❤️‍🔥

Logan Howlett and Lobo, Bounty Hunters for Hire

The two of them are purported to take residence in one of the lesser-traveled saloons—the one that’s on the far side of town, where all the various unmentionables and various riffraff arrive to do their dirty dealings.

And you suppose that you’re not exempt from this either. After all, you’re searching them out so that you can plea clemency for their services.

This is why you fix your jaw and score back your shoulders as you push open the swinging doors of smoky saloon, ignoring the drag of all types of unsettling eyes that take visual purchase on you.

All you care about are the two sets that are taking gander of you in the far, darkened corner. The one that all people advising you away told you—just where you would find them.

The tall one—the paler one, with the facial tattoos he claims he got from a tribe out in the wilderness—no one believes him—grins.

He is schooled back against the corner where he has advantage of sight and reactive time to shoot if he needs it. The other one, the stockier of the two, sits in his chair and works a stogie that molders orange-hot embers from the end.

Both of them don’t move, but they watch you with the track of your eyes. And you stop before the perimeter of the table the shorter one has his legs crossed over ankle upon. They don’t say anything: after all, you’re in their territory. You have to earn your keep to get their company.

“I need you to track down my no-good, lyin’ husband that stole all my savings ‘cept what I had tucked where he couldn’t find it.” And at this, you produce a small bag that clinks with the heft of bullion as you settle it on the table. From the way the shorter one cocks his head up, eyes the width and shape of pouch: you know you have their interest.

“He’s gone out to the Oklahoma territory,” You continue, placing down your secondary item. That’s your waste of a wedding portrait, where the two of you posed nicely for camera in hopes of better future—all but spurned. This prompts the taller one to cock his head from under his Stetson and snort at the pathetic mien of your spouse.

“If you bring him back to me so he can face justice,” You declare, keeping your voice low so that other witnesses to this will have to strain to hear, “I will give you a quarter of whatever savings remain.”

You sniff, swiping the dust that collects everywhere from the underside of your nose. “There ain’t enough time for him to gamble it all away before y’all catch up to him.”

You level eyes with the shorter one who removes the cigar from his mouth with pinch of his forefinger and thumb. “That is, if the two of you are as good as everyone says.”

The taller one lopes over to you real casual, demonstrating truly how much of a difference in height there is between the two of you. When he sizes you up, you know that he’s taking regard of what you’d look like without all of the frills and dressings you wore for the occasion.

“What’s quarter of what he’s got?” Lobo asks, grinding his teeth into less-than-amiable grin as he watches you for fear that you have yet to display. You roll your fingers into a fist, willing yourself to stay calm.

“A grand if you bring him back naked and with the fear of God put into him.” You say with utmost sincerity, without purpose of blinking—so the two of them know you mean it. Lobo laughs—the shorter, Logan, makes grunt that indicates approval.

“Don’t think you’re gonna reconcile with him?” Logan asks from across the table—he doesn’t move save to press the unlit end of the cigar to his pursed lips. He exhales arterial smoke as he watches you.

“The only reconciliation he’s gonna get,” You reply, “Is either with a judge, or with the end of a shotgun.”

Lobo laughs again, a wicked, dirty noise. “What if we want some of that good credit up front, honey?”

His hand reaches out for your chin, draws his thumb up the edge of your jaw. Takes good visual assessment of you.

“Not talkin’ about the money type, neither.”

You lock eyes with him, keeping your tone level though you think it threatens to break. “Then you don’t get paid.”

Logan chuckles at this—though Lobo’s hand draws in tighter degree around your face. Like he’s liable to test just how much you have nerve to back up your words.

“I like ‘em.” Logan says, and he champs the cigar in between his teeth. Lowers his legs easy-like from the edge of the table. The chair creaks as he finds footing—and Lobo reluctantly ceases grasp upon the span of your jaw.

Logan’s eyes never cease in their cant upon you as he makes rounding perimeter of the table. As he exhales smoke through his nostrils just like those dragons of yore that you remember your mother reading to you in soft, arable voice.

“How long’s he been out?” He asks, drawing up close enough that he could be asking you to dance. Behind him, Lobo leers at you, sizing up the situation with abject amusement.

“Three hours.” You respond back smartly. “I came here soon as I realized what he’d done.”

Logan makes another noise—you’re vengeful. There’s something respectable that he can glean from that. He slides a thick plume of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, the closest approximation of etiquette he can offer you.

