#The good the bad the ugly saloon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daisynik7 · 1 year ago

Note

“Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga for Toji Fushiguro- Angst + Smut

(i had to request another for my stinky man 😭🩷 ily)

Bad Romance

I want your love and I want your revenge, you and me could write a bad romance

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~2.7k

cw: wild west au, violence, implied assault, mentions of sex work, weapons (gun, knife), explicit language, a bit of angst, smut – PIV sex (cowgirl), blowjob, cunnilingus, dirty talk, degrading language (whore, slut), pet names (sweetheart, baby), cream pie, unprotected sex, a whisper of a breeding kink

Summary: You’re the Vixen Viper, an outlaw on the run with an outstanding bounty. You find a temporary safe-haven at the Star Saloon, protecting the women who work there while they protect you from the authorities. One night, a bounty hunter by the name of Toji Fushiguro shows up, threatening to cause some trouble.

Author’s Note: Thanks for the y2k karaoke party request my beautiful friend @batafuraikisu! I have lots of inspiration behind this. I love the Red Dead Redemption video games and have been fascinated with the wild west since. There’s also an exclusive Patreon audio from AugustInTheWinter that rewired my brain chemistry where he plays an outlaw; he has an accent and everything, SO GOOD. Another special shoutout to my lovely moot @/neesieiumz who is currently writing this incredible aot wild west au anthology called Gold Rush – READ IT NOW if you haven’t already, it’s fantastic! Anyways, I hope you like this, thank you for reading! I had an absolute blast with this one!

Midnight at the Star Saloon is always lively with rambunctious activity. It’s the perfect time for stragglers moseying through town or the miscreant locals to stop by for a break, meaning booze, gambling, or sex. Usually all three in one night. You’ve been a regular here for almost three months now, befriending the women and men who work hard to keep the patrons satisfied. Whether it’s serving alcohol until they fall out of their seats, enabling poker addictions, or riding their cocks in one of the private rooms upstairs at a special rate, they do it all to make an honest living. Though on occasion, customers will cross the line.

And that’s where you come in.

It started two months ago, after you had frequented the saloon enough times to be considered a regular. It was around three in the morning when one of the barmaids approached you, asking you to follow her upstairs. She led you into the private room all the way down the hall, and inside was another worker, sitting at the foot of the bed, cheek swollen and a black eye all on the left side of her face. That’s all you needed to see to set you off. The perp had already left, but you knew who he was as soon as she described him. And, of course, like all assholes do, thinking they got away with it, he came back. When he did, it was you this time who took him upstairs to that same bedroom, dressed in one of the barmaid’s outfits. You, who flirted with him and stripped him naked on the bed, promising to give him exactly what he deserved. And finally, it was you who robbed him and held a sharp blade to his pathetic penis, threatening to slice it right off if he ever showed his ugly fucking face in this town again. You haven’t seen him since.

At that time, your friends at the Star Saloon already knew you were someone who could handle things. Maybe it was the way you dressed at first, often showing up in cowboy attire, ready to book it if the situation called for it. Or maybe it was because they recognized you from the wanted posters plastered in the next town over, your silly nickname the Vixen Viper in big bold print below an unflattering photo of you from the last time you landed in jail, right before you escaped. They never mentioned it; never reported you to the authorities. Instead, they welcomed you in with open arms. There’s a bounty on your head for the crimes you committed against sleazy men like that, but you hold no guilt for your actions. To you, and to all the women in the saloons you’ve frequented, it’s justice. They need someone like you to protect people like them. Because lord knows that no one else in this godforsaken world will.

You’ve lasted three months in this town without the authorities catching on to you yet. You look quite different from your poster when you’re done up in makeup and a frilly dress, dagger concealed in the garter wrapped around your thigh. And with the help of your friends, you’ve managed to hide in plain sight, posing as one of the barmaids while you patrol the late-night crowd for any possible threats. Violence against these women has significantly lessened since you’ve been around. The rumor amongst the patrons is that men who misbehave get their money taken and their dicks chopped off, which is pretty spot-on to the actual truth. So fortunately, for both the workers and the customers, there isn’t any trouble.

Tonight is a little different.

You lean against the bar doing your usual inspection, checking for people who are causing a ruckus or getting rough with any of the ladies. You’re dressed similarly to them, though you never get requested to entertain in one of the private rooms above, considering you don’t go out of your way to flirt with any of the men. You lack the illustrious charm the others do; you’re only here for when things get ugly. It surprises you when a mysterious stranger on the other side of the room points to you directly, wiggling his finger to beckon you over. He smirks, the prominent scar on his lips curving with it. You grab your drink and walk over to him, curious to see what this is about, sensing that it can’t be anything good.

When you reach his table, you give him your most cordial smile. “Good evening, sir. Is there something I can help you with?”

He grins, waving to the seat across from him. “I was hoping you can join me for a little chat.” His tone is even, though there’s a hint of something sinister in there. Maybe it’s your imagination or better yet, your intuition. You’ll soon find out.

You drag the chair out, plopping into it, laying your hands flat on your lap, palm pressed to the knife hidden beneath your skirt. He scans you up and down before asking, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes at him, you answer, giving him a fake one, of course. He nods, accepting it. “Toji Fushiguro. Pleasure to meet you.” He holds his hand out, which you take reluctantly, shaking it. His grip is firm, callouses rough against your own. “I saw you and knew I had to meet you.”

Your raise a brow at him. “Oh? What about me caught your eye?”

“Thought I recognized you from somewhere.” His gaze lingers on yours, expression unwavering.

Your heart stops momentarily, a rock settling in the pit of your stomach. Not here, not now. You swallow thickly, feigning ignorance. “Really? From where?”

He slides you a rolled-up paper, nodding his head for you to open it. “Take a look.”

Trembling now, you obey, unraveling it slowly until you see the words WANTED: ALIVE and your face staring back at you. There’s no need to go any further. You fold it up immediately, heart racing, glancing at your surroundings hoping no one else is listening in on your conversation. As calmly as you can, you lean forward towards him, muttering, “So what, are you going to arrest me? Hog-tie me in front of all these people?”

He inches even closer, noses nearly touching now, his breath tickling you. “Now, I’m a gentleman. I like to know a woman first before I tie her up.”

You scoff. “So what, am I supposed to come quietly then?”

He glances at your mouth, then back to your eyes. “I’m willing to negotiate if you have something to offer.”

You clear your throat, intrigued by his response. “Let’s discuss this somewhere more private,” you say, grabbing his wrist and dragging him up the stairs with you.

“Lead the way, Vixen.”

You lead him to the very end of the hallway, the furthest room away from the bar downstairs. There’s a fire escape just outside the window, your best chance to evade arrest. First, you’ll have to subdue him.

Inside, you lock the door shut, turning to face him. “Are you a police officer?”

He shakes his head. “Guess again,” he answers, opening his coat to display the gun and knife hanging on his belt.

“Bounty hunter,” you state, glaring at him.

“Yup. And you, my dear, have a very hefty bounty on your pretty little head.” He steps towards you, caging you between his arms, your back flat against the door. Although you remain untouched, his presence is suffocating.

“What do want?” you ask him, breathing in deeply through your nose.

“All the loot you robbed from those scumbags. Enough to exceed the bounty I’d get if I brought you back with me.”

You smirk. “Is that it?”

“And a deal,” he adds. “A partnership.”

You stare at him, confused. “What?”

He laughs, amused by your reaction. “I’ll admit, I’m a fan of your work. Drifting through town-to-town, robbing sleazy assholes. And you haven’t been caught until now. It’s impressive.”

You’re caught off guard by the praise, relaxing just the slightest bit. “So, what do you propose?”

He lets his arms down, placing his hands in his pockets while he explains himself. “There are several bounties for men exactly like the ones you hate. If you promise to help me get them, I won’t take you in tonight. I’ll even give you some of the money. If you’re good.”

“And why can’t you do this yourself?”

“It’s easier to get a guy when his guard’s down. If there’s a pretty little thing like you seducing him, catching him will be easy as pie.”

You stare at him, contemplating his proposition. It’s an easy decision for you to make. It’s either this, or jail. “Fine. You have a deal.”

He offers his hand to you. “Put it there, partner.” His tone is soft, almost sincere. You can’t help thinking that if this were any other scenario, you’d find him attractive. Hell, even in this one, you’re drawn to him. You take his hand, shaking it. He tugs you in closer, voice low and seductive. “I think we should celebrate this new friendship. What do you say?”

You smile at him, what feels like the first genuine one of the night. Maybe this isn’t as bad as you initially thought. When you close the distance, his mouth is on yours quickly, lips smacking, wet and sloppy. He slides out of his jacket, letting it thud loudly on the hardwood with his weapons weighing it down. The shirt he wears is tight on his body, clinging to him, emphasizing his muscular physique. You can’t remember the last time you were intimate with a man without the intention to backstab him. In fact, it’s been a while since you were intimate at all. With him guiding you, however, you match his movements naturally, sliding your hands up his torso, pawing at his chest as his hands squeeze your hips, pulling you towards the bed.

He moans, slipping his wide tongue past your lips, deepening the kiss and exerting his dominance. “Can’t wait to see what the Vixen Viper can really do,” he huffs, hoisting the hem of your dress, bunching it in his fist. His fingers trail the inside of your thighs, stopping at the garter, feeling the handle of the knife strapped to you. He clicks his tongue, mouth hovering your ear, hooking his finger to snap the elastic against your skin. “You really are dangerous.”

You let out a whimper, your pussy throbbing with arousal. He grabs the blade by the handle, whipping it out from its holster, tossing it to the other side of the room away from you. You chuckle, lifting your arms up so he can strip you properly. “Are you scared of me?”

He removes your corset swiftly, squeezing your bare breasts in his hands, thumbs flicking at your nipples. “I don’t want to get stabbed in case you change your mind.”

You shove him onto the bed, where he lies flat on his back, watching you straddle his lap, naked. “If I do that, then I wouldn’t get to fuck you.”

He laughs loudly, biting his lip. “Oh? You’re the one who’s gonna fuck me?”

“Yeah, I reckon ,” you reply, unbuckling his belt and undoing his zipper. He continues to watch you intently, groaning when you shimmy his pants off to release his cock. It flops against his abdomen, even bigger than you imagined, all veiny and girthy. You salivate at the sight of it, opening your mouth for a taste.

“Fuck,” he curses, head relaxing into mattress, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as you sink down on him, swallowing him up until the tip hits the back of your throat. You bob up and down on his shaft, gripping the base of his cock, swirling your tongue around the head. “You suck cock like a fucking whore. Did your friends out there teach you that?”

You grasp his balls in your hand, squeezing them tight, causing him to shudder. Shaking your head, you say, “I learned this from experience.”

He smirks. “Yeah? Come here. Put this pussy on my face. Bet I can teach you something you haven’t learned yet.”

You release him, crawling up his body until your wet cunt is pressed to his lips. His tongue laps at your arousal, swirling around your aching clit. You grip the top of the headboard, grinding on him. “Oh fuck!”

His hands surround your ass, squeezing at your soft cheeks, fingers digging into your flesh. He hums into your skin, the vibrations adding to the sensation. He nods beneath you, encouraging you. “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take it like a good slut.”

He takes you into his mouth, slurping at your clit until your gushing all over his face, your orgasm shiny on his lips and chin. His eyes are wild with excitement, peering up at you between your legs. Kissing the plush of your thighs, he says, “Well, go on then, Vixen. Fuck me.”

Soon, you’re sinking down onto his fat cock, pussy already soaking wet with slick and spit. He fills you up to the brim, taking a few seconds to adjust to size comfortable. When you’re ready, you start to bounce on his lap, his cock thrusting in and out of you smoothly. He hits your sweet spot over and over, stimulating you into another messy orgasm after just a few solid strokes. Your tongue hangs out of your mouth, drool leaking down your chin, throat dry from the incessant moaning.

“Look at you. So fucked out for me,” he growls, planting his feet on the bed, taking control. He grabs onto your hips firmly, pounding up into you, watching your entire body convulse with each delicious thrust. “You talk a big game, but you like being manhandled like this. You’re just a slutty little hole waiting to be ruined. Waiting for the right man to use you.” He presses his thumb to your clit, massaging it with deep strokes. “Seems like you finally met the perfect partner.”

“Fuck, Toji!” you cry out, unraveling once again.

He increases his pace, the bed creaking noisily below you. “That’s it, baby. Come with me. Gonna breed this perfect pussy. Gonna fill you up so fucking good.” He pulls you down towards him, wrapping you in his arms, kissing you fiercely as he pumps his load inside you.

You both lay still for a moment, catching your breaths, Toji peppering delicate smooches along your neck. You’re surprised at how gentle he’s being, considering his brutish behavior from earlier. When enough silence passes, you look at him, grinning. “What a way to celebrate, am I right? Partner?”

He laces his fingers with yours. “The beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

After you clean yourselves up as best as possible, you snuggle together under the covers, him spooning you from behind. “’Night, Toji Fushiguro.”

He nuzzles his nose to the nape of your neck, whispering, “What’s your real name?”

