Category: fic



…did anybody want some Angel Eyes hurt/comfort sickfic, because here it be.



bleeding across state lines – The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly ‘70s au’ 

Part ii: The Road (Chapters 17-30)

Tuco blows the paper wrapping off a straw, the way a kid does.

Walks over to place it between the prisoner’s lips. He sips, gratefully. And the tone of the room changes as surely as if someone had flicked off the light switch. She can’t guess what made him do it, amongst the raised voices and violent movements, cops encircling close to ask him hot searching questions.

Anybody like that, anybody like her, ought to know better. Not get themselves hurt, maimed, imprisoned maybe, for the sake of a stranger they don’t even know. Unopposable authority, the inevitable blow, and she can’t stop herself crying out, as Tuco hits the floor hard and lets out a wail-

and then, the miracle happens.


Read Part ii on Ao3 * Series on Ao3


I’ve got my new fic admin + small additions project and it is – finally cleaning up the text of bleeding across state lines from an out of order series of tumblr posts! \o/ 

All my thanks to @thatdeepandlovelydark for giving me the reins with the story, and of course for writing most of the ~100k words that will soon be on Ao3 for your joy as well as mine 🙂

I’ll be posting in two chunks, this first is The Road. Stay tuned for The Priory!

@thewalkingnerdx​, I have now posted a solid enough reading-length chunk of the story that the cinematics of semantics was prequel to! Such genuinely fun delights as:

  • Tuco
  • Angel being quite awkward at flirting, when he isn’t being actively hit on
  • Blondie making some shockingly bad life decisions about when to tell the truth

Hope you enjoy; and if anyone else wants to read an AU so out there you barely need to read the source material, please HMU and I will collect you on a taglist! I’ll be posting some promo material about it throughout the week ^_^


“Tuco? Tuco Ramirez!”

It takes him a drowsy moment, to realise the name is his own and not meant for someone else, someone more alert and ready and willing to move from a position of deep stillness. Everything about him right now is softly endearing, except for the harsh wind whipping across the exposed skin of his face. He tucks it back under the curve of a warmly quilted sleeve cuff.


The cry is starting to sound a little panicky, stifled misery, and his heart might turn over if there wasn’t laughter in it. That’s cheating, what Angel’s doing- always trying to win and be proved right and in control, that he’ll stoop to a trick like that.

He grunts, scratches a little at a damp patch at his hip- there’s snow there, meeting his unwary fingers in hard-edged fragments. Must have been, he’s slept longer than he’d thought-

“Tuco?” And it’s hard to hold back laughter at that one, because it’s his partner sounding amused himself, practically frivolous for Blondie. “C’mon and get back here, it’s freezing!”

They’ll have to try harder than that, to tempt him out. Even if the wind’s growing worse…

Next time he wakes, it’s due to the hands at his shoulder, at his wrist, so cold he can’t help but imagine blue prints spreading from that touch.

“Found you,” Angel says, hoarsely. Snowdrift glitters in his hat and eyelashes and eyes, makes him shine in the queer lightness of dark on snow.

“Sure you did,” Tuco says, very easily.

“He means, for the love of all Pablo’s saints don’t do that to him again,” Blondie says, fumbling with a cigarette.

The small bright fire of the lighter, it’s like half-remembered daylight.

Incident of the Needing Heart – AllTrekkedUp – Rawhide (TV) [Archive of Our Own]:


Chapters: 3/?
Fandom: Rawhide (TV)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Gil Favor/Rowdy Yates, Pete Nolan/ Mushy Mushgrove
Characters: Gil Favor, Rowdy Yates, Pete Nolan, Harkness “Mushy” Mushgrove III, Wishbone (Rawhide), Jim Quince, Joe Scarlet, Teddy, Toothless (Rawhide)
Additional Tags: Pining, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Crushes, Age Difference, Kissing, Erections, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Romance, Slow burn Pete/Mushy

Rowdy Yates is thinking about leaving the drive because of his feelings for his boss. But Gil Favor feels just the same and when they get together it will change a lot of things for the both of them.


Angel’s face is pale in the near-twilight, almost sickly; and Tuco all but bites his tongue through to keep a reassuring stillness on his own.

“It’s the shame of it more than anything,” Angel says, voice clear and controlled as if he hasn’t just been watching his blood pouring into the dirt. “I’ve been shot by better men than that.”