“Thousand from whatever we pull from him,” Logan asserts, “And dinner, the night we get back.”

You blink at this addendum. Taking stock of the immobility of his face, at the way that Lobo’s grin widens as he adjusts the barrel of his long revolver against his temple, taunting you. Waiting to test your mettle.

“I’m not a cheap date.” You take aim with this offensive as you try to school your racing heart.

“Never said you weren’t,” Logan replies, rolling the cigar in his teeth. Watching you for your reaction. “We like to earn our keep.”

The implications don’t escape you. But you scoff, crossing your arms over your shoulders. “Your tab, then.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” Logan returns back. With this matter settled, your heart thudding in caging of your ribs, he turns. “Lobo, get the horses ready.”

“Be seein’ you tomorrow, sweetheart,” Lobo chuckles as they make way to depart. And you feel like you’re in for a heap of trouble when they return back over the sloping horizon of this dusty, dirty town.

Guy Gardner and Gal Gardner, The Cattle Ranchers

You’re the eldest child of the family that they herd cattle for. It’s on beautiful land, with gusting breeze that makes the limber grass bow and bend with each ghosting whisper through rolling hills.

This means that you have a lot of duties to attend to: cooking, washing, cleaning, feeding members of the family—and when you can spare food, to the cattle drivers that slink through the fields dotted with meandering cattle.

But this also means that you’re gopher for water—and this means, specifically, that you’re gopher for the twins. You were confused the first time that you were asked to go do it, and then second and third—but you didn’t ask why until fourth time.

Your mother had looked at you with reticent expression, something lined in her face that you couldn’t decipher, before shuttling deep sigh through her nose.

“They’re a pain in the ass to deal with,” She had replied, “But for some reason—they take liking to you that they don’t show to anyone else. So go handle them nice.”

This had been revelation to you, considering that you were oftentimes frontline bystander to the twins and their antics as they interacted with their corpsmembers of pastoral call.

And you had witnessed the way that they had interacted in coarse manner to your family as they bade semblance of good morning and goodnight. Hell, you had seen the way that they interacted with each other.

But you didn’t question it—so off you went, toting water bucket in game stride over to the two figures that dotted the distant edge of the herd on horseback. As you near, you can hear that coarse, crude tone that they speak with—and feel the press of their eyes as they latch onto you.

“Hey,” Guy leers from horseback, turning the reins one-handed so that he can get better eyeful of your approaching form, “Look who’s walkin’ our way, Gal.”

Gal turns, her arms filling out the starched cotton shirt that collects the sweat and exertion of a long day in the sun. But the look of bemusement soon is replaced by broad, toothy smile as she looks at you.

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Gal drawls as she makes similar adjustment to better draw up sidelong to you, the clop of hooves heralding her approach. “You come all the way out just for lil’ ol’ us?”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit,” Guy jeers, “‘Specially when you know they’re here for yours truly.”

Gal snorts as you find yourself centered in between both of their horses that nicker softly, hot air snorting on your shoulders. It does little to alleviate their stares as they take you in, watching you from all sides.

“Just wanted to make sure that you were gettin’ water, Guy, Gal,” You respond back as politely as you can. “Who wants first drink?”

At this, you hold up the bucket that sloshes wetly, ladle bobbing in the meniscus. Before you can react, Guy leans down to haul the bucket one-handed—the scrape of his glove rasps against your bare hand and you shiver, though you don’t mean to. The smile he gives you sends another flare of heat up your spine.

“Age before beauty, Gal,” Guy returns back smugly. Settling the bucket on the meat of his ticked-open thighs, he balances it so that he can draw ladle to his lips, taking loud, obnoxious slurp. It would be funnier if his eyes weren’t leveled upon you the whole time.

“Yeah, that tracks,” Gal responds with a dry snort that Guy ignores. “Stop wastin’ all the water and gimme some.”

She nears close, reaching out with extension of coiled arm that you can see musculature delineated through. You don’t realize you’re staring until Gal’s eyes meet yours. And when she winks, that same heat that was inspired when her brother looked your way roils up your body.

All you can do is watch as she raises the bucket to her mouth and drinks from the rim, her throat bobbing with each needy swallow she takes.

“Takes after the cattle like that,” Guy comments in over-loud admission to you. You have the good grace not to laugh as Gal shoots him a hand signal inappropriate for schoolchildren.

