerous now, like we were toeing a line neither of us had been willing to cross before. 

“You good with that?” His voice was softer now, the edges so much gentler, and it felt like a real, genuine question, not just some small talk or polite chitchat.

“Honestly?” I asked with a sigh ”I’m better off. I know that. But… it still stings, you know?”

Beau nodded, and something flickered in his expression, something almost protective. His gaze softened matching his voice. “You deserve so much better than what he was giving you, darling.”

His words hung in the air between us, heavy with underlying meanings. I knew what he meant. I knew he wasn’t just talking about my ex, and that’s when the tension snapped into something sharper, something deeper. I felt it in the way he was looking at me now, not as the bartender he chatted with every Friday, but as someone he cared about. But could that be the truth?

Maybe I wasn’t just his bartender either. Maybe we’d been dancing around this for too long. I leaned in slightly, not even realizing I was doing it until I saw his gaze drop to my lips. The bar around us seemed to fade, the noise, the people...none of it mattered in that moment. It was just me and Beau and the weight of everything unsaid between us thick and obvious in the air. 

“You gonna be alright?” he asked finally, and I couldn't help but notice how his voice became an octave lower... intimate in a way that sent a shiver down my spine.

“I think so” I whispered.

But my heart was pounding, not from the breakup, but from the way he was looking at me. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for this moment as long as I had.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad day.

Thanks for reading! Have a nice day, loves. 🤍

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Roadhouse Mini Dress in On The Road Rinse from Free People ($168) & Lasso Western Boot in Chestnut Suede from Steve Madden ($189.95)

[julesthequirky]

The Choice: Chapter Seven

All my work is purely aimed at those 18+ so minors kindly, DNI.

Summary: You find three of your favourite characters in your home. It shouldn’t be possible, but there they are. In the flesh. How the hell did they get there? And surely there’s a way to get them back? But as you get close to each one, the thought of sending them back proves difficult to comprehend.

Characters/Pairings: Fem!Reader, Dean, Beau and Ben (Soldier Boy)

Warnings: Language, typical Soldier Boy behaviour

W/C: 1,541

A/N: As you can see (for those who saw my post earlier) I have split the chapter into two. It wouldn't look right with all the chapters around the same and this one not.

A/N 2: Also it has crossed my attention that as much as you guys love these fics, please don't upload the ficpic to another social. I know none of the images are mine and you can decide to ignore my request, but it do 'make' them with the intent of them being uploaded solely by me. So far I've seen it on the pin board app.

Pulling yourself out of your reverie and ignoring the moisture between your legs, you located Dean in the hat section. He, of course, had on a cowboy hat and posing in front of the mirror.

“Lookin’ good, cowboy.”

Dean spun round with a sheepish grin on his face.

“You really think so?”

You nodded, reaching up on tiptoe, and angled the hat better. His green eyes bore into yours, and the moisture between your legs intensified. Those butterflies stormed your belly, causing a tingling to cover your entire body. Oh Lordy. Staring into his eyes had your brain short-circuiting.

“I love Westerns.”

“I know.” You replied as you moved your hands away.

His lips curved into a smile, which didn’t help the fluttering in your stomach. The Stetson he wore blocked off the surroundings, forcing you to focus only on him. You noticed how green his eyes could get, how the freckles speckled across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. You noticed the 5 o’clock shadow across his jaw and chin, the slight crook in his smile and just how pink his lips were.

Caught in his gaze, your heart beat just that little bit faster, and it ached just that little bit harder for the hunter.

“What d’ya think?”

You blinked and tried pulling words from your mushy, in-love brain.

“I think you should get it.”

He nodded and took the hat off.

The rush of Boot Barn came surging back. For a moment, you’d forgotten where and what you were doing. It was silly, silly schoolgirl feelings. Feelings you should push aside, but they just managed to get in the way.

A tap on your shoulder had you whirling around. It was just Beau with the boots and a selection of jackets.

“I couldn’t decide. Could you help?”

You nodded and took the jackets from him. All three were indicative of Beau’s style in Big Sky—black denim with a faux fur lining, tanned suede with a fur collar, and a typical blue denim jacket.

“I can’t decide either. I bet they’d all look great on you though.”