“Shhh. Shhh shh shhh-” which is all nonsense really, play for his singular audience; the talk will do his lover a special kind of good, distraction from pain that must be near intolerable. “Save your energy for me, Angel, won’t you do that? Don’t stress yourself.”

“Don’t make more of a thing than it deserves.” Angel’s hands tremble only slightly as he makes a dismissive gesture, which has to be a fine sign. “Time to worry about it was half an hour ago when you were tearing up your shirt and I was unconscious, this is a little belated.”

“I’m like that, though- how’d you know I tore it up?”

Prone or not, Angel’s sarcastic nod is softened only by the lust-tinged desire curving his lips. On Blondie you might even call that look coy. 

 Speaking of whom…

Tuco grabs up his jacket, wraps it tightly around himself as he ventures out of the tent. Blondie’s kicking a log into the fire, with rather more viciousness than skill. 

“He’ll be okay.” 

Blondie exhales a long, long breath, slumps down on the ground so fast it looks like his long legs have given way. Tuco doesn’t try to help, just settles down companionably close.  

“Glad to hear it.” 

“I thought you would.” 

“…so tell him, would you, that the next goddamn time you two invite yourselves along on one of my camping trips, wear orange when I’m hunting?”

“I think,” Tuco says, a bit solemnly, “I think he’ll remember that from now on without a prompt, you know?”

Behind them in the tent there’s the sound of a single laugh, hurridly broken off into a cough. 

For Storyteller Saturday! #48 for the kiss drabble game, perhaps?

48. … out of habit

More of the polyamorous (though at this moment in time, experiencing uh, difficulties) trio from @thatdeepandlovelydark and my 70s au to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

In terms of the timeline of bleeding across state lines, this takes place when Blondie is suffering from a poorly treated bullet wound and the both are on the run (from Angel Eyes? from the police? who knows, certainly not Blondie!)


The first thing Blondie is conscious of is that he’s asleep with his legs stretched out. The second is that there’s a warm body next to him, and for some reason his mind reassembles that into an entirely different memory, and he rolls over and presses a kiss to the juncture of his companion’s neck. 

It’s the wrong muscle memory, he realizes just as his leg begins to throb. 

Because it’s his partner, not Angel Eyes, who is asleep beside him. 

That’s not something you do anymore, least of all with killers– 

He rolls away too quickly of course, because Tuco is already awake, rubbing a fist in his eye. They’re nowhere near New Mexico, sleeping in the back of a stolen van, and if they’re lucky, they’ll never see Angel Eyes again. 


“Something wrong, Blondie?”

You have to think of something to say. Something that makes this makes sense. 

His head is still muzzy from that barely-healed wound, a mark of all he’s carried, all the damage he’s caused–

You can’t let that come down on him. Can’t let him know all the sins still rotting out your bones. 

Tuco is still studying him, almost with concern. He lies his head back, slipping into the cowboy act like an old pair of boots. 

“Just was dreaming,” he’s half-hard, at least, that state that sleep sometimes brings upon him, and that sells the hustle a little better when he nestles himself with feigned sleepiness against Tuco, grinding just gently against his partner’s thigh. Old habits. Comfortable. Reassuring. 

“It’s not hurting too much?”

“Mm,” by way of answer, he slips his fingers into the top of Tuco’s pants, the hiss from his partner’s lips either from arousal or from the coldness of his fingertips.  

Blondie can’t see his face, so he can’t tell if Tuco believes the hustle or just wants to. And really, what would the difference be?

I don't know what your ships are so… 36 with whoever you want?

36 … to give up control.

This is 70s AU Blondie/Angel Eyes, would be just at the start of bleeding across state lines. A bit of a reckoning.


“I want a drive.”

I nearly bite my tongue on how graceless it sounds, but I lean myself in the door frame of the west bedroom. A ridiculous shrine to perversion, but perhaps that’s exactly why he’s set up camp there…

… and there I go theorizing again. Bene diagnoscitur, bene curatur. I swore that night, I was finished with that useless endeavor. Even if I’m not with him.

He rubs his eyes, still crusted with sleep. It’s early in the morning. I’d prefer to decrease our chances of running into his…companion. 

“…and if I say no?”

“I’d prefer you explain yourself to me alone, but if you want me to wake your… Tuco and explain to us both –”

“– all right. Let’s go.”

I stop him with a hand to his arm when he gets to the door, gentle but firm, “Did you lie to me as you did to him, for as long as you were here?”