“Go wander off a cliff, Guy,” Gal says.

When she lowers the bucket back to your awaiting arms, she gives you a smile that demonstrates her wet jaw. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“No problem, Gal,” You reply breathlessly. “You two need anything else?”

“Yeah—we got a question,” Guy sneers; this prompts you to turn back to regard him on horseback, grinning down at you like you’ve won some carnival prize.

“What is it, Guy?” You ask in innocent mien. This only makes Guy’s smile grow broader.

“We hear that the circus is comin’ to town next week,” Guy sniffs inelegantly. “And we been wonderin’ if you got company to go with.”

“My family said they wanted to go.” You return back without overture, looking from brother to sister, who exchanges stare with him.

“Nah, that ain’t what we’re askin’, sweetheart,” Gal purrs, “We’re askin’ if you got a beau yer goin’ with.”

This summons all manner of heat that creeps up your neck, under your cheeks, makes you at loss for words. Especially as Gal looks at you like she’d like to consider how that heat tastes under her tongue.

“Oh—”—You stumble over your words—“—I—I didn’t think anyone was interested in asking me like that.”

“Well, guess you got company escortin’ you to the circus all nice and fancy, then,” Guy picks up slack behind you—you feel the need to turn, beset by this pair acting in tandem. “You can ride into town with me, honey.”

“Like you know how to ride,” Gal jeers; you turn back to her. “You’re ridin’ with me, honey. Come on—I’ll give you a hitch back to your house to you don’t have to walk.”

Her eyes burn with real fire as she stares down to you. “See how a real cowpoke handles a horse.”

“Show you how to handle a horse,” Guy mutters under his breath, but he’s trying to put on amiable presentation for you. You have to ignore the butterflies that grow in crescendo as Gal takes your hand,?and with marked ease ,pulls you behind her.

“You can hold onto me, hon,” Gal smirks down at you. “I don’t bite.”

You wrap your arms around her waist, looking at Guy becoming distant figure in the distance as he watches you. And you try to justify the jagged beat of your heart due to the way Gal’s horse tears off across the land.

But you know better than to lie to yourself like that.

Benjamin Poindexter, The Hangman

No one goes to the jail except the Marshal, whenever he’s in town. Which means that the person who’s in charge of the keys, who’s in charge of the prisoners—who’s in charge of a man’s final walk to the gallows: is Mr. Poindexter.

You’ve heard in fragments of conversation that his name is Ben. But there would be nary a plumb fool in town to call him by his Christian name.

He’s Mr. Poindexter to everyone who sees him, even the pastor when he makes feeble attempt to convince him to save his mortal soul at service. But the hangman only responds with silent, curt nod under the brim of that black hat, before returning back to his post.

This is why you know that you’re going out on risky limb to try and even entertain this conversation. But you don’t really have any other options, save going to the saloon and settling your fortunes over a game of cards that you know you can’t handle.

So this is why you walk into the town jail, and look inside the dark confines of the room. Give yourself momentary second to let your eyes adjust to the dearth of light, searching for the figure that you’re hoping is present within.

You don’t realize until you’ve adapted to the shadows within that he’s sitting at his desk, watching you. With eyes so blue they almost take stormy gray quality, that handsome jaw set in rigid rictus. That scar from that scuffle with Mr. Murdock years ago, documented diagonal down the ridge of his cheek.

He watches you from the lion’s den, waiting to see if you even have the bravery to muster approach to talk to him. And you do—so you step forward into the cells that surround him, watching him as he takes better appraisal of you.

He knows you; he knows everyone. You’re certain that everyone’s been subjected to that gaze that you’ve seen him fixate upon you from across town, as you grab feed, take laundry, do odd jobs.

Mr. Poindexter has always demonstrated such clarity when it comes to watching you. This is why you give yourself regulatory swallow as you stand before him at the desk.

“Afternoon, Mr. Poindexter,” You begin in terms of good etiquette. Best to start off on the right foot.

“Afternoon,” He responds in tone that demonstrates that his voice is hoarse from disuse. When he says your name, it is with particular stilted quality that you hear him regard everyone else in. It still shudders through you all the same.

He says no more. He’s not the type. Very well, you pick up the slack.

“Mr. Poindexter, I’m here to ask you for a job.” You begin without preamble—before you can even muster through additional word, he speaks.

“No.” He returns. “We’re not hiring.”