Beau blushed as he smiled, exactly the way Denise had complimented Beau in the first episode of season three. Dean, Beau and Ben shared this smile, and you had Jensen to thank for that.

“Darlin’ you say any more, and I’ma go redder than a farmer’s neck in the middle of summer.”

Damn that Texan. You gave him the jackets back and reached on tippy toe for a light brown Stetson. He ducked a little bit, allowing you to place it atop his head.

“There. It suits you.”

Beau’s face and neck went redder than a farmer in the middle of summer, leaving him speechless.

You clapped him on his shoulder and turned, only to be immediately put in a dour mood. Ben leant against the store’s wall, sweet-talking a female employee. Your heart whomped in your chest, emotion making it tighten. You weren’t sure why, but it felt like rejection.

The female employee smiled in Ben’s direction, giving him all her attention, twirling hair around her finger. Jealousy stabbed at you hard. Fuck him.

Ben turned his head to see you looking. He smirked and turned his attention back to the female employee. Instead of storming over there, you turned on your heel and went straight to the cashier with Beau and Dean.

*

At Walmart, you picked up a few plain colour t-shirts, Wrangler jeans, underwear, and socks for all three. Dean picked out a few flannels, as did Beau. Ben wandered around, trying to get your attention, and the petty person inside of you gave him the cold shoulder.

“You can’t be mad at me forever.”

You said nothing, moving the cart by some graphic t-shirts. Dean placed a set of two pyjamas, a long dressing gown, and a pair of slippers into the cart. Ben still had clothes to find besides the bare basics you had picked up.

Reaching out, you picked up a t-shirt with an American Eagle with the flag behind it. Patriotic. Sure, it was stereotypical, but honestly, you had no idea what he would wear. You pulled the t-shirt off the rack and brought it to Ben’s chest. He pulled a face at being treated like a child, but he wasn’t helping. You threw the T-shirt into the cart. Ben fished it back out, annoyance etching his face, and picked up a size bigger. Right. He was jacked. You’d forgotten that with the extra muscles, he would need a size larger than Beau and Dean.

You pushed the cart further, but Ben stood in front, gripping the metal, stopping you.

“I saw you when I was talking to that woman. You were jealous.”

You scowled and pushed against him, trying to ram the cart past, but all it did was jam one of the front wheels.

“Admit it, Y/N. You were jealous.”

Your scowl deepened. Ben wasn’t going anywhere, it seemed. Not until he got the truth from you. To evade him, you went to roll the cart backwards. The metal creaked in his hands. The cart wouldn’t budge.

“We’re not going anywhere until you admit it.”

“Why? So you can feel smug with yourself?”

Ben moved from the front of the cart to you. The metal had warped where he had held it, bending under the pressure of his hands. He stood tall, clearly using his height against you. You strained your neck, looking up. A dumb smirk sat on his face.

“Maybe it will make me smug, or maybe I’m trying to prove something to myself.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion.

“Like what?”

“Doll, what makes you think I’ll tell you before you admit to me your jealousy?”

Your scowl came back.

“I wasn’t jealous.”

He snorted with laughter. “Yeah, and I’m a virgin.”

You moved the cart, but he stopped you, again putting his hand on the cart.

“Sweetcheeks, just admit it.”

It was embarrassing to admit. Your pride made you too stubborn to admit. Your hands tightened on the bar. He tested you. on purpose. For what reason? Probably to find out if it would make you jealous or not. Well, it did, and he was probably right. But you weren’t gonna tell him that.

“Just pick out some damn clothes.”

Ben laughed. That deep booming laugh and walked away, allowing you some time for yourself. He knew how to push the right buttons. He knew how to get under your skin. Was that a good thing? Your ex couldn’t even begin to scrape the surface.

You followed as Ben wandered around the clothing section of Walmart. He grabbed some grey sweatpants and undershirt tank tops and threw them into the cart.

“You’re such an old man…” You muttered.

Ben turned around, throwing you a dirty look. Seems he didn’t appreciate that comment. Who wore undershirts in this day and age? Nobody you knew, that was for sure. He had only picked out a handful of clothes. Guess he didn’t need much.