You smile, grazing your lips on his knuckles, actually giving it to him.

~~~

Toji Fushiguro, the most sought-after bounty hunter in all the west, wakes up the morning feeling fantastic.

He glances to his side, hoping to see his lovely new partner still peacefully asleep beside him. To his surprise, no one is there. He inspects the room, searching for clues on where she ran off to and notices nothing.

And that’s when it hits him. There’s nothing in the room.

All his clothes are gone, his weapons, the wallet full of cash buried in his pockets, even the very blanket they fell asleep under. He’s as naked as the day he was born, confused and beguiled until he finally realizes it. He’s been robbed. And it was the Vixen Viper who robbed him.

The only thing he finds is her wanted poster, folded up on the bedside table, a small note scribbled to the back of it:

Toji - Thanks for the fun night, but I don’t do partners. Maybe the next time you catch me, I’ll reconsider.

He laughs, unable to contain his smile as he reads her real name signed at the end of it.

#toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #toji smut #fushiguro toji x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x you #fushiguro toji smut #fushiguro toji x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #y2k karaoke party #milestone event

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twola · 2 years ago

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Wanted to say I looovvve how you write Arthur! Since you’re taking requests I was wondering if you’d do something like the nsfw alphabet for him or just general headcanons for him? Thank you:)

I’ve always wanted to do one of these. Thanks for the nudge! For reference, our boah is high-honor for this.

Drop a line and tell me which one is your favorite!

NSFW Alphabet : Arthur Morgan

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He’s usually a panting, groaning mess after orgasm, but as soon as he catches his breath, he’s peppering your face with kisses, heaping praise upon you.

“Such a good girl.” He’ll rumble in those low timbres, his deep voice sex-hoarse as he gently wipes his spend from your skin.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Arthur loves the gentle slope - the long curve of your neck. He loves kissing it, suckling at it, leaving marks and bruises as he not so secretly enjoys you having physical signs that you’re his.

He’s not one to think much of himself, he’s known to degrade himself, but if you were insistent on an answer, he would say his arms. Broad and strong from years of hard living - heaving hunted animals over his shoulder, roping horses, beating men. His arms draw you into the line of his body, wrapping around your waist and keeping you secure and safe.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He’s not an idiot. Not at this point in his life. Having had gotten a girl pregnant and living in proximity to John’s stupidity with Abigail, he knows that the temporary high of spending into a woman wasn’t worth the risk of conceiving a child.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish, want, so much, to spend within your warmth, not to pull himself from you jerkily.

If he were another man, in another life, not running in an outlaw gang - he would love to stay inside, to create life within you - to watch you grow and birth his child. If only. If only.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Big, bad gunslinger - outlaw - criminal, god, he would never hear the end of it if others knew how he whimpers as you nudge that spot beneath his testicles, your fingers pressing against that skin, and it feels so good he could cry.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

While in his later adult years, he has had fewer partners, in his youth, Arthur was a wild stallion. Rolling into a saloon with a sly smile and a bag full of gold coins from a robbery, working women flocked to him, and he certainly enjoyed their company.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Arthur certainly enjoys any way he can have you - and he certainly has enjoyed an array of positions - holding you up against a brick wall in a back alley in Saint Denis, bending you over the table in an empty cabin, watching you gyrate above him- riding him as he fucks up into you.

But deep down, this grisled outlaw is a romantic at heart, though he will never admit it.

He loves the most when you’re underneath him, when he can see your pretty face when you come, when he can spread himself out over you, when you cross your ankles over his hips to draw you in.

In this cruel, hard world, he loves you safe and secure beneath him, where he can shield you from all of its ugliness, if only for a few moments.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Arthur’s sense of humor is notoriously dry, and frankly, it's not brought to the bed, or whatever surface he’s having you on.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Well, it is 1899. And he’s a man that lives out in the wilds. Baths are hard to come by.

But you do enjoy trailing your fingers along the trail of dark hair that begins at his navel and spreads across his pelvis - straight to the chestnut curls at the base of his cock.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Arthur worships you as the two of you fall into bed with one another. God, he told you he loved you before he slept with you - of course the moment is thick with emotion.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Sure, if a job takes him away from you for several days, he’ll get lonely. Arthur will pull the flaps on his small tent and lay himself on his bedroll, unbuttoning his union suit and taking his length in hand, closing his eyes and picturing you there: the way you whine into his ear. The way you clutch at his shoulders, the way you roll your hips to take him deeper. The way you grit out his name as you’re reaching the edge, the way your cunt pulses around him-

He spills over his hand, moaning as he comes down from his high. As he catches his breath and wipes off his hand before tucking himself away, he knows, he knows, that he will have to have the real thing as soon as he returns to you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

For someone with a mind-numbingly high bounty on his head, he should not like getting tied up so much.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Not that he has many options most of the time, his cot within his tent being the normal spot, but he does love to have you in a big bed, naked and squirming on fresh sheets. He takes you to hotels when he can, enjoying the ability to press you down into a soft mattress.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

There’s nothing that gets his blood pumping like successfully pulling off a heist. Riding back into camp loaded down with riches, swinging down off his horse, after depositing the take, he will seek you out, taking you hand in his and kissing it gently before walking you back to his tent and laying you down on his cot.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He may be a killer, a criminal, a bad person. But he does have a code. He has never and will never force himself on a woman. He would never force you to do anything for him if you said no, even though it would be more than easy enough for him to overpower you.

Fortunately for him, you don’t like saying no.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Christ, you wonder as you throw your head back in the pillow, was there anything this man couldn’t do well? He’s between your thighs suckling at your clit, tongue lapping at your entrance, pressing inside you as his warm breath ghosts over your core. Arthur loves diving between your legs, even drawing up your skirts out in the wild and tasting you. And god, is he good at it.

While he likes to give, give, give, he cannot help but groan as you sink to your knees in front of him, babbling near incoherently as you suck his cock until he spills hot and fast down your throat.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Depends on the setting. If he’s forced to go quickly, it is a brutal, punishing rhythm. But oh, if he’s got you in bed with nothing but time, he savors each slow, long stroke, and the whimpers that drip from your mouth like ambrosia.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Not his favorite. He’d rather take his time to painstakingly take you apart - to feel every inch of you against him, to see and taste and love you. To give you the attention he believes fully you deserve.

But sometimes, the man just needs to be inside you, sheathing his cock in your warm, wet cunt. With your clothes still on and undergarments shoved to the side, Arthur groans as he sinks inside you, wanting never to leave.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He’s willing to try just about anything - unless it has the ability to hurt you. You hear talk in the saloons from working girls of acrobatic positions that you tell him about while blushing. He’ll try, as long as its not something that verges on dangerous.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

“I ain’t a teenager any more.” He’ll grumble, but he always, always, draws you to come multiple times before he actually does.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Again, it's 1899. Besides, he thoroughly enjoys bringing you over that edge with his fingers, his tongue, or his cock.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

You wouldn’t say he likes to tease you, but you find it completely unfair when he refuses to let you touch him, drawing orgasm after orgasm from you before he is ready to come himself.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Growing up in an outlaw camp, in close proximity to everyone, Arthur knows how to be quiet. But the second he gets you away, whether out in the wilds or a hotel room, he grunts and moans into your ear, his gravelly voice fading into primal noises the closer he gets.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He doesn’t know why he allowed it to happen - he should have been the one teaching you to shoot. Not Javier.

Or maybe it’s a good idea. He’s not sure how much learning would get done. Not after he’s seen you aim a repeater, tensing against the recoil.

He’d be bending you over the fence that Javier has lined up empty bottles on, pressing inside of you, his little gunslinger.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

As much as he’d deny it, Arthur is not diminished at all when stripped of his clothing. While he’s a bit self-conscious about his stippled and scarred skin, you fully enjoy tracing his life’s story with your fingers or your lips.

Arthur is not a small man. He’s tall and broad shouldered, muscular and solid. The first time you fish his cock from his union suit, a flash of panic shoots through you - how the hell were you supposed to take all of this?

You shouldn’t have worried, considering how much Arthur would work you open with his fingers and tongue before sinking into you - the stretch of him entering you never hurts.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Now, sometimes unfortunately, much like coffee, Arthur awakens and needs to have you to seemingly function. Sleepy, gentle sex as the sun rises lets him get out of bed on the right foot.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Even after bringing both of you to orgasm, panting, breathless, he won’t fall asleep right away. He’ll always have enough energy, at the very least, to clean your skin of his spend and draw you into his embrace, winding your legs around each others’, and holding you close until you both fall asleep, completely satiated.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead fanfic #red dead fandom #rdr2 #arthur morgan smut #rdr2 fanfic #rdr #red dead redemption #tumblr prompt #red dead smut #twolafic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #voluptatem

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floral-force · 4 months ago

Text

Saddle Tramp Masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader - western au

summary: Anything is possible in the American West--unless your destiny is predetermined. When your fate as the heiress of a railroad magnate becomes entangled with that of a drifting bounty hunter, you ride into a world of opportunity. Despite your differences, something blooms between you and the masked man that is truly once in a lifetime. Saddle up for a journey west full of rugged terrain, kisses under the stars, smoky saloons, and finding love when you least expect it. (Loosely based on spaghetti westerns and the myth of Hades and Persephone.)

rating: 18+ (MDNI), mature

words: 2.7k+

this is an ongoing fic (1/10 chapters posted). to be updated about this and other fics, ask to be added to my tag list!

asterisks (*) indicate 18+ content!

read on ao3 | fic masterlist | character masterlist

chapter 1: once upon a time in the west

chapter 2: you know my name

chapter 3: the shadow riders

chapter 4: the big country

chapter 5: the good, the bad, and the ugly

chapter 6: death rides a horse

chapter 7: a sky full of stars for a roof

chapter 8: day of anger

chapter 9: the quick and the dead

chapter 10: a reason to live, a reason to die

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sufrimientilia · 2 months ago

Note

hmm, do you have any ideas for western/cowboy style whumps? recently saw The Good The Bad And The Ugly and the desert scene and the hangings are... quite inspiring.

eee my first ask!!

i'm sure you've seen this lovely post by @wollemi-whump. i stared at it for inspo

cowboy whump 2: electric boogaloo

the slow impact of boots on dirt, metallic jingling of spurs with each step. those same spurs kicking hard into whumpee’s side or digging into their throat

the hard thudding of nearly a dozen horses thundering closer and closer, a whole posse coming in for the attack or stampeding a runner

treated like another one of the cattle. lassoed and dragged along on foot, forced to run and hike for miles, made to drink from the same containers as the horses or denied water until they collapse

getting jerked around by a lariat kept tight around their neck or wrists, cutting and digging deep

lawman of the town overworked, over-stressed, always threatened by outlaws

lawman of the town corrupt by power and willing to toss anyone in jail for stepping out of line

small town mentality in Old Western format. just one doctor, just one minister, just one sheriff. maybe one of them is a creep/evil

everyone knows everyone and getting expelled into the wild frontier by mob mentality can happen

duels fueled by honor, aggression, booze. or getting pressured into facing the fastest draw in the West with a whole mob watching

duels where the winner still catches a bullet

duels in the town square that descend into chaos when the friends of either opponent get involved

frontier justice: lynching, vigilantism, gunfighting

frontier crime: horse theft, cattle raiding, bank robberies

very public hangings, shootings, or punishments (i.e. getting dragged by a horse)

saloon fights

the hard metal clang of a spit bucket bouncing right off of whumpee’s head

getting spat at with the sheer force of lightning

violence and alcohol. drunken aggression, broken bottles used as deadly weapons, forced to sit and drink under gunpoint before being challenged to a duel

droughts and limited resources. chapped lips and desperate sips out of a leather canteen, food too hard to come by. it's no wonder people become outlaws

dehydrated and asking for water only to gulp whiskey out of a canteen

lone survivor of a gang or posse that got wiped out

bounty hunters and getting hunted. posters with crude sketches of their face, wanted dead or alive, a hefty reward leaving them with no one to trust

forced to work on the railroad, pounding away at metal for hours and hours under the blistering sun

tied up and left on railroad tracks

tied up and shoved into a railroad cart and shipped east

native tribes being a true force of danger, almost like bogeymen among the townsfolk. faster on horseback, deadlier with arrows, experts of the land

getting targeted and hunted for being indigenous, forced to run and hide as resources are taken or destroyed by settlers

left for dead out in the desert and waking up in the care of a native tribe

stung by a scorpion

bit by a snake

boiling hot desert days, dark cold desert nights

shot off their horse by an arrow or bullet and landing hard on the ground while the horse keeps going

injured or sick while riding horseback. bleeding all over the saddle, barely able to hold on, slumping forward and eventually falling off

injured or sick while traveling across the frontier. huddled by the fireplace at every makeshift campsite, carefully draped over the horse or riding in the arms of caretaker

deteriorating away in a stagecoach with the constant clip-clop of horses rocking them back and forth

#whump #wild west #cowboy whump #tropes #writing ideas #asks

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antialiasis · 27 days ago

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The Good, the Bad and the Ugly: all of my thoughts (part 1)

All right, this is me, watching my way through my current obsession The Good, the Bad and the Ugly for the umpteenth time and rambling about everything that comes to mind as I go, which ended up with me typing over thirty thousand words because I am incapable of shutting up. Because that is truly excessive, I will be posting my thoughts in three parts; this is part one (covering roughly the first hour and thirteen minutes of the Extended Cut, up through the end of the desert/carriage sequence), and I'll probably post part two in a few days to a week, pending editing and such and some of the other things I should be doing.