Shit—you scramble for bearings that he has carefully upended with such deliberate syllables. “Well, that’s a problem, because you should.”

“Don’t need more than one person to watch the prisoners,” Mr. Poindexter says—as in, don’t need anyone other than me to watch them.

Anyone knows better than to give him any lip once they’re in the cell—everyone’s seen the expert, eerie quality that he has when he pulls the noose taut. He doesn’t even wear the hood to hide his face.

“Sure, but prisoners get antsy. They get hungry, they get thirsty.” You search for half-empty, tepid bucket of water in the corner. Scraps of bread meant to be distributed yet. “Place gets too dirty, they might not make it to trial.”

At this, you spot rather exemplary cobweb in the corner to supplement you point. But Mr. Poindexter only watches you.

“This isn’t a hotel.” He returns back in hollow bearings, waiting to see how you will talk your way out of this. “We don’t intend to serve our residents lemonade and sandwiches.”

“Well, you should at least do something—”—You return, feeling something hot and frustrated bubble up—“—Considering that some of them will go free. Hold a grudge when they get out.”

“Most the people that get to these cells are already halfway to the gallows,” Mr. Poindexter responds. “I don’t need to wait on ‘em.”

“Well, I can send messages for you.” You grasp at straws. For some reason, Mr. Poindexter is humoring you far more than he would anyone else. Most others would have been pointedly ignored by now.

“I can read, and write—keep track of the ledgers. Get letters to the post office.”

Mr. Poindexter tilts his head to the side so that he can purview of the post office across the road from the jail. “Why do you want to work here?”

This is the million dollar question that you hesitate to answer—but you know he’ll catch a lie. He divines the truth from every man in the end.

“You’re not a bad man, Mr. Poindexter.” You plead—summoning whatever empathetic tone you can.

“I know you’ll keep your hands to yourself—”—At this, he draws up a brow in arch manner—“—And you won’t work me to the bone. And I know you’ve got a few dimes you can spare my way.”

He watches you. Silent as the graves that he’s walked over. “You can’t handle the work I’d have you do.”

You don’t know why something chirrups up the length of your body, persistent and needy. Why your throat is suddenly clotted—why you have the oddest notion that he’s staring at you the way a man looks at an object of desire. But it’s gone as you shore up a response.

“I bet I could handle you.” You return with abrasiveness. Your mouth falls open as you realize your faux pas, a shucked gasp making escape through your fingers as you try to muster the verbal mistake back in.

For the first time since you’ve ever seen him—since you think anyone has ever interacted with him—he smiles. And then, he laughs.

It’s not a nice sound, one that he’s certainly not used to exercising. But his shoulders shake, and his eyes draw to crescents. Staying upon you in that way they do when he watches you across town.

“We’ll see,” He says, and if there’s something layered in undercurrent—you ignore it as he rises to his feet. Demonstrates how tall and handsome and broad-shouldered he would be, were he not so without emotion. “You’ll come back at dawn to work.”

“I will, Mr. Poindexter.” You say, feeling elation as you watch him round the table, those trim hips making sway as he pulls rank in front of you.

“Ben.” He says—you blink in shock.

“Pardon?” You ask, unsure if you’ve endured delirium.

“Ben,” He says. “And Ben tomorrow when you see me. Now go home.”

You nod, not one to overlook a gift horse in the mouth, making tracks for the door.

“Oh—okay. Ben.” It tastes odd on your mouth, syllabic marbles that roll around in odd fashion. “I won’t let you down—promise.”

When he watches your figure trot off to your family to tell them the good news, you’d be surprised to know that he’s smiling.

That he says to himself as he watches your figure with fondness no one would ever expect, “I know you won’t.”

Dick Grayson, The Acrobat

Dick Grayson is a pretty, pretty face. You know better than to believe his honeyed words. Matter-of-fact, you’re certain that he tells the exact same candied lies to every pair of legs that he can get to stay in front of him for longer than a minute.

But you happen to be the pair of foolish, foolish legs that are drawn in by the gleam of those blue eyes, the cant of that gorgeous smile as he leans over the water barrel, watching you. Looking at you like you’re the only thing that he could ever be charmed by.

“You look better than you did last year,” Dick grins at you, waiting upon your response. You arch an eyebrow, fiddling with the daisy he’s plucked to better woo you with.

“So I looked bad last year?” You ask with a grin playing over your mouth, watching as his own grows in parallel. As he prepares himself for verbal parry that he sends your way.