You found Dean and Beau trying on boots. They were laughing together, doing impressions of someone. You didn’t get it until Dean lowered his voice, made himself look all serious and barked out:

“I fart the star spangled banner!”

Of course, it was a perfect imitation. Beau collapsed with a fit of laughter. Behind you, however, was another matter. You turned and collided with Ben. He huffed and snorted, nostrils flaring like a bull preparing to charge. You pressed your hand to his chest. Fuck, it was hot.

“Fuck you, you bendy legged fuckface!”

He stepped forward, forcing you back. You pressed a hand to his chest again.

“Please, Ben. He was only messing. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Ben huffed, hands curled into tight fists. He didn’t care that he was in public, but you did. He took another step closer, again forcing you to step back.

“Watch your mouth.” Ben warned and walked off, presumably to cool off.

You stared after him, calling his name until you could no longer see him. It frustrated you at how sensitive the Supe was. It seemed he could give it but couldn’t take it.

“Jeez, he can’t take a joke, can he?”

You swiped a hand down your face and turned to Dean and Beau.

“Y’know, I was kinda hoping that since you both have a nice friendship thing going, that Ben would join in and have the same.”

Beau sat on the stool, looked at Dean and then at you.

“Darlin’…”

Honestly, you didn’t wanna hear it.

“Tell me you were only messing around, D?”

Dean sighed.

“Yeah, I was just messing around.”

But from his tone, you could tell he was lying. An array of emotions pained you, but disappointment was the biggest one that fatigued you. You had expected better of him and Beau.

“I’m gonna go look for him.”

Dean stood, moving the shoebox out of his way, before stepping to you.

“Y/N, c’mon…I was only messing around.”

“Oh, yeah? Who else did you impersonate? Or was it only Ben?”

“He does a really good Yogi bear impression.” Beau piped up, not helping at all.

“I know!” You snapped, storming off.

Tags: @yvonneeeee, @curlycarley, @angelbabyyy99, @sassy-pelican, @k-slla, @deans-spinster-witch, @ashdoctor, @eretsupremacy89, @fanfic-n-tabulous, @deans-number-one-fan, @afro-hispwriter, @justjensenandhisalteregos, @tiredstrangerr, @zemosdarling228.

[catsfor2]

out west II (ellie x reader)

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut wc: 1.8k, unedited tags: @champagnelovers101@intrnetdoll@me-and-your-husband

a/n: i............i havent written smut in a while. cut me some slack.

western slang!("sakes alive" - like 'oh my god!' or something, horse feathers - nonsense/ridiculousness, "line rider" - cowboy, lunk-headed - dumb, "make tracks" - leave, bristled - angry, rattling - worrying, "pop your corn" - say your words/spit it out, poppet - term of endearment like "sweetie" and stuff)

-j

She'd came in the night.

Garbed in the evening's clothing, blurred into the sticky silence of twilight. Ghostly. Exactly as she came before.

Her fingers had fumbled with your shutters for a minute, eventually just snapping the mechanism that kept them locked.

You hadn't heard it.

Her leather-laden hands, clutching the edges of the window frame, hoisting herself over the small ledge into your bedroom.

You hadn't heard it.

And then, her thoroughly dusted boots, clopping at your creaky wooden floor, steps miniature and slow.

You still heard nothing.

For you were sleeping. Achingly peaceful, still and vulnerable. Your hair, a halo around you, arranged gently across your pillow. Your lips parted, light breaths puffing out of them consistently. Your hands, clutched closely inwards with your blanket laced between your fingers. An angel, the outlaw thought.

And then she sees it.

Her hat.

Neatly rested atop the pillow next to you, almost propped on display like you knew she’d be coming.

It was cleaner. Dusted off. You had undirtied it properly and meticulously for the gunslinger, delicate hands conditioning the suede for hours and hours until it finally felt right.

The outlaw warmly smiles, shadow looming darkly over your sleeping body as she imagines it. You, sitting pretty all alone in your lace trimmed bedroom, brushing grime off the leather of a hat that belongs to a criminal.

She wishes she could’ve been there to watch you do it.

The outlaw stills, realizing something, and reaches into the band of her holster to pull out a burlap sac. The size is small enough to hide easily in her palm.