Because that's a lot of reading to commit to without knowing what you're getting into, especially if you're here from the tag, here's what to expect in brief:

This is all of my thoughts, simply whatever comes to mind, but my thoughts on fiction tend to be heavy on in-depth analysis of characters, their motivations and how they tick, so a lot of this falls into that general category.

In particular, there will be a whole lot of thoughts on Tuco, Blondie, and their evolving character dynamic, which is my favorite part of the movie. I will not be looking at it through a shippy lens, for what it's worth (romantic shipping is not generally how I personally engage with fiction), but I hope anyone who finds their dynamic compelling in whatever way might still enjoy some of my thoughts on them!

In between, there's also a bunch of other commentary on stuff like the narrative function of scenes (especially on the scenes that were cut in the International Cut of the film and whether the film is better with or without them), directorial or editing or production design or storytelling choices, acting choices, foreshadowing and parallels, as well as some lighter commentary on bits that amuse me or bug me or that I particularly enjoy.

Sometimes I will just be making observations about random things I didn't necessarily notice or pick up on on my first viewing; many of them are probably kind of obvious, but if I didn't pick them up seeing it once, probably there's at least a chance they might be interesting for other people who have only seen it once.

This is not a recap of the movie, but I do try to quote lines or explain bits that I'm commenting on, so hopefully you can follow along if you've seen the movie at all. I don't know how coherent this would be if you haven't seen the movie, but if you choose to read a post like this about a movie you haven't seen anyway, godspeed to you.

Tuco's introduction

The opening scene sure is a microcosm of Sergio Leone's directorial style. Slow, silent close-ups, wide shots, unclear exactly where the scene is going initially, these unnamed characters eventually converge on a saloon -- and then instead of following them inside, Tuco comes crashing through the window and we freeze-frame. It's very drawn out (I had a bit of an "Is the whole movie going to be like this" moment watching it for the first time), but the comic timing of Tuco and the freeze-frame is great; instantly we go from this super slow, dramatic buildup to this fun, humorous subversion that really sets a tone. All that buildup was actually for introducing this guy.

In the process, we learn that 1) Tuco is someone at least three different people want to kill, 2) he's someone skilled and resourceful enough to manage to shoot them first and then make his escape through the window even after being caught unawares during a meal by three people working together, and 3) even in the process of doing that he brings his food with him -- probably actually pretty revealing about his background of poverty, not wanting to waste food when he has it. We'll of course see him introduced further a little later, but this really says a lot for only actually containing about ten silent seconds of him, and also benefits from being funny.

It's kind of amusing how bloodless most gun deaths are in this movie, considering it doesn't shy away from blood in other parts. The surviving bounty hunter does have some blood on his hand as he tries to shoot after Tuco, probably to convey that he's injured despite still being alive, but the others are just cleanly lying there with no signs of damage. Maybe it's paying homage to what other Westerns looked like -- the actual cowboy gunslinging specifically is very idealized, sanitized and almost cartoonish, compared to a lot of the other violence in the film. I remember being a kid and hearing about the trope of people in old Westerns getting shot and dramatically going flying as a result, despite that normal bullets are far too small for their momentum to send a person flying anywhere -- you don't actually see too much of that in modern movies, where everything tends to look much more realistic, but this movie definitely has a lot of very dramatic flailing and spinning around when people get shot in a way that looks pretty distinctly silly and cartoony today. Ultimately it meshes pretty well with the overall tone of the film, though; this movie is gritty in many respects, but it does not aspire to realism.

Angel Eyes' introduction

The way Angel Eyes just silently waltzes into Stevens' home and helps himself to some of his food while maintaining eye contact the whole time is so weird and uncomfortable, it's delightful. What an entrance.

Stevens has a limp. People who have fought in the war tend to be visibly scarred by it in this movie -- truly something that just permeates every background detail, that you don't really think about on a first viewing when you think the Civil War is just a setting backdrop.

There is zero dialogue in this film until more than ten and a half minutes in (though the first three minutes of that are the opening credits, so it's seven and a half minutes of actual movie with no dialogue). I think this is a very fun choice which contributes to the viewer really feeling how unbearable the silence is for Stevens by the time he starts asking Angel Eyes if Baker sent him - half of that silence wasn't even technically part of this scene, but it really intensifies it by making the silence here feel even longer than it is.

When Stevens says, "I know nothing at all about that case of coins!", Angel Eyes looks up with interest from where he'd been casually looking at his food. Evidently he had had no idea there was any case of coins involved, only that he was meant to collect a name, but once Stevens mentions it, his interest is piqued.

Angel Eyes casually offers, "Well, Jackson was here, or Baker's got it all wrong," while cutting off and eating a piece of bread with a large knife, sort of implicitly daring Stevens to try to say Baker's got it all wrong and see what happens. When he's got Tuco captured later, Angel Eyes does a similar thing of staying friendly-threatening as he casually asks questions, but once Tuco actually refuses to talk of his own accord, out come the claws. This time, though, Stevens does not take the bait, probably sensing that that would lead nowhere good for him.

He says, "Maybe Baker would like to know just what you and Jackson had to say about the cash box" -- this isn't the info he came for, but maybe Baker would be interested. Really it's Angel Eyes himself who is intrigued -- he'll go on to tell Baker that that's my bit. But he doesn't really bother pushing Stevens for it, instead moving on to admitting he's being paid for the name specifically. Probably he figures once he gets the name, he'll have all the info he needs to track him down anyway by his usual means (which it turns out he does).

The casual, grinning confidence of Angel Eyes' assertion that if Jackson weren't going by an alias he would've found him already, "That's why they pay me," really makes you believe it, doesn't it. It's exposition about what Angel Eyes does, but is also executed to work as a nice character-establishing moment about his competence.

Christopher Frayling's otherwise fun and informative commentary on the film talked about how Angel Eyes' missing fingertip was provided by a hand double in the final truel -- but you can see in this scene that Lee van Cleef's own right hand is definitely missing that fingertip (though I did not notice it at all until I thought to specifically look for it). Very curious where the notion of a hand double came from -- he even named a specific guy.

Angel Eyes casually announces that when he's paid, he always sees the job through, even though that's just going to make Stevens desperate -- Angel Eyes knows he can shoot first, no big deal.

He shoots Stevens through the table and the food, even. How does he aim.

Angel Eyes grabs his gun and turns around to shoot Stevens' son before he actually comes into view (specifically, we see him start to react to something about ten frames before we can first see the tip of the son's rifle). Presumably, in-universe, he heard him coming, but we don't hear him coming at all over the blaring background chord, so it feels like Angel Eyes just knows he's coming by some sixth sense. Very effective at making him seem even more threatening, especially since there's also generally a conscious decision in this movie to act as if the characters can't see anything that's out of frame for the viewer -- Blondie and Tuco get caught out by that rule a couple of times in amusing ways, but Angel Eyes actively defies the auditory equivalent.

(It's neat how the family photo, used for Angel Eyes obliquely threatening Stevens' family, also serves as foreshadowing for the fact he also has this second, older son we hadn't seen yet at that point.)

The fact Angel Eyes sneaks into Baker's bedroom when he's sleeping to report back is so extra. A normal person would just arrange to meet him the next morning, but no, Angel Eyes does the creepy stalker thing. Probably makes the murdering him in his bed bit a little easier, though, which also suggests he was definitely intending on that bit the whole time and didn't just "almost forget".

Baker's brow furrows and his eyes shift uncomfortably when Angel Eyes mentions the cash box; clearly he was hoping Angel Eyes would never find out about that bit (very reasonably, given what happens next).

All in all, Angel Eyes' introduction is super striking. The casual veneer and smug grins painted over a deeply tense sense of threat; the absolute deadly confidence; the fact he shoots Stevens' son too so easily and presciently, almost as a footnote to it all; casually walking out with the money that Stevens offered him for sparing his life; and then, on the ostensible basis that when he's paid he always sees the job through, casually killing Baker too.

Although he explains the murder of Baker as simply seeing the job through, though, Stevens didn't actually ask him to kill Baker; all he ever suggested he wanted was to be left alone, and all he said about the money was that it's a thousand dollars, after asking what Angel Eyes was being paid for murdering him. I expect Angel Eyes simply chooses to take it as payment for the 'job' of killing Baker for motivated reasons; that way, he can act as if the money is still 'payment' for him even though he rejected Stevens' attempt to bribe him, and it's much easier to go after the cash box himself if Baker's out of the picture, after all.

This creates an interesting ironic sense that while Angel Eyes effectively presents his own introduction as being all about his unassailable professional principles about always performing the job he's been paid for, and I took him at his word on my first viewing, he's not really all about those principles at all -- and as the movie goes on, indeed, he's simply pursuing the cash box for his own reasons rather than because anyone's paying him for it. His 'professional principles' don't come up again, because that's not really what this intro was telling us at all.

Which isn't to say he doesn't always see a job through after being paid (I can definitely believe that; if he has a reputation for getting the job done no matter what, that makes people more likely to pay him in the future, and he sure has no qualms about completing any job), just that that's not at all the main thing driving his character, as you might initially assume. The thing his intro is really telling us about him is that he's ruthless, terrifying, extremely competent, very interested in this cash box, and has absolutely no trouble casually murdering whoever might be standing in the way of accomplishing what he wants. And I think it's very effective at showing that.

Blondie's introduction

This scene opens with Tuco on a galloping horse in a way that naturally invites the viewer to assume this is following directly from when he flees from the saloon in his intro, and that's what I assumed on my first viewing -- but nah, not only does he not have the food and drink, he's wearing different clothing. Given the surviving bounty hunter from the intro will be appearing later and indicating that was eight months ago, and this is decidedly the most obvious place for the bulk of the timeskip to be happening, probably this is actually several months later. This film is not at all big on time indicators -- for the most part, we have no idea how much time is passing, everything feels like it's happening pretty much in sequence, and we can only vaguely infer that there must be longer gaps between particular events.

The straight-up photograph on Tuco's wanted poster is pretty hilarious. There's even a scene later with a little gag about the long exposure times for photographs at the time. Probably this is just a funny prop for two scenes to make it very obvious to the viewer that it is absolutely him on the wanted poster even as he adamantly denies it, but it's also very funny to imagine Tuco patiently posing for his own wanted poster.

Framing through it, all three of the bounty hunters surrounding Tuco when Blondie comes along are in fact going for their guns when Blondie shoots them, which makes sense -- for all that Blondie is not much of a noble hero, he generally does not tend to shoot people until they're at least starting to draw on him. (There's one notable exception, which will come up in part two.)

I enjoy Tuco's weird little nervous, disbelieving grin as he realizes this stranger just shot the bounty hunters but is sparing him. Tuco's own worldview, as shaped by his background, is dominated by self-interest; it's every man for himself, and it's up to him to do whatever it takes, tell whatever lies, betray whoever he has to, to get ahead. And yet, there's this endearing naïveté to him, where he's not really suspicious of other people's motives accordingly -- he's surprised Blondie would save him, but his brain doesn't immediately go to this guy just wants to be the one to collect my bounty. We see this a lot throughout the film.

We cut (with great comic timing) from Blondie sticking a cigar in Tuco's mouth to Tuco spitting out a cigar while tied up on his horse as Blondie takes him into town -- an edit that suggests continuity, like only a short time has passed and it's the same cigar that he just hadn't had the chance to spit out yet (sort of dubious if you really think about it, since surely it would've taken a bit for Blondie to tie him up and get him onto his horse). This reinforces our initial assumptions about what's happening, where Blondie would just have tied him up before riding straight into town, but given the con they turn out to be running, there must have actually been an offscreen conversation about it and the cigar is there as a bit of cheeky misdirection for the audience.

(It probably makes sense that when Blondie put the cigar in his mouth, he was actually about to propose they run this bounty scheme together -- as the movie proceeds, we see that Blondie generally shares cigars in more of a friendly sort of way, after all.)

"I hope you end up in a graveyard!" yells Tuco. They sure do all end up in a graveyard! This is some very cheeky foreshadowing and I love it.

Tuco yelling ineffectual threats about how Blondie can still save himself by letting him go, while actually tied up and completely at his mercy, is just extremely Tuco.

Then he shifts tack very abruptly to saying he feels sick and needs water, only to then spit in Blondie's face. Later he furiously calls the deputy a bastard just for walking out of a building, only to then immediately shift to saying he's just an honest farmer who didn't do anything wrong. Tuco often does this, shifting from one approach to the next in a way that makes it really obvious he's bullshitting, but he keeps doing this, just throwing shit at the wall to see if anything sticks, even when this is counterproductive to the whole effort. He is presumably playing it up a bit here, but it's still in its own way pretty representative of who he is and what he's actually like. He's so characterful.

"Who says so? You can't even read!" says Tuco about whether it's him on the wanted poster, which is some delightful nonsense hypocrisy/projection given we will later see that Tuco himself can only barely read. I love him. (And why would reading even have anything to do with it; he's obviously looking at the plain actual photograph of him right there. Love Tuco's absolute nonsense.)

Another absurd change of tactics: "Hey, everybody, look, look! He's giving him the filthy money!" - as if he's going to rally onlookers against the sheriff and Blondie somehow on the basis that money is exchanging hands, isn't that suspicious.

Tuco calls Blondie Judas for accepting the money (referencing the thirty pieces of silver, of course), which will get a fun echo later.

"You're the son of a thousand fathers, all bastards like you!" I love that Tuco has invented compounding recursive bastardry just for Blondie. Not only is he a bastard, all one thousand men his mother slept with were also bastards. Glorious. (You can see Blondie's amused by this one; he actually smiles a little bit before throwing a match at him.)

I wonder if Blondie actively encouraged him to go quite this hard on the insults, to make them look less associated, or if he just did this. One would think it would be risky, on Tuco's end, to be this over the top in literally spitting in the face of the guy who could just let him hang if he happened to change his mind -- but then again, Tuco genuinely doesn't expect Blondie to double-cross him.

