Start of Roundup, 1898, Charles M. Russell
I watched A Fistful of Dollars yet I drew The Good the Bad and the Ugly. I’m a
retardedcomplicated person you know
Clint Eastwood is the coolest drifter/gunfighter(whatever he is in the film idk the name :/) in the west. But I can’t draw half of his coolness bc I’m bad at drawing
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?