Her fingers tug the strings and widen the top, before digging inside and plucking out a pink, soft looking peony.

It reminded her a lot of you when she’d first seen it.

She steps lightly, bending over your figure, and creeps up the brim of her hat to place the peony under it.

She knows that you’ll find it eventually. The difficult part, to the outlaw, is being unable to see your face when you notice it.

But it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

As the next time the outlaw would visit—tomorrow night—she had a different plan.

She’ll wake you up instead. Brush the hair out of your face, cup your cheeks gently and lay a soft kiss to your sleep-heated skin.

She’ll reveal a lilac from her burlap sac this time, closely watching the blush rise in your face as she places it in your hands.

And then she’ll steal you.

Steal you far, far away from this place you’ve been forced to call home.

And never let you come back.

---------------------------------

Night has fallen over town, and the outlaw couldn't be happier.

Her lilac is plucked.

Her boots are freshly polished.

And she approaches the same window confidently, enthusiastically, and opens the shutters.

Oh.

Her eyes widen subtly, glossing over as she sees inside.

She quickly realizes that she cannot enter.

Because you are...occupied.

Thoroughly occupied.

Gasps escape your lips in fluttery exhales, so quiet and so soft that the outlaw could barely hear. Your arms, daintily motioning under your blanket, are about hidden completely. She almost pities you, right then. Seeing the pure need color your cheeks as you help yourself. Almost frustrated with pleasure.

And her hat. Her damned hat.

Sat dearly next to you, superbly clean. Resting in the same air you breathe out so sweetly, so beautifully. Close enough to see the wetness of your eyes. Feel the warmth of your skin.

The gunslinger heats, hands starting to moisten the inside of her gloves. She swallows.

Her fingers fidget, still clasped around the shutter, as she raises the other hand, already drawn into a fist.

She knocks.

Immediately, a shrill shout escapes you, limbs messily fumbling under the covers and hands frantically grasping them up to your chest.

"Sakes alive!—it's—I—it's you!" you stutter in disbelief.

The gunslinger subtly nods.

"D'you—" you take a breath, having to collect yourself before you talk again. "D'you have any idea what time of night—this is—this is just horse feathers! Just—just showin' up?! I don't even—" you look away, breaths coming out harshly. "I don't even have words for you right now."

"Darlin', I—"

"Don't. And while you're at it—put that—that damn bandanna over your eyes," you say, voice getting a little quieter. "...I'm...indecent."

The outlaw only obeys, hands tugging the bandanna up and over her brow bone. You continue.

"I should've never trusted some—some line rider crook like yourself. My mistake."

She steps forward, hands steadily in front of herself.

"I'm no crook sweetheart, I already told you—"

"I can't trust a crook's word on bein' a crook! You lunk-headed—"

The outlaw interrupts you with her movements, arm extending to snatch her hat and place it on her head. She adjusts it slightly, fingers pinching the brim, before talking.

"Tell me you want me gone. I'll make tracks darlin'. I don't wanna hurt you. I can..." she glances at the window. "...take my hat and go. If it's what you want."

Your body tenses, freezing at the notion.

"That's not what I want." you blurt, anger starting to subside.

The outlaw's voice had you remembering how caged and hot you felt when you first had met her. It was distracting.

"Yeah?" She asks. "Enlighten me then."

You pause, feeling strangely watched despite her vision being blocked by the fabric.

"I want—well, I wanted...you. And I didn't know if—if I'd ever see you again. I couldn't..." your skin colors. "...I couldn't wait."

The only expressive part of her face you could see—her mouth—quirks up into tiny smile.

"You only had to wait a small while longer honey. I was down the road."

Your legs shift under the covers, restless with warmth.

"You can—you can take the bandanna off. I'm...fine now." you utter, still unable to face her directly.

Her hand moves to grab it, before she stops.

"Are you sure? I don't mind—"

"Just take it off." you cut, words even louder.

She finally does, exposing her eyes to you and your bedroom. Her grin widens as she looks at you.

"Not so bristled anymore?" she questions.

Your hands brush up and down your thighs.

"...No."

She tracks your movements closely, eyes flicking.

"...Somethin' else rattlin' you then?" she tries.

You stay silent, simply not able to conjure a clean way to word your thoughts. The outlaw talks again.