“Never said that,” He says, and those eyes seem to almost beam iridescent in the lowering sun, “But there’s something about you this year. You’re more mature. More—sophisticated.”

“Sophisticated,” You repeat him with breathless quality, watching as he fixes ebullient, charming nod upon you. “This town is the opposite of sophisticated, Mr. Grayson. The most sophisticated thing in here are the travelers that make a wrong turn here from the Dakotas.”

“Well,” Dick smirks, “Them and you.”

“Flatterer,” You return back, knowing what effect that those sterling eyes with such beautiful clarity are already doing to you.

“Never,” Dick says, “Never with you.”

And something in you wants to believe—especially as his hand darts up your wrist, careful, gentle, deliberate. A working man’s hands, made rough but oh-so-watchful when they hold your pulse in the care of his fingers.

“You know,” Dick continues, looking up through the fan of thick lashes up at you, “It gets lonely on the road when we travel.”

“You have your brothers,” You respond back—thinking of stolid Jason who tends to the animals, witty Tim who persuades passerby in, serious Damian who joins his eldest brother on the ropes. “Aren’t they good enough for you?”

“Man thinks about settling down on the road,” He continues along with such melancholy, heaving longing sigh, “Thinks about making roots. Starting a family.”

“Can’t do that with a circus troupe,” You respond back with a smile, playing along. “Maybe you’re not cut out for the life.”

“Think I would be,” Dick says, his eyes finding purchase on you, “If I had the right person to keep me company.”

You laugh, trying to ignore the way that this makes your heart flips. As he watches you with such earnest fashion that you know there is some aspect of sincerity to his words. But not enough to convince you.

“How many other people have you tried that line on, Mr. Grayson?” You ask with broad-faced grin. He looks positively offended at the hypothesis, putting fanning span of fingers over his chest.

“Only the one person who keeps telling me no every single time I come into this town,” He says—and again you have to ignore the butterflies taking prominence in your stomach. “And I’ll keep trying until they say yes.”

“You’ll have to keep waiting a long time, then.” You reply.

Dick groans in dramatic fashion, letting his head loll back, that gorgeous black hair tumbling down in such picturesque manner. You’re certain that there’s not been a single day that Dick Grayson has been without this natural, this beautiful charisma. You wonder if he would ever survive without it.

“Don’t break my heart,” Dick resurfaces. “Come to the show tonight. Let me show you how good it could be.”

“That’ll take a lot of convincing,” You return with glib manner—until his hands settle over yours. His eyes shine with such deliberate purpose.

“Then let me,” He swears in oath of fealty, “Let me make you see.”

You have to will yourself to breathe again in the space of those cornflower blues. “Okay.”

When he beams—it’s like the sun has crested over the horizon once more. “Wonderful. As token of my appreciation—”

His head bows so that he may press most chaste of kiss to ridge of your knuckles. But the effect is the same had he pressed his lips to your own; your body ignites with fervor that you cannot deny whenever you find yourself in proximity of Dick Grayson.

“I’ll see you later tonight,” He promises. And then, he’s departed into the tent. Leaving you with nothing but a thrilling pace of heart that has stymied your ability to speak. All you can do is watch in the direction that he’s disappeared into, captured in the amber of that little slice of heaven.

“He means it, you know,” Comes a gruffer, familiar voice. You turn to see Jason approaching with bale of hay tucked over the meat of his shoulder, great bicep flexing.

“Who?” You ask, playing innocent. He gives you a look that indicates that you best not play with him.

“The fool up on the ropes,” Jason returns. “Talks about you even when we’re not close in towns. Making himself an honest man. Having that life.”

You stare for a long moment at him, before you return arc of gaze into the depths of the tent, where noise of preparation for the show tonight reverb out.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You smile up at his younger brother. “Good evening, Jason.”

“Evenin’.” He returns back in that terse way, watching you go.

Only when you’re out of earshot does he say, “Guess you will tonight.”

And then, he returns back to join his family in the life that they’ve created for himself. Wondering if tonight will be the night that you finally accept his fool brother’s proposal.

Jonah Hex, The Sheriff

This town is unlike any other that you’ve proceeded into; there’s something more respectable about the folk that walk here. Something amiable and polite in the greetings they make, in the way that they interact.

You know why: there’s something that motivates them to act right. That persuades them to keep in good graces, lest hammer fall upon them in corrective measure.