Tuco's crimes, as of this first hanging, are: murder; armed robbery of citizens, state banks and post offices; the theft of sacred objects; arson in a state prison; perjury; bigamy; deserting his wife and children; inciting prostitution; kidnapping; extortion; receiving stolen goods; selling stolen goods; passing counterfeit money; and, contrary to the laws of this state, the condemned is guilty of using marked cards and loaded dice! All this paints a picture of a pretty colorful backstory, but most of it is relatively petty; other than the murder (possibly of people like the bounty hunters we saw him dispose of in the opening), we can gather he's been scrounging up money through anything from cheating at cards up to armed robbery and kidnapping, he lied under oath (checks out), he set a prison on fire (presumably to escape), he ran off from his wife and kids and then married someone else he presumably also ran off from, and then there's "inciting prostitution" which I'm guessing means offering someone not previously engaged in sex work money for sex.

It obviously checks out that he'd do anything for money, and bigamy and deserting his wife and children rhyme with his off-hand mention at the monastery later that he's had lots of wives here and there; in general, it tracks that he would make big commitments and then just break them. So all in all, these seem like probably a bunch of genuine crimes that he actually committed. (He also nods somewhat smugly at the marked cards and loaded dice bit.)

Blondie's MO seems to be to first shoot the whip out of the hand of the guy who's meant to be setting the horse off and then shoot the actual rope (and then random attendees' hats, for good measure). Better hope that first shot doesn't spook the horse.

It really is very reasonable of Tuco to want a bigger cut for being the one running the risks; you wouldn't generally want to do a job with a significant chance of getting you killed without being very well compensated for that. Unfortunately, Blondie doing the cutting means he's the one with all the power here -- if he's dissatisfied with his share, he can just pocket all the money and let Tuco die -- which puts him at the advantage in the negotiation, and he knows it.

I enjoy how in the middle of "If we cut down my percentage, it's liable to interfere with my aim," Blondie offers Tuco a cigar, this casual friendly move in the middle of what is effectively a threat.

Tuco does a little understated, "Hmm," of acknowledgement that makes it feel like this was genuinely unexpected. But then he just returns the threat: "But if you miss, you had better miss very well. Whoever double-crosses me and leaves me alive, he understands nothing about Tuco." Which sets up his quest for revenge on Blondie after the double-cross, obviously, but is also fun to recall during the final scene: Tuco actively advised Blondie not to leave him alive if he was going to double-cross him.

Tuco why are you eating the cigar

Next time he's in the noose, it's for a whole new list of crimes that ends with, "For all these crimes, the accused has made a full, spontaneous confession." Yeah, he probably just went off spewing confessions to a string of colorful invented offenses as Blondie brought him in, didn't he, maybe hoping it would raise the bounty. (At the cinematic screening where I saw it for the first time, I missed the spontaneous confession thing due to no subtitles and spent half the movie experiencing some jarring mental dissonance over Tuco's growing goofy likability versus the offhandedly having been convicted of multiple rapes near the start thing. But it's actually pretty strongly telegraphed that the new crimes here are simply bullshit; a spontaneous confession to a variety of new things that were decidedly not on the earlier list, that he could not possibly have done in the implied presumably not very long timespan between the first and second hanging, mostly distinctly more dramatic crimes than the original set, all sounds strongly like a Tuco throwing shit at the wall thing.)

Tuco looks a lot more restless during the second hanging, where for the first one he was pretty calm -- probably a little bit nervous about Blondie's "liable to interfere with my aim" remark, even though they'd presumably come to an agreement to stick with the 50/50 split.

He notices a woman being scandalized, seems sort of put out for a second, but then growls at her to scare her more. What a Tuco.

Another minor character presumably disabled in the war: Angel Eyes' incidentally legless informant. (Whom he calls Shorty, like the guy Blondie teams up with later, who is definitely a different guy because that guy has legs -- sort of a funny aversion of the usual one Steve limit. Genuinely a bit puzzled by why they did that -- is it like that in the Italian version or just the English dub?) I wonder if the bit where he moves around by holding a couple of bricks and using them to walk on is something inspired by a real person or people at the time.

Calling him a 'half-soldier' is pretty rude, Angel Eyes.

Look, I'll accept that we're calling Blondie Blondie, sounds like that's what you'd call him in Italy, but there's really no excuse for "A golden-haired angel watches over him." The man's hair is brown. It's not even a light brown. What are you talking about, Angel Eyes.

But to not get too distracted by that part of the line: Angel Eyes obviously recognizes the con they're running. I think that's probably because he knows of Blondie and that this is a thing he does (he's presumably done it with others before), so when he notices Blondie's around at a hanging, he's like ah, yes, there's him doing his thing, guess he's running with Tuco now. My own feeling is Blondie and Angel Eyes basically only know of each other, though -- no direct evidence they're not more familiar or anything, but they don't really act like they have a personal history, I think, compared to Tuco and Angel Eyes who obviously do.

After the threat about a pay cut being liable to interfere with his aim, I originally figured Blondie missing the rope (or rather, it seems to have grazed but not severed it) might have been deliberate, meant to scare Tuco a bit and make him think twice about proposing that again. But ultimately, on a closer look, I'm pretty sure he really did just miss, both because his expressions and body language feel more in line with that and because Tuco's rant after they escape indicates that Blondie's explanation to him was that anyone can miss a shot -- if it was meant as a warning, probably he wouldn't then go on to actively make it sound like he'd just happened to miss.

(That line also indicates it probably wasn't that he did hit it dead-on but the rope was just sturdier than expected -- if Blondie said anyone can miss a shot, that sounds like he at least believes it's because he missed, and I don't see any sensible reason he would lie about that here.)

That said, I think it's fun to imagine that the reason for the miss was that that discussion really did interfere with his aim -- that little bit of tension with Tuco led to him being a little careless this time, even though he didn't mean to miss and thought he had it.

The thing that actually prompts Blondie to stop and leave Tuco is Tuco's rant about how nobody misses when I'm at the end of the rope and When that rope starts to pull tight, you can feel the devil bite your ass. For all that he explains it as being about how there's no future in this with a guy who'll never be worth more than $3000, there's a specific point where he stops his horse and decides to ditch him, and it's when Tuco's complaining turns into guilting him about missing and the experience of being on the other end. Blondie will not be guilted and does not want or need this; just going to ditch him and wash his hands of him and find somebody else. I get the sense that Blondie doesn't really want to think about that miss too hard, at this point, and Tuco won't leave him alone about it, and so he leaves him.

More echoes in Blondie and Tuco's relationship: Blondie specifically says, "Adios," when leaving Tuco in the desert, which Tuco will say back to him at the inn.

Tuco's reaction, once again throwing shit at the wall, goes from insults to angrily ordering him to cut the rope off and get off the horse (as if he has any power to make him do anything, standing there unarmed with his hands tied), to a series of hilariously off-the-wall threats ("I'll hang you up by your thumbs!"), to disbelief/desperation: "Wait a minute, this is only a trick! You wouldn't leave me here! Come back! Wait! Blondie! Listen, Blondie!" before the final ¡Hijo de una gran putaaaa! The last couple stages once again get echoed in the final scene. I enjoy the "You wouldn't" - Blondie's supposed to be better than this, even after he'd threatened his aim might suffer if he got less money. They were supposed to be friends, damn it! (Tuco really wants to believe that people actually like him, and often chooses to live in the world in which they do.)

I truly love the fact Blondie gets the freeze-frame and onscreen caption of "the good" just after ironically admonishing Tuco for his ingratitude after Blondie has double-crossed him, taken the money they were going to split, and left him in the desert with this hands tied. As I wrote in the post with my initial impressions on the movie, this is the most uncalled for, mean-spirited thing he does in the entire movie, and getting the caption right here makes it really drip with irony, which is exactly the right thing to do with it, compared to if they'd put it earlier when it might have looked like it was meant to be played straight. There's no gallant hero here, only this guy, who is kind of a bastard. Blondie genuinely grows to deserve the title more as we go on, and that's one of the fun things about the movie, but we have established that the base point is low.

Blondie's intro tells us a number of things: he's a very good shot, casually confident, silent and stoic and unruffled by most anything, happy to be a conman ripping off bounties by bringing in criminals and then freeing them again to repeat the same scheme elsewhere, willing to make oblique threats to get his way and to shoot first when anyone seems about to pull a gun on him, and enough of a bastard to leave Tuco behind in the desert. But he's definitely the most enigmatic of the three main characters; he doesn't talk or emote much, leaving exactly what's going on in his head pretty vague and open to interpretation, even as some of his actions are pretty striking and interesting. This has nerdsniped me, because I enjoy thinking about what's going on in characters' heads; please be prepared for an excessive amount of analysis of what might be going through his mind in almost every scene he's in.

Angel Eyes and Maria

The choice to open this scene with Maria getting thrown off a carriage with a bunch of drunk Confederates and the choked-up yell of "You filthy rats!" after them is probably largely just to get across the suggestion that she's a prostitute, making it easier to connect that she's the one Angel Eyes' informant told him about. But I appreciate that it gives her a little bit of a tragic existence outside the confines of the plot and makes her sympathetic even before Angel Eyes starts beating on her. (A secondary purpose for this is also probably to show some Confederate soldiers just being assholes; the film makes a point of featuring both sympathetic and asshole moments from both sides of the Civil War.)

Like with Stevens, while Angel Eyes makes his presence very threatening, he starts off nonviolently (well, relatively; the way he pulls her inside is not exactly gentle), just telling her to go on talking about Bill Carson -- but when she refuses to volunteer any information and just says she doesn't know him, the claws come out instantly. There's none of the veneer of casual friendliness he had with Stevens, though, just an intensely scary stare and threatening demands. (The scare chord playing in the background doesn't help.) All in all, Angel Eyes was already terrifying but he is even more so in this scene.

I do also appreciate that while the interrogation is brutal and deeply uncomfortable and thick with the danger of sexual violence, it does not go there -- he's physically but not sexually violent, he's only interested in the information, and once he has it, we see him just leave. This is a completely sexless film, and I think we're all very lucky for that; it's one reason The Good, the Bad and the Ugly has aged relatively well, compared to for instance some of Sergio Leone's other films. (That's not to say I have anything against portrayals of sexuality or even sexual violence in media in principle, but I've gotten the sense that back in the sixties, media that did portray it tended to be profoundly weird about it.)

Tuco returns to town

We don't get to see Tuco suffering in the desert, only making his way across the rope bridge and then stumbling toward the well and finally indulging, but I think it does get across that this was an ordeal for him, and that becomes easier to appreciate on a rewatch, after seeing Blondie go through it later. Tuco's skin has fared a lot better than Blondie's, but his lips are pretty cracked.

The gun seller looks so proud of his little selection of revolvers and is so eager to please him by showing him more. It's painful how long he keeps trying to be helpful in selling him a gun even when Tuco just grabs the bottle of wine out of his hands and dismantles half of his guns to put together a custom revolver. And then Tuco just uses the gun, with a cartridge the owner gave him, to rob him of the money he has in the till, oof.

Man, those targets just casually in the shape of Native Americans.

Sergio Leone just has a thing for characters shoving something in somebody else's mouth unbidden, doesn't he. Blondie sticks his cigar in Tuco's mouth during his intro, then Tuco puts the sign in the shopkeeper's mouth, and then it happens very memorably in Once Upon a Time in the West as well. I forget if it's in A Fistful of Dollars or For a Few Dollars More, but at this point I wouldn't be surprised.

The gun store scene is theoretically skippable (Christopher Frayling's commentary indicated it was cut in British prints of the film, though I gather it survived in the US cut), but it's pretty fun in its audacity, and is also doing some good setup work for Tuco's character. So far, apart from his intro suggesting some degree of scrappy ability to shoot before he gets shot, he's been shown in a pretty ineffectual light, getting ambushed and captured and raging helplessly with his hands tied. But here we get to see that Tuco really knows his way around guns and has implausible trick-shooting skills to rival Blondie's -- and, of course, that he really is an unrepentant bandit who thinks nothing of doing this when he wants a gun and some money, lest we were left too sympathetic to him when Blondie left him.

The cave

Tuco presumably bought the chicken with some of the $200 he robbed from the gun store; he presents it like having a single chicken by itself is amazing riches. Does say a lot.

I enjoy his very blatant talking to himself about how oh, he's so lonely, but he's rich, wonder where his friends are now. He clearly figures that Pedro/Chico/Ramon are there listening and just avoiding him. He talks like they were such great friends, but somehow the fact they don't come out until he starts loudly talking about how if only they were there he'd give them $1000 each doesn't make it seem like they ever had a relationship that went much beyond assisting each other in committing crimes to their mutual advantage -- and Tuco clearly in fact knows this, since he knows exactly what line to go for to lure them out. (But no, Tuco definitely has great friends, because he is a cool and well-liked dude who has definitely made good choices in life.)

I've seen people online suggesting that Blondie and Tuco ran their scam a lot more often than the two times we actually see, but this scene seems to make it explicit that they only did it exactly those two times: Tuco specifically indicates Blondie has $4000, which is simply equal to half of the first $2000 bounty that they split plus the entire $3000 bounty for the second time that he kept for himself.

This is one of the scenes added in the Extended Cut, despite having been cut even from the Italian version of the movie after its original Rome premiere. The primary ostensible purpose of it is just to establish where Pedro/Chico/Ramon came from (the featurette on the restoration makes it explicit that the guy overseeing the Extended Cut, John Kirk, just thought it was a plot hole and decided to reinsert the scene when he discovered it existed because of that, despite Sergio Leone himself having decided to cut it for pacing reasons). It is true I think I would probably ask myself some questions about Tuco's buddies if I'd seen a cut without it; Tuco's seemed like a lone wolf so far, and without it there's no indication at all of who these guys are or why they're working for/with him for this.

On the other hand, the scene kind of sets them up as if they're a lot more important than they are, and its internal coherence feels a little off: them only coming out when Tuco tempts them with money, despite that Tuco's been there for a bit talking at them about what good friends they were, actively suggests they don't actually like or trust him (which makes good sense!), but then it also has this dialogue about how they thought he'd been killed, which feels as if it's randomly offering up an unnecessary and somewhat contradictory second explanation for why we haven't seen them with him up to this point. The bit about them thinking he was dead doesn't actually connect to anything and seems to give undue weight and improperly conserved detail to Tuco's relationship with these guys, who are ultimately just some throwaway goons that exist in one scene before dying and never being mentioned again. I think probably the movie is actually better off without this scene, as Sergio Leone apparently concluded himself.

The inn