"I think I know." she assures. "You weren't quite...done yet, were you? Is that it?"

Hotness blooms, showering your insides in something dangerous and heady. The outlaw won't stop talking.

"You're just—just itchin' for it under there aren't you?" she murmurs.

She sits on your bed, body leaning deftly close to yours. Her head inches near your neck, lips curtly brushing you for a moment.

"...Do you think you'd let me see?" she whispers even lower.

Your feel your eyes abruptly dart up, focusing on hers. Your hand moves meekly, finding her own and guiding it towards you. You draw her under your covers, slowly letting her fingers pad their way down your sternum.

The glove is missing, as you feel her skin on yours, and it causes you jump slightly. You hadn't even seen her take it off.

Her hand is shaky, excited, as she feels your bareness for the first time. It starts to ravage, pulling at the hem of your panties wildly.

Her hat knocks into your forehead as she clutches your neck, bringing your face to hers swiftly.

She takes, mouthing heavily on top of your lips and inside your mouth, groping at your inner thighs. Her hand cups your cunt, forcing a dizzy amount on pressure onto you instantly.

"I—oh," You partly gasp, the outlaw's fingers starting to rhythmically circle your clit without warning. You feel her tongue leave your mouth, start spanning the length of your neck and tasting.

Her hat knocks into your chin this time, tumbling it off her head and onto the mattress. Her teeth start to nip, scattering painfully pleasurable bruises across your skin.

Her body climbs over yours, bulky clothing scratching you as she does so. Her hand still rubs you dearly, fingers now curiously prodding inside.

Your hips start to shift, jittery and wanting, and the gunslinger grinds down with the whole of her bodyweight, thrusting her hand harder against you.

Her hips keep bucking like that, pounding her own hand, with such force that you feel your bed start to wobble.

"That's—hah—I—ohhh—I need—" you breathe, words broken.

"What's that? Gonna have to pop your corn a bit louder darlin'," the outlaw chides, hips only slamming harder and faster as you struggle to talk.

"I'm—ooh—your—your name! Tell me your name!" you exclaim, voice airy.

She grins, eyes fixed. "Williams—Ellie Williams."

A hand moves to your breast, squeezing and tugging in time with her hips. You feel her fingers reach deeper, farther, evoking molten rushes of heat straight from your belly. It's becoming too fast to keep up with.

"El—Ellie—"

She groans, the metal belt buckle she wears knocking even more vigorously against you.

"Again sweetheart. Say it again."

Your eyes are glassy, barely gazing at the figure on top of you. Your legs are clutched around Ellie's waist, taut as the sensation of her fingers overwhelm you. You hear your own voice meander out of your parted lips, unable to really control how you sound.

"Ellie, Ellie, Ellie—oohhhh, Ellie, I'm—" your voice cuts into a moan, high and breathless. You feel your body jerking, an insane amount of energy burning to be released.

"I know poppet, I know. It feels so good, don't it?" she softly speaks into your shoulder.

"Yes, it's—mmm—it's—it's good," you groan, your own hands weakly clawing at her hips to slow down.

It was a tide of sparks, a wave of relief, a terrifying wall of pleasure that hit you so violently, sending you flying and soaring, essentially drifting in the haze of climax.

Your thighs flinch together, knocking inwards even tighter as your body racks with leftover tremors and sparse shivers.

The outlaw just watches.

You both sit silently for a moment, enjoying the stuffy air and sweaty sheets for a while longer.

Her hand departs and snakes into her empty hostler, where she digs for a bit and pulls out a small brown sac.

Her fingers delve into it, bringing out a tiny, tiny flower.

Your face brightens.

"Is that—is that for me?" you ask sweetly.

"Who else?" Ellie says, tucking the flower in between some strands of your hair.

She moves, rolling over to lie down in the spot next to you. She gazes up at the ceiling, face slightly scrunched contemplatively.

"You thinkin' about somethin'?" you quietly ask.

Her head turns to yours.

"No."

But that was a lie. She was thinking hard.

Because the outlaw hasn't given up.

She couldn't steal you tonight. That time has passed.

But tomorrow night?

A rose, she thinks.

I'll bring a rose.