“Told you what I needed to. When I thought I could,” his flinty blue eyes are unreadable, gorgeous. Damn him. 

Damn him for making me follow him. Through the corridors of the labyrinthine house he still knows well, even after over a year’s absence. Damn the way my chest aches with relief, seeing him well, damn the way I fear the betrayal of my own tongue. That I don’t trust it not to come out with rage or desperation. 

We’re in step by the time we reach the car, that black Charger I’d kept even after I’d let him hot-wire it. I slip into the driver’s seat without a word, and he seems to hesitate. There might be something like fear in his gaze. I sigh, turn the keys to roll down the passenger window.

“Just to talk. That’s all I want.”

“Fine,” he slips one of those cigarillos out of his pocket, and yet another mark appears on the ledger of damnations. The fact that the his smoky exhale still relaxes me makes it all the worse. 

I start the car. Pull out into the dawn that’s just started to bring out the rusted dirt of the mesas. The radio comes on half-static at first, and he pauses from his smoking to flick the dial off. 

I hadn’t realized, until now, just how much I hadn’t expected him to come. Or perhaps, hadn’t expected it to be like this. Aegrescit medendo, to need to search for words that simultaneously demanded an apology and offered one. I let my eyes wander to him. He’s tight-lipped as ever. 

I slow when I get to the graveyard. At least there’s plenty of cover, no need to split my attention to far to the possibility of being attacked. I pull on the parking brake with a hard jerk. Stare at him a moment. 

“Look. I. Had a situation. He needed me.”

“And? You didn’t think to call, after you’d resolved it? For his sake?”

“Yours. I. I didn’t think you’d want to get mixed up with him.”

The sting of what I’d feared goes through me, dull as a bruised limb, “I didn’t think I did either. Good god, Manco. How on Earth do you keep any kind of low profile working with him?”

“It’s not like that– I don’t – work with him. We do poker together, and what I make keeps us afloat,” he purses his lips around the cigarillo, managing to look both flinty and oddly vulnerable, “He’s just– I dunno. The kind of person you want to keep safe." 

Perhaps it’s the rare and altogether overwhelming waver in his voice that shreds through the last of my control, and I shake my head once and kiss him furiously, with none of the tenderness that’s tearing me apart.

When I stop to draw breath, it feels like his tongue has raked me raw. 

"You’re that kind of person for God’s sake,” I whisper. 

“Don’t you be worrying about me.”

“Too fucking late.”

The lack of control in my voice must scare him too, since he places his free hand on my cheek, strokes the bone there, “Hey. Hey. Look. I’m not going anywhere unless you want me gone, okay?" 

"There’s an implicit ‘we’ in this,” it’s disparaging before I can school my features, and the pain passes to him before I can swallow it back, “Stay. With him if you must, just stay." 

"I’ll make it up,” he adds, looking chastised for the first time since I saw him again. But I’m already shaking my head, crossing the space between us to ravage his mouth and neck.

He always did bring out what little is still reckless in me. 

Confeitor – Chapter 1 – deepandlovelydark, sybilius – Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966) [Archive of Our Own]:


There’s a legend about the Levant that Blondie had heard, once. After five days of sandstorm, a man might kill his nearest and dearest without reproof, for every slightest action would be taken in hot blood.

And after five days of blizzard, close confinement in a small cabin, anybody might forgive a man for murdering Tuco Ramirez; but that never happened.

(It never happened.)

(He wonders if it might have happened.)

For anyone out there waiting for the end of @thatdeepandlovelydark‘s Confeitor, or who missed it on the tumblr feed, it’s all collated on the Archive now! \o/!

I contributed one (1) chapter, a porno that is linked to, and my organizational zeal 🙂


“We’re only leaving for a week,” Blondie says, arms crossed over his favourite second-hand hiking sweater. 

It’s a good sweater. Fraying a little at the sleeves, but sturdy wool that can take a bit of a beating, Blondie looks fine in it like he always does. 

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If you're still doing requests, something reckless, for Tucoeyes? Alternatively, more Confeitor 💖 or both at once heehe

This snowfall, it’s almost a joke. 

What Easterner would expect such wanton weather, the blistering distress wailing its way through wind-torn pines, so far west of the Mississippi? A far cry from the notions of desert plains, this elevation; it doesn’t require your silent watcher’s woe to feel the incongruity of stiff leathers and silk-lined vest, little enough protection from the storm.

“This was eight days. You said seven, Blondie.” 

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