More of the war in the background -- this time with the innkeeper privately opining about how those rebels are cowards and it'll be better when the Yankees have beaten them as the Confederate army retreats out of the town, only to then yell "Hurray for Dixie!" as they're passing by. Not the only character in this movie who just pretends to support whichever army he's currently looking at. (We see more injured soldiers in the background here.)

Love the tension of the buildup here. Blondie's gun lying dismantled on the table at the start, the brothers approaching in the midst of all the noise, the close-up of Blondie's hand freezing and eyes narrowing at the clink in the sudden silence, straining to hear as there's nothing (the fact it stopped when the army did actively suggests someone's trying to be sneaky), then frantically loading the revolver with a second-third-fourth bullet as the background noise restarts and then juuuust managing to finish and shoot the three of them in rapid succession as they burst in. These silent close-up shots of his hands and eyes also deliver a rare moment of tangible alarm from Blondie; he's legitimately scared for a bit there and you can feel it, which is greatly appreciated from a character who spends most of the movie being stoic and enigmatic.

Enjoy Blondie choosing to explain how he knew they were coming by going, "Your spurs," just before firing the final shot (just giving this guy a little tip about where he messed up before killing him, as you do), but also I deeply enjoy that him firing that last smug bullet, which he probably didn't really need to when the guy was collapsing anyway, leaves him defenseless when Tuco draws attention to himself at the window. Blondie is very smart and competent, we've just watched him survive three people sneaking up on him while he's cleaning his gun because he managed to notice the tiny sound of a clinking spur and put together what it meant and load his gun in time, but then he makes this near-fatal mistake by getting a little too cocky about it, and that's definitely tastier than if he'd obviously needed all his bullets there.

I have seen it suggested that Tuco intentionally used the brothers as cannon fodder here, but I'm not sure the movie necessarily suggests that; presumably the idea was for them to successfully sneak up on Blondie and catch him completely unawares without the unexpected silence exposing the rogue spur clink, which wouldn't have had to involve any of them getting killed (heck, if they'd happened to be just a little earlier, Blondie would've still been in the middle of cleaning his gun). Tuco and the others had clearly talked about their approach ahead of time, so they were perfectly aware that they'd be going up there by the door and Tuco would be coming in by the window and presumably thought that sounded like a good plan. And we have no idea exactly at what point Tuco managed to make his way in, so we don't have any indication either way on whether he theoretically could have intervened to save them in some manner -- my first assumption would be he got in after Blondie had stood up, which is after he shot them. Sneaking up on him from two different directions makes sense either way. I wouldn't necessarily put it past Tuco to figure the brothers will probably get killed and do it anyway, but I don't think we can say that for sure.

Either way, I enjoy Tuco doing his quick little sign of the cross when he says "Those that come in by the door." He did in fact just get them killed by bringing them here, and while he's not going to say anything about that to Blondie, it shows him acknowledging it in a small way. Tuco's religiosity is a great little character trait that has no impact on the plot but just adds more color and dimension to him as a character -- it adds a really fun bit of visual irony to punctuate some of his various decidedly un-Christian actions, and it has a rich sense of being rooted in his background given his family was presumably religious.

Blondie's shrugging, "It's empty," feels like he's initially kind of expecting them to just talk: he takes Tuco wanting him to remove the pistol belt as a practical thing, just telling him to remove his weapon so he can put his away, and so Blondie removes it but tells him that's not really necessary because he can't shoot him anyway. Tuco could have shot him already if he were here to kill him, right? He probably expects, initially, that Tuco is just here to get his half of the money, or possibly all of it.

Instead, Tuco responds with, "Mine isn't" -- he's deadly serious and he's not putting his gun away at all.

"Even when Judas hanged himself there was a storm, too." There's Judas again! Tuco originally called Blondie that while playing it up for the scam, but as far as he's concerned now, it's true actually. Love the furious energy of him sitting there having found this Biblical parallel and decided this is the specific revenge he wants on this guy and bringing a noose to arrange that. Blondie's never had a rope around his neck, never felt the devil bite his ass? Well, now he will. And he'll make him do it himself, because Judas hanged himself.

Blondie warily (and correctly) suggests the 'storm' is actually cannon fire -- because he decidedly does not want to be anywhere near the war, and by the time cannons are getting fired in the vicinity, he thinks they should probably be getting the hell out of there, and if Tuco agrees, then perhaps pointing that out is a ticket out of this pretty alarming situation he has found himself in. But Tuco, of course, is not really interested in entertaining that just when he has Blondie right where he wants him. He's going to hang him right here if it's the last thing he does.

Blondie goes along with it, slowly, silently, looking kind of wary and skeptical more than anything. When I was first watching this movie, I kept expecting him to do something, to distract him in some clever way and then lunge at him to disarm him or something, like you'd usually expect the main character to do in an action movie. But the thing is that's just not how Blondie operates. He doesn't do bold risky action-hero feats. He can absolutely shoot a gun with the best of them, but he has no particular physical skills, never even throws a punch in this whole movie unless you count the backhand slap on the tied-up Tuco earlier; when unarmed, all he's really got is his brains. Blondie gets by on being smart and careful and analytical. When Blondie finds a gun pointed at him, and has no leverage over the other guy, he will do what he's told, make no sudden movements, and wait until he sees some kind of actual opening, because otherwise he's just going to get shot. He buys what little time he can going along with the hanging while his brain silently whirs away evaluating his options for how he can get out of this, and that's about it for what he can do.

What are his options? He doesn't have a lot. Tuco is standing too far away to reach before he shoots but too close to realistically miss, never takes his eyes off him for more than a second, keeps his gun pointed squarely at him. It wouldn't be hard for him to get out of the noose -- it's a big noose, he's barely in it, his hands are free. But if he did, Tuco would presumably just shoot him instead. Probably his best chance, once Tuco says he's going to shoot the legs off the stool, is to try to make a move just when he fires, slip out of the noose and then probably make some kind of last-ditch attempt to overpower him before he's ready to shoot again, and I imagine Blondie was getting ready to attempt just that before they were interrupted. But even then, it's very questionable whether he could have actually escaped like that. All in all, things are looing pretty dicey for him by the time the rogue cannonball comes to his rescue -- but once it does, he's out of there fast, grabbing his chance now he's got it.

Either way, as little as he gives away as it's happening, Blondie's genuinely staring death in the face here for this whole sequence, and this experience clearly left enough of an impression on him for him to make a point of turning this specifically back on Tuco in the final scene, even though Tuco's going to torment him in a much more extended and agonizing way in the desert, so I'm enjoying the quiet implication there.

The cannonball is kind of interesting because this is absolutely a textbook deus ex machina. Usually I like the rule that a contrived coincidence can get the characters into a situation but ideally not out of it. This is definitely getting Blondie out of a situation, and definitely has that sense of being a little unsatisfying as the answer to how's he going to get out of this one. And yet, the fact Blondie really was helpless to do much about it is kind of the point here. If Blondie had actually won out in this encounter, it wouldn't have nearly the same meaning when he finally ends up turning the situation around in the desert, nor when he tells Tuco to get in the noose at the end -- narratively, we need this to be an instance of Tuco beating out Blondie and then toying with him for it to have the right impact, and hence, since he can't actually die here, he needs to get out without winning.

(It does also help a bit that the ongoing cannon fire was already set up and established, even if it just happening to hit the building is purely coincidental.)

Being saved by a cannonball, of course, is again the constant insistent presence of the war in the background, now coming into the characters' lives just a bit more directly.

Meanwhile, Tuco in this scene, man. He is finally the one in the position of power, just relishing having control and being able to order Blondie to do things and have him actually do them and the grim sense of justice in seeing him be the one in a noose for once. Cheerful lines like, "It's too big for your neck, huh? We fix that right away." Grinning as he explains that he'll shoot the legs off the stool. But then when it comes to actually doing it… he takes an extra breath, with this kind of hesitant expression on his face, before echoing Blondie's "Adios." As he points the gun, it's shaking a bit. Tuco doesn't feel totally right here and I love it a lot.

Tuco does absolutely want to see Blondie suffer right now -- we're about to see him chase him down again so he can torture him in an even more drawn-out and awful way, after all. But once he actually kills him it'll all be over, and he just goes back to his usual shitty bandit life, one more person that he'd once thought was a friend gone. This has been a couple of minutes of mildly satisfying catharsis, but not totally satisfying, too brief, too easy -- and there's probably some basic squirm of empathy there, when he's been in that position, can vividly remember the squeeze of the rope -- but the bastard deserves this for betraying him, so he's doing it anyway.

All in all, this is possibly the scene I have rewatched the most. This is significantly because I happen to have a big dopamine whump button in my brain labeled 'HANGINGS', but it's also just a sequence of masterful tension leading up to this delightfully twisted, tense and thoroughly loaded character interaction following on the previous scenes between Tuco and Blondie in fun specific ways that build up to even more fun things later. What a character dynamic.

The fort

I don't have too much to say about this one. It's a very impressive set, the war is brutal, the sarcasm of the Confederate captain Angel Eyes talks to and the ease of bribing him with some booze is nice foreshadowing and a parallel for the poor Union captain Blondie and Tuco will meet, but ultimately this scene is mostly about filling in how Angel Eyes learns about Batterville. (Or is it Betterville? The subtitles say Batterville and that's what it sounds like everyone's saying, but Christopher Frayling and the subtitles on him say Betterville.) This is a restored scene in the Extended Cut, which exists in the Italian version but was cut from the International Cut.

Angel Eyes pauses and swallows looking at the injured soldiers and later lets the captain keep the booze he brought, vaguely suggesting a glimmer of sympathy for their plight, which is sort of interesting but also a little divorced from the rest of the movie. Villains having different sides to them is neat, but I don't think we get a great sense of why Angel Eyes would be sympathetic to these men but also treat the prisoners at Batterville -- who are soldiers from the Confederate army just like these ones -- how he does later with zero remorse, so I'm not sure this is actually doing much for the movie on a character level in the end, and if anything may be a little counterproductive to the kind of extremely cold-blooded villain that Angel Eyes is otherwise set up to be.

I suppose the idea might be that Angel Eyes is theoretically capable of sympathy, but also capable of simply discarding it the moment it's useful to him. Alternatively, the idea could be that at the moment he feels in some sense that if the war catches up with him he could be in these soldiers' place, but then he goes on to enlist with the Union army to get into Batterville, at which point he's on the winning side so who cares. Angel Eyes does display nerves later at the truel, once he's in a situation he's not in control of where he might very well die, so maybe it checks out that while he feels not totally secure in not winding up like these men himself, their grim conditions get to him a bit.

I do think it is kind of nice to have this scene in terms of keeping Angel Eyes' storyline going and maintaining the sense that he's still out there looking for Carson, even aside from the added plot clarity; without it, he'd just kind of not exist for a very significant chunk of the film.

I've also seen it argued that it brings out the horrors of the war too early, given the film's slow progression from the war as simply backdrop for the plot to eventually spending the leadup to the climax with it in stark focus. I think that's a legitimately interesting point, but also that it didn't stop me absorbing that progression just fine when first seeing the film as the Extended Cut -- soldiers are injured here, yes, but they aren't truly lingered on, and all in all it felt mostly just like a logical part of the established war-as-backdrop at this stage.

All in all, I have some mixed feelings on this scene and what it contributes, but I'm tempted to conclude the film might be better without it overall.

The desert

Tuco tracking down Blondie by finding his cigars at every campfire is pretty hilarious. Imagine what Blondie could have avoided if he just stopped smoking like a chimney.

(It's sort of surprising Blondie got so far ahead of Tuco to begin with -- he wouldn't have had long to get downstairs and to his horse while Tuco was recovering from the fall and getting out of the rubble, so one would've thought Tuco could've been basically right on his heels. I guess Tuco went in the wrong direction initially and had to catch up.)

Tuco forbidding Blondie to shoot down Shorty, oof. Once again Tuco is fundamentally out for himself, and right now he wants to deny Blondie this more than to let this stranger live, so down he goes. (Nonetheless, he flinches watching it, again bit of instinctive empathy despite that he mostly suppresses it -- it hits pretty close to home.)

Blondie continues to comply with the orders of the guy who's pointing a gun at him, but he clearly doesn't feel great about this, apologizing, gaze lingering on Shorty even as he's preparing to stand up. Clearly his moral line lies somewhere between leaving Tuco to fend for himself (where he might die, but sometime later in the desert where Blondie would never know) and letting Shorty hang, dying right in front of him when he was expecting a rescue. Perhaps Blondie didn't even know he had this line until now.

A moment of silence for Blondie's original horse, whom he probably rode out here, but who is presumably just left behind as Tuco takes him away and never seen again. This movie does not really give a damn about individual horses -- the characters' horses repeatedly disappear and go unmentioned only for them to later manage to get a different horse somewhere without comment -- but as a former horse girl this is the sort of thing I notice and wonder about.

Blondie presumably initially figures Tuco's just taking him somewhere a short distance away to try to make him hang himself again or something. But then Tuco shoots the canteen out of his hands, and the hat off his head for good measure (love Tuco casually replicating Blondie's little hat-shooting trick just to rub it in), and it starts to sink in that no, that's not it, is it. Where are they going? On a nice walk of a hundred miles through desert. "What was it you told me the last time? Ah, 'If you save your breath, I feel a man like you would manage it.'" Tuco's not taking him anywhere; this is just torture, once again a very specific torture. Blondie made Tuco walk seventy miles through the desert? Tuco'll make him walk a hundred miles, or however long it takes before he dies a slow and agonizing death, and that'll show him. I deeply enjoy how in this movie, between the two of them, it's never just generic revenge, but always this hyperspecific replication of the other's previous cruelties.

Tuco's cute pink parasol is such a choice.

He's so utterly gleeful watching Blondie helplessly stumbling until he faceplants in the sand. Tuco relishes power and control when he can get it, not only for the Blondie-specific reasons (Blondie had all the power from beginning to end in their bounty scheme, and exercised it to leave Tuco helpless) but probably also because of his background -- poverty sure is a way to feel perpetually helpless and subject to external whims, and escaping it through banditry probably represented a sense of freedom from all that, where he can just go out and take what he wants and other people can be subject to his whims for once.