[melancholicstation]

The Socially Active Secretary: Chapter Two

pairing: robert francis kennedy female ❤︎ original character charlotte agapov (secretary!reader)

author's note: BOBBY'S ARRIVED...

synopsis: charlotte agapov, a divorcee whom recently moved back to the states after a disastrous lovers quarrel, assumes the secretarial position to the most important man in America, but it is not he who has captured her attention, no. instead, it's his meek younger brother, the runt of the kennedy pack, bobby francis Kennedy.

[ 1585 words ]

taglist: @kennediva @absurdlyvintage @bloxholden35 @astro-vibes-bro @h-l-vlovesvintage @kimcrystal123 @remotewatch

chapter one, three four

masterlist, charlotte moodboard, rfk moodboard

Chapter Two

May 2nd, 1962

Charlotte didn't often think of her life in London since her return to the states but it was hard not to in such living conditions. She wondered if her back would flare up due to the lumpy mattress she laid atop, in London she would get nearly daily pilates to her body and mind alive and distracted for her failure and her deteriorating marriage. A marriage which seemed to eat away at the both of them like a moth would do with a particularly lovely woollen shall. With each argument left untouched and dinner plate growing cold by Hugo's indifference, it seemed that nearly constant movement for Charlotte safeguarded her from total delirium.

Now, Charlotte certainly doesn't have the finances for such activities, not with Miss Desmond on 34rd street paying thirty-five dollars for a week worth of classes, it was preposterous to spend such funds on such abstract trivialities.

In the stead of her pilates escapades Charlotte took a certain likening to taking a walk with her insurmountable and seemingly unshakable grief on how her life had shaped up and a good virginia woolf paperback given to her by her grandmother in the early fifties.

Charlotte still had yet to get a callback from the strange job advertisement, not much of a shock to Charlotte's, yet it upset her enough that her mother noticed

"You know dear, I say you take the bus and head up to the cape, you that wonderful summer home that aunt Katherine has? i'm sure she would delighted to see you visit, doesn't have to be forever--just a couple days y'know I-i think it would do you a great deal of good. To get away for a few days?" Her mother expresses in such a tone that Charlotte feels shackled into agreeing.

Maybe a few days of relaxation and time by the sea would do her some good.

So she did.

Aunt Katherine greeted her with warmth and an admittedly delectable beef tartare at dinner time. The home smelt of tulip and hard candies, with incense wafting through the mahogany crack between the floor and all the home doors. And to top it off, Charlotte had the best sleep she's had in millennia.

Due to her inclination for the morning sunrise, Charlotte awoke at around five am, dressed herself and penned a quick note to her aunt assuring her that she was going to check out the famous beach spot her mom had recommended and that she'd be back before she woke up.

As she weaved her way through the sea of people, not too dissimilar in their anarchy as the crashing waves of the coastline, standing in line at the gelato stand, she cursed her choice of footwear. A pair of suede western-style knee high boots, highly practical for perhaps a stroll in balmoral but not such for a walk through Massachusetts beaches.

Charlotte searched the perimeter of the beach, trying to pin point the specific spot from memory that she remembered adored playing in as a young girl. She considered giving up a turning around many times during the adventure, she had always defaulted to giving up once the times got rough. At least she thinks that's what her ex-partners would posture.

But just as she was starting to believe that spot was a figment of her childhood imaginative spirit, she spotted it. There it was. All in its glory, though aged, but all the more beautiful for it. The lighthouse seemed to have had it tough in the years of Charlotte's absence, with its paint still bleach white but now with barnacles attached. Society often treated once beautiful things that have changed as outcasts, but Charlotte found them all the more fascinating for it.

The bleached and weathered wood creaks under her boots as Charlotte tries and fails to salvage the hem of her knit pants from getting muddled by the damp sand nearly encompassing the stairs.

Charlotte then ascends and moves towards the door, painted in a carmine and fixed with a copper hand rusted beyond belief. But just as she fixes her hand around the doorknob, her manicured hands grasping the jagged texture of the handle, she felt a strong resistant. Not unlike a hand grasping the handle on the other side of the vermillion-washed door.