This is why you take a gamble as you waltz into the saloon, settle yourself up on the nice, cushioned seat at the bar counter. “Shot of rye.”

“You got coin for that?” The bartender asks with bleary eyes—your smile is easy, as is your reply.

“Sure I do. Put it on my husband’s tab.” You reply. There’s a moment of cross irritation as he tries to place you, or your supposed husband, and fails.

“Who’s your old man?” The bartender asks. This is when you prop yourself on your elbows, grin up at him, and give him dignity of response.

“The sheriff ‘round these here parts.” You watch as the rag he’s cleaning glass with stutters over the rim, eyes flash up to you in sheer disbelief.

“You ain’t married to Sheriff Hex,” The bartender sneers back stoutly. You shrug your shoulders.

“You can tell me that, but you gonna tell him that when he comes to get me?” You ask—there’s a flash of suspicion as he hedges his bets. As he weighs the odds of this tête-à-tête.

This is how you get one shot of rye. And coax the second, and ply the third.

People mill about, come and go—you watch as the bartender sends folded note to a boy bringing supplies, whispers something hushed in his ear. You know what he’s doing, as the boy scampers into the daylight without returning.

This is why you make your way to your fourth shot of rye, enjoying the acrid burn that both sears and cauterizes down the length of your throat.

The doors to the saloon swing open. And ominous shadow casts itself over you, prominent tread echoing on wood paneling.

“Evening, Sheriff.” The bartender says, watching you.

“Evenin’, Ned,” Comes a voice with Southern twang, rich and corrugated and like molasses running hot down your throat. “Come here to get a spouse’a mine I hear rolled up to town.”

At this, you turn—and look at the pair of eyes that have settled upon to you, one wide, one squinted. Take in the desiccated mess of half his face that is set in permanent leer—and the other side that makes determined smirk.

And how it grows as you match eyes with him.

“Jonah,” You grin, “Thought you’d never show.”

“That why you smell like a distillery?” He asks gruffly, though there’s no real edge to it. Not with Jonah. Not with you.

“Keep me waiting,” You return, “I need somethin’ to keep me company.”

“There’s Ned,” Jonah replies, though your bartender appears to be none too fond of that concept. You shrug.

“Only rye carries the same kick of spendin’ time with you, Jonah,” You return back. He snorts through that ruin of a mouth.

“Take that as a compliment for now, darlin’.” He says. “How much you rack up?”

“Two dollars,” You say. Jonah whistles through his teeth.

“Gonna drink me outta house and home,” He returns back. But without looking, he produces billfold to compensate the bartender, who still looks as though he’s unsure if he’s aware or in prolonged delirium. All the while, your husband keeps level gaze upon you.

“How about I take you back home?” He ticks his voice lower, with dedicated meaning. “So you don’t goes wanderin’ off again.”

“I like the sound of that, Mr. Hex.” You say, holding out your arms. “Lead the way.”

He obliges to scoop you up in the spread of those muscular arms with nary a grunt. Holding you to the plateau of firm chest you’ve become used to leaning upon.

“Lost some weight,” He comments as he makes way to the door with you easily toted in his grasp. You hum against his tin star.

“Guess you’ll just have to fatten me up again,” You say idly, grinning up at him.

“Hmm,” The noise is rough but interested. “Lookin’ forward to that. You stayin’ around?”

“Long as you’ll have me,” You say as the cool air of the night ghosts over both of you.

You’re drifting into doze as he takes you home. But you don’t miss the answer he returns, as he makes tracks down dusty road to distant house.

“Always, darlin’.”

banner and dividers made by me :)

taglist: @colonelfish @just-peachy-babe @thescrawler @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @cassiecasluciluce @mortisetspei @lettucel0ver @paankhaleyaaar @lala131lsjsl @infinictus @iloveyou3000morgan @bozosprout @bubbletae7 @inkievoid @moonchxrm @pinkstonerslut @luvmailing @spanishshipper @glimmerthief @pizzapartyplayhouse @charliiflugel @plasticeel @astronomicalwanderlust @sweetmourninglamb111 @yoru-ichi @suqariiswiieet @ella-rowen @kimmylikesthemall @minandras @newangelle @splodencible @xerorizz @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @newangelle @st4rctic @planetevermore @bubbletae7 @ficcharsimpsblog @incantatrxs @unicvnthlle @lillycore