In the sequence added in the Extended Cut, the collapsed and dehydrated Blondie looks at Tuco's boot right beside his face, swallows, tenses for a heave of effort -- and then grabs the boot, only for it to just be the empty boot, Tuco cheerfully bathing his feet a short distance away. (Blondie is definitely suffering from the "characters can't see anything out of frame" thing here, but I kind of enjoy the literal implication that his eyes can just barely even focus and the boot manages to be all he can make out in his field of vision, even if it stretches plausibility a bit.) I do quite like this bit, not least because this is the one time we actually properly see Blondie attempting resistance. He silently went along with the hanging and he silently goes along with the desert walk, too -- which makes sense, because he's being ordered to at gunpoint, and as I went into earlier, he doesn't have action hero armor that'd let him do much to fight back in these situations without just getting shot, and he's generally too careful to try under the circumstances. But it means that he feels very passive in these sequences, and seeing this moment where he finally does think he has a chance to strike back, and the hate in his eyes and how painstakingly he gathers all of the energy he can muster to grab it, helps a lot to contextualize the rest and make him more tangibly an active character who cares what's happening to him for this. With this bit, it's easy to extrapolate that he has been waiting for any chance to take him down this whole time, and this is the one time he (seemingly) finds one. Without it, his character just has no sense of agency at all the entire time he's being tortured, which would mute the whole thing a bit.

(Well, okay: a little before this, there is this wide shot, where we can see Tuco stationary on his horse and Blondie walking towards him -- then stopping, extending his foot a little further forward and sort of pathetically lunging for that last step, at which point Tuco's horse just moves further away, and Tuco laughs. This might be, and is on closer examination probably meant to be, Blondie making some form of stumbling attempt to sneak up on him. But it's a wide shot so you can barely see him, it goes by in seconds, and it's hard to tell what he's actually doing -- he could just be trying to catch up to Tuco, which is how I think I'd mostly been taking it before I started squinting at this -- which makes it not really serve the same purpose.)

(I gather the script had a bit, which was filmed and possibly in a version of the Italian release in 1966 but lost today apart from a small fragment, where Blondie slides down a hill into an animal skeleton lying there and grabs a bone that he could use as a weapon, but Tuco shoots it out of his hand and warns him not to try that again. That would have also provided that bit of agency, but given that was cut, the boot scene was all that was left, and I do maintain that cutting that too is bad for the movie.)

After he realizes it's just the boot, and of course Tuco's not letting him get close, and he has no hope of getting one over on Tuco at this point, Blondie sort of slumps in defeat for a moment, and then looks up, and then starts to crawl towards the water. It's pretty painful to watch; the utter helpless humiliation of being so thirsty and drained of defiance that he would drink the water Tuco just washed his feet in is its own grotesque flavor of torture, and then Tuco won't even let him have that.

After that, Blondie manages to push himself onto all fours, looks at Tuco for a moment -- probably realizing that even if he tried to rush him right now it would accomplish absolutely nothing other than entertaining Tuco more -- and then just crawls away, finally going somewhere of his own volition. He's not going to make it far at this point, and if it looked like he might Tuco would just shoot him, but maybe he can at least die somewhere a bit further away from him.

Tuco stands up and initially reaches for his gun as Blondie crawls off, but then he just laughs, seeing that there's absolutely no danger of Blondie making it very far or shaking him off -- he can just casually pack up his stuff and then follow him at a leisurely pace.

In the Italian/Extended Cut, Blondie rolling down the hill is continuing from this, whereas in the International Cut, Tuco had just gotten off his horse to approach him after he initially collapsed, suggesting that collapse wasn't quite as bad and that he was just sort of continuing but on all fours -- gives it a little bit of a different air.

I do appreciate just how pathetic Blondie's crawl/roll down the hill is. He sort of picks himself up again after the initial stumble but then just collapses on his back, admitting defeat. He's going to die here and he doesn't have the energy to do anything about it. Tuco lets that bottle roll down and come to a stop by his head and he doesn't even react.

Tuco spends a moment just looking at him down there before bringing out his gun to put him out of his misery. Probably less out of desire to actually put him out of his misery and more out of seeing he's not going to be able to make Blondie walk anywhere further right now, and he's not going to sit around waiting, and definitely not leaving him alive.

Blondie barely moves as Tuco points the gun at him, just closing his eyes again and swallowing and accepting that this is it. At the inn he had a chance but this time is a full-on definitely thought he was going to die here and was powerless to stop it, and this is also something that Blondie turns back on Tuco at the end.

(And yet Tuco keeps pointing his gun to kill him and taking a while to actually fire it, doesn't he. Part of this is just the movie doing dramatic timing but part of it is a genuine slight hesitation on his part, as shown more obviously at the inn.)

But then comes runaway carriage ex machina, just in time! Tuco not just shooting him first before checking on it is another notable moment of hesitation on his part. Once again, we actually need a deus ex machina, because Blondie needs to have been totally helpless here or it would completely change the implications for what's being set up.

This is another good scene that I enjoy a lot, particularly Blondie getting ready to grab the boot, although I'm also just a big fan of exhausted, dehydrated men stumbling around deserts. It's very merciless and ugly (gotta love the energy of getting Clint Eastwood at his handsomest for your movie and then absolutely fucking up his face with the gnarliest-looking sunburn makeup), really thoroughly parses as torture where the hanging scene was more quiet buildup, and Tuco's absolute cruelty here versus Blondie's exhausted helplessness is very important in viscerally setting up why Blondie does what he does at the end. But I also enjoy how strongly Tuco's actions here are still rooted in the specifics of how Blondie treated him. I just really love the twisted, fucked-up way the whole chain of revenge is built up between the two of them, and how interestingly their relationship then develops with all that hanging over it.

The carriage

I appreciate that we see Blondie juuust prop himself up to look as Tuco goes to intercept it -- he goes on to discreetly crawl all the way to it during the sequence that follows while we're focused on Tuco, and briefly seeing that he takes an interest and has mustered a tiny bit of energy again helps set that up.

More of Tuco's religiosity as he does the sign of the cross multiple times over the corpse of the soldier who initially falls out… and then immediately loots the corpse. Oh, Tuco.

I remembered the amputee informant's description of how Bill Carson was missing an eye, so as soon as we saw one of the apparently-dead soldiers in the carriage wearing an eyepatch I was like ohhhhh!! The storylines are connecting!! (And we're more than an hour into the Extended Cut when it happens. This movie very slow-paced compared to a modern film and yet so thoroughly enjoyable.)

You can juuust see Carson starting to blink a bit as Tuco searches him.

Tuco standing there glancing to the right out of the corner of his eye when he hears a noise from the wagon, while by the rules of the movie he can't actually see anything over there, is very funny. He even waits a bit before turning around to point his gun, as if knowing whoever is there can't see him either until he turns.

Tuco interrogating Carson about the $200,000 while the latter begs for water is another truly painful scene; Tuco's only invested in the dollars and anti-invested in saving Carson's life ("Don't die until later!"), straining to get him to talk first for as long as he possibly can, until he figures the guy is going to straight-up croak before talking, at which point of course he switches tack. Presumably he thinks if he actually gives him water Carson's liable to change his mind about telling him anything, so he has to get it out of him first if at all possible.

I also enjoy his annoyance with Carson telling him about his name and having been Jackson before but now Carson; the audience needs him to say his name, and it's probably also helpful to mention he used to be Jackson, but to Tuco it's just a waste of time. "Carson, Carson, yeah, yeah. Glad to meet you, Carson. I'm Lincoln's grandfather. What was that you said about the dollars?"

Tuco repeats the name of the cemetery near the very end of the exchange with Carson: "Sad Hill Cemetery, okay. In the grave, okay. But it must have a name or a number on it, huh? There must be a thousand, five thousand!" - which means that, since Blondie doesn't know the name of the cemetery (unless Blondie did know it the whole time and just pretended not to, which I guess we can't really rule out), he can't have been listening in by this point. Directly after this, Tuco tells Carson not to die and goes to get water. So Blondie pretty much can't have caught any of the stuff about the cash when Carson said it originally, and can't have known the full strategic significance of talking to him beforehand.

Instead, Blondie probably quietly crawled after Tuco with the aim of maybe being able to get the jump on him while he's distracted with whatever this is, and he only got close enough just at the end to see Tuco talking to Carson and telling him to not die. Then, as Tuco ran off for the water, Blondie obviously could not follow him back there, but instead crawled the rest of the way to the back of the wagon to see who Tuco's so desperate to keep alive, where Carson managed to gasp out something about a grave marked 'Unknown', next to Arch Stanton, and that it had money in it (Blondie does definitely learn there's money, since he then knows to use that as leverage). This is supported by how Blondie just refers very nonspecifically to having been told a name on a grave. He's really pulling a bit of a bluff here since he doesn't (presumably) know what cemetery this grave is in, so if Tuco hadn't happened to have learned that bit (which Blondie can't know), this information would not actually be that useful to either of them. But so long as he can make it sound like he can lead Tuco to riches right now, he has an actual shot at surviving.

I enjoy the way Blondie manages the tiniest wisp of a victorious smile to Tuco's "What name?!" just before passing out. The moment he sees Tuco's furious desperation to learn the name he's talking about, he knows he's won and that Tuco's going to do whatever he can to ensure his survival. He can pass out in peace.

Tuco's shifty eyes and expressions as he has to reevaluate everything are great. Eli Wallach really, really just makes this movie with his performance. I love Blondie and all, and Clint Eastwood in his thirties is very attractive, but I think it's criminal that I had heard about this movie and about Clint Eastwood being in it but had never heard Eli Wallach's name. He's so good and singlehandedly makes Tuco the best thing about it. I love him.

And there comes the Tuco tack-switch! He's not just invested in keeping Blondie alive for the money; he's his friend! As if this is somehow going to be persuasive to the man he's just spent hours torturing and toying with.

I love this absolutely bonkers goddamn character dynamic. First Blondie saves Tuco from the bounty hunters, then he apparently turns him in for the bounty, then you learn actually they're running a scam together, then Blondie screws over Tuco in a way that makes you kind of root for Tuco to get back at him, then Tuco painstakingly, cruelly labors to punish him for it in the most specific twisted ways until you're anxious for how Blondie's going to get out of this, then this happens… and because Tuco is the character he is, of course it works. He is already the guy who switches tack on a dime when it seems to serve him in the moment. We've just spent this whole carriage scene building up how singlemindedly fixated he is on this money once he hears about it. There are already so many striking layers going on in the interplay between these two guys and it makes it delicious to realize we've just added yet another layer and the rest of the movie is going to involve them having to work together after all this. And because it's the cash box from the Angel Eyes storyline, we're following up on that too in the process, with the also-delicious implicit promise that that's how they're going to bump into him. This is just such a gleefully fun and satisfying moment where everything comes together and I love it.

(Continued in part two! Thanks for reading if you got this far.)

#the good the bad and the ugly #ramble #review #character analysis #blondie #the man with no name #tuco ramirez #angel eyes #sentenza #movies #my buttons

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spoiled-fawn · 1 year ago

Text

Meeting Kyle

Western AU; Mail Order Spouse Trope

WC: 3,120 CW: None

AN: GAZZA BAYBEE! This is my first time writing for Gaz and I know it's not much, but I hope to portray him as something we can all enjoy. Would love to hear your thoughts and comments, as well as any questions, my asks are open. I hope ye enjoy <3

Please see the Introduction for the explanation and precursors to the scene.

Introduction, Biography

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The quiet of the night emanates with the crickets chirping, small scuffles of feet around the block, and a handful of buildings creaking in the late-night wind. You can barely see the outline of words using the dim street lights to help you read over the candidates.

No… No… Yes.

Your eyes, and faint tug of your heart, settle on Kyle’s advert. In a hopeless romantic fashion, you could feel the daydreams begin.

Folding the paper and stuffing it in your shirt, then glancing around before heading off to your home, you walk with a rushed sense of urgency. Everything good, bad, and ugly, flys into your mind. This could be a trap, what if he isn’t who he says he is, what if hundreds of others have already written to him?

Well, it's better than this. It's a quick scan of the hazardous and dirty mess that rages inside your house walls. Passing quickly to your bathroom, you take out the paper again before looking in the mirror.

Can you see yourself in the low lights of a saloon? Helping old bastards get drunk after a day of hard work, smiling sweetly, or raising a fist when needed? Can you hold appearance to being a town favorite so he would get good business?

Your mind steals your active attention while bathing, letting the lukewarm water wash the day’s dirt away from you. No criminal record? Check, and with no debt. No early mornings but now late nights? That's a life you could get used to. Attractive? Well shit, if the politician sought you out, then yes. You’re quite the diamond in the rough.

As if you were in a spell, you blink and break the dissociation you entered to realize yes, you could see that for yourself. You can. Could. Would.

Now in your bedroom after the bath, you quietly maneuver the floorboards to cut any chance of waking up your parents or any sudden appearance that would erase this mission of yours.

Now being able to read, Kyle was one of the younger candidates in the newspaper and even from his short paragraph and singular photo, he seemed like a man who was down to earth. Maybe someone who knows how to have fun, but has enough structure and discipline for himself to become so successful at such a young age. In your writing, you tried your best to express your goals, how you could help his own, and how you could blossom together in his new beginning.

The next few days were filled with constant anxiety and metaphorically looking over your shoulder. Acting like a nervous dog as your parents began to crowd you with an overbearing sense of control. A child with a leash on, constantly trying to pull away.

The 5th day after sending your correspondence leaves you will a dejected heart. Now on the farm working, you heard the bell attached to the mailer wagon approach the gate. Common for you to take the mail for the Laswells, you head to take the mail but give a confused glance as the mailman hands you a letter while reading out your name. “This one here ‘s for ya.” Is all he supplies before heading back down the road to continue his route.

A neat and small scrawl is seen across the front and is enough to make your heart race.

Kyle expressed himself very well; his boyish charm and a hint of his flirty attitude already coming across. Describing himself as friendly, outgoing, and respectful. He confided in how he feels most alone when the customers leave, when he gets into bed in the cold chill of the night, alone.