Charlotte immediately backs her hand off the doorhandles and waits for a response, on the nameless figure she proposes is behind the door. She curses herself for being shocked into place and unable to simply leave down the stairs she came from, after all it was just a stupid lighthouse; a childhood fixation of her personal adoration, whoever could be behind the door could be a dangerous person, or simply just an unfriendly one.

However she was left unable to mull over that thought, like she would do with a good glass of 1942 Dom Perignon Brut, when the person on the other side of the door revealed themselves.

And instead, it wasn't a dangerous or unfriendly face. It was categorically the opposite. The person, now directly facing Charlotte's direction, was a young man with soft, kind eyes and a small straight nose holding up a set of worn acetane sunglasses who could've been no older than 40 staring straight back at her, with equal parts surprise and mild shock.

"Oh I-I'm sorry I didn't mean to shock you! I wasn't aware that this old place had much visitors and was simply passing through, I'll leave you to it." the man said in a thin, bordering on blubbering way that was emboldened with an implacable charm. He was beautiful. And stunningly so at that.

"Oh quite the contrary, it's me who should apologise really I-I'm sorry to have disturbed you, y'know it seemed that we were both under the impression that this old place hasn't seen a familiar face in a while I suppose,"

Charlotte says in a attempt at brevity--truth be told ever since her divorce she had been something of a recluse, and it seemed her social skills were a little more than rusty at the moment.

"Quite so"

,he says chuckling and in a tone that has become more cheerful by the second, as he seems to try to communicate that the disturbance has not been an unwelcome one though not through words.

"Y'know it was quite simple of me to think that such a place of beauty would not have other inhibitors" Charlotte shrugs and playfully notes, as she takes in the surroundings.

The pair begin to fawn over the lighthouse, sharing anecdotes of their favourite details of the structure. The stranger's being the small seagull figurine attached to the wooden railing. Charlotte's being the darling shades of coral and azure painted upon the cupola of the lighthouse.

Mid conversation Charlotte shifts and catches the man's attention,

"At the risk of being brazen, could I ask your name?" Charlotte said in a half-whisper.

"No-no not all my names Robert but y'know people just call me Bobby really--sort of a nickname that stuck I guess.",

It's only then that Charlotte makes note of the strong accent bursting from this kindred spirit in the form of a stranger, a strong Boston accent. So strong in fact that the r's sound less like an r and more similar to a h.

"Well I suppose I should act in the same spirit, my name's Charlotte." she said in a tone she hoped came across as airy.

"Very nice to meet you Charlotte." A beat of silence escorts it.

"Well you know I'd hate to disturb your day plans any longer, so I'll get on my own way. It was wonderful to meet you Charlotte, truly" Robert murmured while receding down the wooden stairs while maintaining comfortable eye contact with such grace and untouched elegance that Charlotte thought had prior only been reserved for dignified princess and Hollywood starlets, like Hepburn or Kelly.

But just as Robert had descended the stairs, Charlotte surprises herself, and Robert, as evident by the minuscule rise of his shoulder blades beneath his poplin dress shirt by calling out to him

"Hey don't I know you from somewhere?, I feel like I've seen you on TV or something?"

"This face?, well you see a face like mine is surely not made for television I can tell you that. Goodbye Charlotte, you have a good day now." He laughs with an air of brevity in his tone.

Charlotte finds herself laughing too, without even a direct reason why. The realisation hits her that this is the first time she'd laughed in nearly six month. She had been so focused on survival from her divorce that Charlotte had closed herself off from all frivolity, such as a kind interaction with a similarly kind stranger.

Just as her eye's focus back from the dream state of Charlotte's that had to border on at least ten seconds, Charlotte looks back to where Robert had just stood. And he was gone without a trace.

Well, not entirely without a trace. Though his physical being had left Charlotte could see the imprint of his loafer on the sandy wood of the stairs.

If it weren't for those Charlotte would regard the interaction as a dream sequence, a figment of her fractured, socially-stifled brain.

But it was real. Entirely real and as tangible as the sand passing through her fingers.

Charlotte would go on to repeat those two sentences all the way back to her temporary cape abode.

End of Chapter Two.

[lunasilvis]

New suede western boots, a new cool floor lamp in all colors imaginable, wooly comfy winter socks, my favorite scent + hair care + aroma diffusers, brand new canvases to create art on, songs on bass to slap and play

We're in the business of self-love and cozy this Christmas week 💞

Joyeux Noëlle à tous X

[lordvonbunnyv]

List of things that were supposed to happen in my scrapped countryhumans talent show fanfic

-Hawaii does an Elvis impersonation and performs blue suede shoes

-Hungary spends the entire show trying to solve a Rubik’s cube. When his five minutes on stage ended, they just moved him off to the side so he can continue. He doesn’t solve it

-Poland and Vatican’s talent was performing Exorcisms, and brought a possessed woman on stage to exorcise, but got kicked off immediately by UN. So they begrudgingly decided to perform their exorcism in the boys bathroom, which got stopped halfway through by both UN and ASEAN who understandably did not want a demon running around on the Asian country’s section of the building. Oh yeah, in my ch AU, Poland was a priest and was trained in demonology by Vatican and is certified to perform exorcisms.

-Northern Ireland and England dressed as their secret drag queen personas, along with Wales who dressed in her drag king persona, and they all “danced” (it was mostly them doing uncoordinated dance moves like the worm, the running man, and the epileptic octopus.) to Scotland’s bagpipe playing. And then they all jumped onto each other’s shoulders and fell over.

-Serbia’s performance of a Diss song that she composed that mostly made up of her playing an accordion and dissing all of the countries that have wronged her, or she hates, both past and present. The big finale was when she started insulting Ottoman empire and calling him names, when both Turkey and Ottoman Empire jumped up and chased her around the auditorium while she continued to hurl insults at them, both EU and UN had to chase after the trio to get them to stop.

- a few of the African countries put on “Africa” by Toto.

-America’s western states do a crummy half hearted line dance to “finally Friday”, the northern states perform “Blame Canada”, and New York performs a Broadway number (unfortunately… his song of choice was “springtime for Hitler”) they were all supposed to do a group number, but split due to creative differences.

-Mexico played a quiet folk song on his guitar which was well received.

-Austria played a classical piano piece with Germany as the page turner, Germany fumbles with the pages causing the pages to fall onto the floor, Austria playing the same measure over and over in a panic as Germany struggled to collect all of the pages before giving up, and running off stage in embarrassment.

-France and a few of her states perform “do you hear the people sing?” While Normandy performs “bring him home”

-Austria-Hungary with help from German empire performs a classical music piece, but then gets interrupted by someone’s phone.

-Italy sings a song and then ends it with a sudden cart wheel.

-India, Brazil, Kenya, and Australia bring a VERY VERY DANGEROUS AND HIGHLY VENOMOUS BLACK MAMBA ON STAGE to demonstrate their venomous snake handling skills, they tried to get someone to come on stage to HOLD THE SNAKE. But that got nixed real quickly.

-Mauritius does a dance with his cloned dodo bird, Captain Lewis, which then walked off stage and fell into the audience.

-Britain gets introduced on stage as “performing a nice number by Bach”, he has his suit on, a top hat, and everyone thinks, “oh, he’s going to play the number on his violin”. Nope, he lowers his tie, tucks his pants inside his big, tall, platform boots, and unbuttons his collar to reveal the spiked collar underneath, and whips out his old electric guitar and plays friggin’ toccata and fugue in D minor like a legend.

- Norway, Denmark, Finland, Sweden, and Estonia try to do a Black Death metal performance with their band, “Estonia and the Nordics”. It was just them screaming, banging on their instruments, and smashing their guitars while Estonia, the lead singer, gets a bout of anxiety and stands awkwardly on the stage looking at her feet unable to sing.

-Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and China tried to perform the dance of the little swans (Russia’s idea, no one else wanted to) but only Russia practiced and China was a last minute edition as Kazakhstan quit that day, and not even one second into the music, the whole thing dissolved into a massive fight and Belarus running offstage to go snitch to Soviet Union.

[mspirations]

Etam Brooklyn Lace Top - Navy Blue

Zara V Neck Knit Jacquard Cardigan

Lulus Twill High-Waisted Mini Skirt - Olive Green

Isabel Marant Etoile Suede Western Boots - Black

Doughnut Montana Mini Backpack

Identified by: IG - jolangfordcloset