Even in his writing, his charming and playful lines were able to make you smile, having to bite your lip to keep your bubbling excitement inside. The words he uses, and the sweet-toothed candor in his writing show a difference from your upbringing; daddy and mommy issues on your end, if you will, while the feeling of his young soul shines through with assuredness. You and Kyle wrote of both wanting someone to make life feel easy. Kyle wants to find his muse; the inspiration to his business and light up his world on the cloudiest of days.

In the dark of the late evening after leaving work late, you head to the post office to collect an expected letter. A common habit now so you could dream of him and any fantasies your mind could create. Now just entering the 6th week of exchanging letters, you stand shocked as you re-read the page.

“... I hope to see you soon, enclosed is the means to make it my way. Cheers to you honey, I’ll be waiting for you…”

In your hands lays your one-way ticket to get out of your contained life. In his letter and now in your hands are directions, a map, and a one-way train ticket for you to leave home.

The thrum of your blood is loud in your ears, louder than your footsteps running across the ground. Making your way back home, you begin packing what you’ll need for the barren desert climate.

Fully awake and adrenaline pumping, you slink into your house with practiced ease and silence to determine what you’ve walked into tonight. From the hallway, you can see your parents strewn across their bed with measured breathing; It's safe to move around and get yourself together.

It's an hour later when you make your way to leave, yet when passing through the living room for one last look, you decide to get a small keepsake to celebrate your new beginning while simultaneously giving a big fuck you to your parents.

Plucking a set of fine glassware of your father's, the ones that he valued more than keepsakes from your parent's wedding, the soft clink of the glass buried in your bag brings a sweet grin to your lips.

You’d scold yourself later for not taking a bottle of whatever liquor was there but wouldn’t want to test your luck by getting drunk when it was your first time on a train.

The trip was only four days long, not leaving you with much time to prepare to meet Kyle. Instead, you begged your mind to create a true representation of him, re-reading his letters often as you imagined him. The times that you were able to sleep with the soft lull of the train were filled with possibilities of what your life in a budding environment, alongside a man who had built his life up from scratch and stayed so charming through it all.

On the train into Northern Arizona, the red rock was enchanting, to say the least. Arriving late into the morning on Saturday, you take a mildly comfortable pace after stepping off the train station to make your way to the center of town with wide eyes as the glimmer of the early morning sky creates a calm blue haze.

It takes a bit of time before you walk far enough to come across the sign painted atop a brick building in the the upper edge of Main Street. You could laugh about how lost you knew you looked, but before stopping to ask someone, the creme-colored letters Free Falling Saloon appear before you.

Taking a moment to commend yourself for making it this far, a steady breath draws in and out of your lungs. With a small flutter in your stomach, you push open the saloon doors and are greeted with the sight of the bar; stained oak and birch woods, various colored glass bottles lining the back wall, dried animal skulls hung up, cowboy hats, sombreros, and a large mirror that has a ledge full of lit candles.

The loud sound of a crate being put on the bar makes you startle, hand jumping up to your chest before your eyes find the source of the noise.

“Sorry, pardner, we ain't open till-” The smooth voice rings out with a dreary tone- making him seem tired of probably having to repeat this line over and over again. After a moment, his warm deep eyes move up to find yours but his jolt of surprise doesn't escape you.

His eyes, body, and soul, seemingly freeze as he sets his eyes on you and stares. Granted, you're staring right back while the pull of a growing smile begins to pull at the edge of your lips.

His facial hair isn’t much, but it's enough to shape his face and make him seem like he’s a bit older than the photo he sent. His hair somewhat short and in tight curls on his head, making him have a unique style he could probably attest to developing from home.

Your stomach does flips at how stunning he is, but when he smiles- All gods be damned. He’s the finest man you’ve seen and you wonder if you’re going to chase off harlots from stealing him every night.

“Hi, Kyle.” Is all that leaves you, and it's monumentally soft in how it leaves your lips, making you swear you could see him melt a bit.

The movement of his mouth catches your eyes but the lack of sound coming out draws a soft peal of laughter from you. Taking a step forward, he matches you while bumping into a few glass bottles along the way.

Your bags make soft thuds against the floor, both sets of footsteps soft with trepidation yet building excitement. Each set of eyes scans the other, with sincere and almost unapologetic disbelief as you come face to face.

He whispers your name out in amazement, raising his hands to cup your face. “You’re real… You’re really real.” He breathes, voice soft. His inviting eyes drink in your appearance while his smile grows, and then feel yourself pulled into a tight hug in his strong arms.

A soft noise of surprise leaves you, arms trapped within his hold making you laugh in response. Settling to wrap your arms around his waist, you squeeze right back. He smells like citrus and hints of cinnamon amongst it.

When thinking of the Arizona Territory, you thought it would be the rumored dry barren desert that holds tales of ghost stories; Unbearable heat that beats down and leaves many delusional for an oasis. But him. Kyle. He’s the damned warmest thing you've wrapped your arms around.

But hey, you’ll probably become delusional for this man too.

“You’re real.” You copy back with a muffled voice. Basking against his muscled chest, which you will return to later, you peak up. “Thought this was some dream like I was going crazy coming here.” The addition is a soft and unconfident reply, possibly gaslighting yourself into still believing so.

The rumble of his soft laugh brings a sweet vibration to your chest, "I know, Honey. You're safe now, you're home." He assures while moving his head back slightly so his face is now a few inches from yours, smiling softly. “I wrote you way too much to let you get stuck in some sort of dream world without me. Hardest parts’ over.”

Affirming his response, a grin plants itself on your lips as you hum lowly. “Hardest parts over.” You parrot back with relaxed accomplishment.

The arms around you give a tight squeeze, and the warmth of his lips presses against your forehead. “You’re gonna make me crazy. Can already tell.” He murmurs, the easy smile held against your skin, and you already want to curse yourself for letting him make it seem so easy. Why not let him?

Before you can respond, he takes a step back to look at you, his brown eyes sparkling in the flickering light of the room."You wanna see our place?" He asks curiously, stepping forward to take your hand and guide you to a door behind the bar, a tucked-away staircase hiding beside a wall of crates. "You're not gonna wanna leave once you see where you'll be stayin'. Let's set your bags down first, though." He laughs, confidently leading you while intertwining your hands.

You’re greeted with an apartment-style home; An eclectic mix of furnishings, all the way down to the pictures and artwork on the walls. It's a mix of Western and Southern charm, with just a hint of New Orleans to signify where he’s from.

A couch sits against one wall near a bay window, the curtains drawn back to let in the sunlight. A kitchenette rests in the corner of the room, and you see a separate room that appears to be a bedroom. There is a large bay window at the end of the room, facing the view of the Jerome hills. Kyle motions for you to follow him to the bedroom.

“It ain't much, just a cozy place for two,” he says softly, moving close to you again as he steals your bags and gently rests them atop a dresser.

In truth, he’s right. It’s not much, but it's a beginning for both of you that he has just a bit of a head start on. Yet, it's so much more than you’ve hoped, dreamed, prayed, screamed, and cried for. Just a little piece of heaven to have and to hold.

“It’s us. That's all that matters.” You say, now walking slowly towards him to scan over the view that the bedroom window offers.

You can feel him staring, see him doing it too from the corner of your eye. “What?” The question tumbles from your mouth, turning to him with an eyebrow raised.

He smiles for a moment, chuckling before shaking his head. Slow steps, 1… 2… 3… bring him close enough to pull your hips and bring you towards him. “You’re right,” He whispers, pausing to smile and look at your lips. “Just us.” He answers in a hoarse murmur, leaning in closer and you can feel his breath across your lips.

“Is this where I say thank you for letting me be here?” You ask, eyes falling to his lips in response. There's a sweetness to this moment, that makes your head feel so light and clear while you can barely feel your heartbeat. It's something you’ve never felt before- because you haven't. Not this, not anyone like him. His hands reach forward to find their place on your jaw, the warmth of his palm grounding.

A huff of air leaves him, making your eyes flutter. “No, this is where I thank, you, Honeybee.”

His kiss is gentle and sweet, the gentle drag of his thumb across your hip bones adds to the warmth that floods your chest while his light stubble rubs against your face. Your arms travel up to wrap around his neck, adding to the invitation to make him stay, keeping him so close.

A groan leaves him, his hands squeezing the flesh on your hips before moving to wrap around your back. “You’re gonna be trouble, baby. Here you already makin' me wanna do nothin’ n’ lay in bed.” He grumbles lowly, nestling into your neck with a warm laugh.

You can feel the chemistry building, the close contact, and hold on each other making the scene grow more intimate. He draws a breath in, stealing another kiss from your lips before moving back and directing you to the dresser. “Here's where to put your things, le’s get you unpacked and comfortable. How's that sound?”

Nodding in response, you work on organizing your belongings while he makes room in a few drawers and half of the closet to accommodate you. “Woulda thought you’d have more than this sweetheart. Not keen on carrying much?” He asks, tone curious but a bit playful with the lazy grin on his face.

A small scoff leaves you, not in disdain of him. “Nah, wanted to get to you quick. But didn’t have much that was worth bringin.” You shrug in reply. “Honestly didn’t know what kinda weather was out here, thought I would be melting already.”

Kyle leans against the wall where the window is, watching you cross back and forth between the dresser and closet while deciding where to hang or fold your clothes. “I could get behind that.” He hums for a moment before looking into the distance. “I’ll have to tell you how I traveled all ‘e way out here. Had a few trunks to my name and got a whole wagon to get me out here.” He laughs, a sigh of a breath releasing from him as he recounts whatever memory plays in his head.

“What, you didn’t wanna make it in halfa one?” You respond quickly, almost like it's your second nature to be a little shit, now having the freedom to have some fun and relaxation of your personality.

He thinks, stares, and tilts his head. “You think you’s funny, yeah?” He asks, arms crossing over his chest with a Cheshire grin growing over his lips.

At this point, you think that maybe you should be giving this man more respect, maybe you should already be kissing his feet and thanking him for allowing you here. Eyes widening, your hands fly up in surrender. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t- I don’t mean any-”

He cuts you off with a shake of his head, bringing his hands out to catch yours when he steps to you. “Hey, hey. No, you’re okay. I know you were havin’ fun.” He comforts soothingly as his eyes scan yours.

Your eyebrows de-furrow, your mouth closing, but there's still a bit of alarmed widness in your eyes as you make sure he isn’t mad. “Thought I overstepped. ‘M sorry.” You whisper as your eyes dart over his face for any hint of emotion.

Something in Kyle shifts, a small and almost remorseful smile rests on his face. Are you that obvious? No, per se, since your situation is pretty damn unique.

“Hey.” He starts, “I want you to be comfortable here. You’re not gonna overstep. And if there ever was a situation where you did, I’ll let you know.” His hands bring yours up to his lips, laying soft kisses on your knuckles. “But please, please, tell me if I’m outta line with you. I know we ain't got much space but if you’d like me to sleep on the couch for a bit while we get to know each other, I will, Honeybee.”

In all honesty, you could cry. You didn’t believe in men like this being real, not after the shit you’ve seen. Could this be your lottery ticket after the amount of pain life has put you through?

Fuck, maybe. As long as you get to keep him, you’re in.

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brighttears · 6 months ago

Text

Cleardune Chapter 4: The Big, the Bad, and the Ugly

Joel Miller x f!reader

no physical description, no use of y/n

Summary: You wake up in Joel’s bed, barely making it home in time to serve breakfast. It’s a great start to your morning, but a conversation between Joel and Winona at the bar fades it into hurt when you’re reminded that he’s not staying in town. Still, you can’t help but agree to see him tonight. In the moonlight, you have a more vulnerable conversation. By the end of the night, you feel a bit better.

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: the usual pet names (darling, sweet thing, sweetheart, sweet girl,pretty girl, little lady; honey pie, girlie, honey, doll, and baby by a friend, not Joel), pining, explanation of reader’s mother’s death (illness), reader’s mother was involuntary primiparous, talk of violence

A/n: a little bit of 4 pain today...

Series masterlist

—

“Darlin’,” comes a soft voice just a bit outside of your reach of consciousness, matched with a strange, featherlight sensation somewhere on your face. All you can muster in response is something between a sigh and a moan, much too little sleep shuttering you incognizant. A pocket of warmth finds your cheek, and a recognized familiarity moves your body towards it. A chuckle rumbles in your ears, and a soft pressure around you is what finally wakes you up.

“What?” You let out softly, starting to open your eyes while your arms move on their own accord, grabbing at the figure with its arm already draped around your side. You squint, daylight streaming right into your face from the unshaded window, but you can make out that smile of his, the sight fluttering contentment through your chest.

“Hate to wake you, sweet thing, but good thing I did, cause we forgot to take you back to your bed last night, right upstairs from where I think you’re supposed to be real soon.”

You squint at him, sleepy bewilderment on your brow as you process, now propped up above him, one leg entwined with his and your hands resting lazily on his shoulders. The gears turn for a moment, stopped up by the gummy distraction of Joel’s body under yours, his sleepy smile and sleepier eyes under the most charming bedhead.

Finally, you realize, “The saloon,” and stumble off of him, planting your feet haphazardly on the floor, attempting to catch your bearings and find your pants.

Joel chuckles behind you, getting up much slower to sit on the edge of the bed.

“My fault, I should have taken you home last night.”

“‘S okay,” you reply, trying to blink yourself awake as you finally find your jeans and tug them on before searching on your hands and knees for your shoes. He chuckles again, stretching while you shove your feet into the shoes that had been kicked under the bed. When you finally stand, facing the door bleary eyed, his hands turn you by your waist to face him. “Aw, you’re not even awake yet.” His tone is guilty, “You’re gonna be slouched over the bar all damn day. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” You hum, almost unthinkingly brushing your palms over his cheeks, met by the apples perking up with his smile before he whispers, “You just keep gettin’ prettier.” You hum again, almost unsure whether or not this is a dream.

It’s a sudden shift from your daydreams and longings to actually being in Joel’s arms, having your hands on him, and then, his lips on yours. Automatically, you lean into him, keeping his face cupped in your hands. That same sensation of visceral comfort and thirst melts through your brain, and you can’t let him go. It must be real, because a feeling like this would surely be enough to wake you, so you finally pull away to take him in again.

“Sweet girl.” He whispers, rubbing your side, and as soon as the words leave his lips, you fall against him into an embrace, lazily sliding yourself into his lap. After a few moments of that honeyed pressure, he pulls back. “You better get going now ‘fore your pa notices you’re not where you’re s’pposed to be.”

You blink. “Shit.” Joel laughs. Reluctantly but with haste, you leave his arms to rush for the doorknob.

“Darlin’,” he calls behind you, and you turn once again to your blouse held out in his hand, an almost cheeky smile on his face.

“Good lord.” You mutter to yourself, shoving your arms through it and then starting on the buttons.

“Good lord is right, sweet thing, you’re a mess this morning.” Joel chuckles, lowering your hands gently to redo the mismatched buttons you’d gotten together. You watch him in a daze, partly from the lack of sleep, partly just from the sight of him there, sitting on the bed, naked, with his fingers buttoning you up just over your chest, a soft, amused smirk on his lips.

“Thank you,” you mumble, eyes stuck on him. When he looks up, there’s the sweetest look in his eyes, and he leans a small peck to your lips. “Now get, girl.” He smirks, turning your hips again and slapping your ass, pushing a small squeak out of you. Throwing a glance at him, you chuckle, almost a giggle, then finally find your way out of the room.

Once outside, you squint in the sun, trying to figure out the time. The sun tells you that you have maybe an hour until you need to be behind that bar; just enough time to throw yourself upstairs, in a dress, and get some sort of breakfast together. Thank god Joel did wake you when he did, because you’re not sure how your father would react to two late meals in a row.

There hasn’t been a reason to lose this much sleep in years, so you’re not at all used to it, making sure to concentrate on the buttons of your dress, before throwing eggs in a pan and trying not to accidentally slam the kettle on the burner. You force your eyes to widen, keeping the lids from drifting near closed as you saw uneven slices of bread, adding a little too much butter.

Just as the plates are landing on the table, your father rounds the corner, leaning his arm on the doorframe before dropping into his chair. As soon as you look at him, you can tell he’s hungover.

You clear your throat, trying not to let your grogginess show as you greet him, “Morning.”

“Morning.” He mumbles.

At the table, you shove eggs and bread in your mouth, heart sinking as you sense the fact that you’ll probably be at the bar until it closes. What an ideal day for that, you think to yourself, noticing the inefficient way your hand moves to loop around the ear of your mug to pour coffee down your throat.

Usually, there would be at least a few words over breakfast—a list of chores, an update on what liquors you’re running low on, but it’s silent this morning. Your father’s state almost makes you think that maybe he regrets his behavior yesterday, that maybe he didn’t really mean all those things he said, that that’s the reason he got drunk enough to be leaned over the table as he is now. But even if you're right, there’s no chance in hell he’ll apologize. Knowing that it doesn’t actually change anything, whether he regrets it or not, you shove the hope out of your mind. Regardless of his thoughts, he still treats you as he does, and you’re not waiting around for him to change.

It surprises you that you’re able to look at him at all without crying or inwardly flinching at least. But somehow, you feel a sort of freedom, knowing the truth. That he doesn’t care about you.

And, well, now you do have someone who cares about you, his memory currently highlighted by a soreness between your legs.

By far, that was the best sex you’ve ever had, and you can’t get it out of your head, hiding the hotness of your cheeks behind your mug at the memory of his breathy voice in your ear.

The few times you’ve fooled around in the past, it was basically silent, other than maybe a groan or exhale of air right before they left a mess on your stomach that they never bothered to help clean up. None of those boys lasted more than a minute or two, and it was ultimately less than satisfying. Joel, however… it felt like hours, and you were writhing underneath him for most of it, cumming harder than you have even by your own trusty hand. The kissing, the moaning, the feel of his hand on your skin, the taste of his spit in your mouth, the gentle pressure in your stomach with each bump he made. Unrivaled, pioneering, earth shattering, even, really.

You’re hooked, more than doomed. It almost makes you feel shallow, the fact that last night made you fall harder for him, but it’s not just how good it was, but how safe and cherished he made you feel. It was tender, loving—exactly as you suspected, you realize. Joel Miller is truly a dream come true. And how lucky you feel, to have had this angel walk through the doors of this very saloon right beneath you. Kismet is the word you decide to land on. The only prayer you have left is that he feels the same.

Pa has already finished breakfast while you daydream, the squeal of his chair knocking you out of it as he gets up to head straight back into his room. “Finish up quick,” he mumbles without even a glance, “folks are thirsty.”

Once he’s out of sight, you blow out a breath, dreading the long day ahead of you.

—

Henry is already ready and waiting, head bowed at the bar. Reminding you of your epic grogginess, you overpour his glass, quickly swiping your rag over the mess with a small “Pardon.”

“I ain’t complaining.” The weathered old man cackles, deep and ragged as he noisily sips the extra off the top. You snort a chuckle, cracking a smile. Being out of your father’s presence always makes you feel a tad bit lighter, today mix with your morning-after glow.

It’s not long until the bar is alive—this dead-end town’s standard of alive, that is, only the regulars filling a couple tables along with Bo’s weak attempt at spiriting background piano. Today, however, there’s the pleasant surprise of Winona Stowe, the plump woman’s eyes trained on you as she waltzes in with a knowing smile on her lips. It’s rare to see her here, but you think you know what the occasion is today.

“Just a beer, love.” She tells you as she slides onto a stool, keeping that smile. Your returning smile is shy, hoping to god you were quiet enough last night behind the walls separating your wild night from Winona’s ears. “Nice to see you again.” She smirks.

“Nice to see you again, too.” You respond quietly, wringing your hands together under the bar. You do trust her fully, the woman that’s always been almost like an aunt to you, but it’s still a bit embarrassing to be seen being nearly dragged into a room by a cowboy who only rolled into town less than a week ago.

“Don’t worry,” she assures you, “I ain’t here to rat you out or shame you or nothin’ like that, honey pie. Seems to be a good man, that one. Sweet n’ polite and clean, always there for some chit chat mornin’ and evenin’. Kind and gentle, which is the only kind of man you deserve, girlie.” Despite the bashfulness of your smile, you take in her words with true appreciation. You already know he’s a good man, but it’s nice to have that affirmed by her.

“Thank you.” You glance around before leaning closer. “I think so too.” Lower your tone, you whisper, “I really like him, Winona. I really do.”

She chuckles warmly. “I can tell, baby. Never seen you let someone pull you around like that, let alone smiling and blushing like you were. But, honey,” she leans in, “I know you don’t wanna hear this, but that man’s only passing through.”

Looking down, your tone echoes the fall of your heart. “I know.”

“Honey, baby,” she continues, voice offering solace as she leans in further to catch your gaze, “I’m telling you, too, to enjoy it. Hold onto what you got, which is a good thing, trust me.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Really, doll. He ain’t gone yet. You still have ‘im.”

You nod again, forcing your lips up into a small smile.

Just as she’s giving you another reassuring nod, you hear those spurs coming with the creaking gate of the saloon, and look up to see a wide smile walking through them. A near grin raises on your face as you straighten, hearing Winona chuckle.

“Morning.” Joel tips his hat, sitting down next to her.

“Morning.” Winona smiles back, that knowing lilt in her voice, and Joel bows his head to hide a blush that makes you feel almost smug.

“Whiskey?” You question, already grabbing a glass as he replies with, “Yes, ma’am.”

“And how are you doing this fine Wednesday morning, Joel?” His seated neighbor basically teases.

“Mighty well, I’d say.” He smirks back, then winks at you. Cheeks blazing, you turn around to straighten the bottles on the shelf as the two continue to converse.

“And how’s Petunia?”

“Right as rain, ma’am, appreciating the rest here in Cleardune.” “I’m sure she is, we’ve got pretty a free and easy town here, plenty of room to relax.” “You can say that again. Last town I was in, made out after only two days on account of the unfriendlies that slid through right behind me.”

“Yep,” Winona nods, sipping her beer, “we’re lucky, seemed to have kept our town a bit under wraps. Haven’t even had a gun even go off here in, what, couple years ya think, baby?”

“Yes,” you glance back to them, “I’d say so.” Internally, you begin to feel a little ungrateful, having only really ridiculed the calmness of your hometown.

“I reckon it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to extend your stay, Joel, maybe even take up a plot.” Winona continues, raising her brow at him.

“Well,” Joel looks down at the glass he fiddles with on the bar, “I don’t know about all that, now.”

Your shoulders slump.

“Well,” Winona sighs, “maybe you’ll change your mind.”

They chat for a while longer, you keeping yourself busy with your back turned for most of it, until Winona finishes off her beer and is back off to the inn. Joel has only done a couple sips off of his whiskey, watching you as you try to find things to do.

This morning’s glee has faded, and your lack of sleep has given way to some testiness. You hate to have a mood like that around him, but you can’t help it, stuck again on the idea of him just toying with you, teasing you by making you feel so much just to leave you hanging.

“Hey, darlin’,” he calls quietly after a while of mutual silence, “will I see you at the barn tonight?”

Your indisputable and apparently undaunted longing for him, mixed with lingering confidence in Winona’s words to you earlier, denies your urge to brush him off. You nod, though barely smiling. He surveys your expression for a moment before nodding back, then looks down to softly reply, “Well, I’ll see you then.”

He hangs around for only a few more moments before tipping his hat and making his leave. Once he’s gone, you plant your elbows on the bar and stick your hands in your hair, heart aching.

—

As suspected, you’re there until close, shutting it down just as dusk starts to set in, having not seen your father once, even when you took your pauses to serve dinner and supper. You’re sluggish as you close up, rag basically dragging over the counter as you finish up that last duty, blue and navy the only colors left in the sky by now. Honestly, you’d like to go straight to bed, but no way could you break your promise to meet with Joel. Not bothering to change or even sneak, you head straight through the saloon doors to head to the barn.

He greets you with a smile, walking to meet you at the barn doors. As soon as he’s close enough, he reaches out for you, running warm hands up and down your sides. “Evening, sweet thing.” He smiles.

“Hey.” is your simple reply, barely able to smile or meet his eyes.

His hands slow, worry briefly pinching his brow. “You alright?”

“Tired,” you sigh, forcing a smile.

“I’ll bet you are.” He chuckles softly, brushing your sides again. You study his face. There's a tinge of worry and question in his eyes, and you feel guilty, but it’s shrouded by remaining resentment. Though they threaten your tongue, you don’t dare ask the questions swirling in your head.

Are you really going to leave me? How many more nights do I have left with you? Would it be kinder for you not to even say goodbye? Will you someday just become a distant dream? How could you do this to me? How could you leave me?

Instead, all you do is lean into him, grasping the leather on his back as you fall into an embrace.

In his arms, you close your eyes, and hold him a little bit tighter. If this is all you get, then there's nothing you can do but be with him now. You breathe in, trying to pick out and take in every different bit of his scent, feeling the cool leather against your cheek, his breath rising and falling against your chest, his hand combed through your hair as it cups the back of your head.

Suddenly, there are tears in your eyes. Heart thrumming, you keep yourself locked against him, not wanting him to see; it would spark a conversation that would hurt too much. When his lips press against your hairline, you squeeze your eyes tighter, then swipe the wetness from your cheeks over his jacket when he pulls away.

“If you’d like to go right on home to bed,” he says softly, “a goodnight kiss is just fine with me, darlin’.” He smiles warmly, eyes soft with a contented look in them that only makes your heart ache more. If he's looking at you like this, could you really mean so little to him that he’s going to just up and leave? The uncertainty only pulls more pain from your chest, and you simply can’t deal with it any longer tonight.

But at the same time, and for the same reason, for the sake of the same pain, you can’t bring yourself to leave him for the night.

“No.” You answer quietly.

“Ok.” He replies just as quiet, fingers running softly up and down your back. “Stars are quite nice out tonight with the crescent givin’ them some air. Wanna come watch em’ with me?”

As if you could resist.

With your backs against the barn in the back pen and your feet pointed straight out towards the dark sky, hole punched with twinkling stars, Joel stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles and turning his head to you. “So,” he starts, “I gotta know more about you. What’s your story, sweet thing?”

“Well…” you look down, discouraged by how boring your life has been compared to what his must be. “Like I said, I’ve been in this town my whole life.”

“And? That can’t be the whole story. What’s your family like?”

“Um,” you swallow. You don’t talk about her much. You haven’t had much of a reason to—everyone here already knows, and people that pass through never ask. Not that it hurts much anymore, it’s just so strange to talk about it, about how long it’s been. “It’s just my pa and I, because, my mother got sick when I was 10. She was gone within a month. And I’m an only child—I wasn’t supposed to be, but, I am.”

Joel looks down and pauses, before gentling his tone. “I’m sorry. Both my parents are gone. Well, they didn’t die before they were… supposed to, so… just… I know what loss is like.” You nod, hoping he won’t ask about the last bit, but after a pause, he does. Not that you can really blame him. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place, but it is part of your story, and you want him to know you. “What do you mean you weren’t supposed to be an only child?” He asks.

“I was the first they had, but they wanted more. Wanted sons. But they just got me.”

“Still lucky enough, I’d say.”

You look at him with a questioning quirk between your brows. “How do you reckon that?”

“Well, they got you.” He smiles, and, shy, you chuckle and look back down, fiddling with a strand of grass.

“I ain’t jokin’, sweetheart.” You hear his smile.

“Well, that’s kind of you to say.” Much too shy to encourage more of that with silence, you change the subject, looking back at him again. “What about you? Where’d you leave from? Originally.”

“Ah,” Joel turns his gaze upwards, searching the stars, “came from a town way down south. Left ‘bout 10 years ago.”

“How come?”

“I had a ranch there with my little brother, Tommy. He met a woman, wanted to marry her, start a family. Soon as he decided that, the house was rightfully his.” He shrugs, and you catch a light smile on his lips at the memory. “I’ve gone back to visit a few times, he’s got two boys, both real bright, and a beautiful daughter.” He chuckles, “Beautiful, bright, and badass, that little girl is.”

You smile, but the question tugs, “Why not stay close by?”

“Well, I was on that ranch for a long time before all that. Wouldn’t say I ever grew to hate it, but I did get tired of it. Needed somethin’ new, went lookin’, and realized that I prefer the open country.”

“Freedom, right?” You assume, looking ahead at the expanse beyond the pen’s picket fence, mostly flat land except for one big mesa that you’ve daydreamed about crossing over for years, tonight with a crescent moon crown.

Joel shrugs, “A kind of freedom, yeah.”

“A kind?”

“Well, freedom for travel, yeah. Can go anywhere you damn well please any time you damn well please, just about. But you’ll never find freedom from yourself.”

Looking back at him, you smirk. “That makes you sound so tortured.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s not like that. Jus’… I dunno.” Glancing at you, he pauses. “Not very good with words, I’m afraid.”

His answer is disappointing, both because you’re wildly curious at what that could mean in general, as well as just in him. What’s more disheartening rather than disappointing, though, is the idea that he might just not want to tell you. Looking back at the ground, you decide not to push, instead replying, “That’s alright.”

“Yeah,” he returns, “I know.” You look up to meet a smirk, “Everythin’s alright with you.”

Puzzled, you question, “What do you mean?”

“Just is.”

“Just is?” Is he really bad with words, or is he just hiding from you again? Is he calling you passive? Or is he just… comforted by you?

“Just is.” He leaves it at that, which is frustrating, but you can’t be mad with the fond smirk he looks at you with, eyes, shadowed dark, flicking over your face. A smile forces its way onto your lips, and you look down, picking a long strand of grass to roll between your fingers.

It’s quiet for a moment, and you ponder his words, and everything he won’t tell you.

“So,” you start, challenging him gently, “you’ve only really told me funny stories about out there. But you told me it’s dangerous. How do you keep yourself alive?” You pause, then add quietly, unsure if the honest question will offend him, “Do you… just run?”

Joel sighs, tilting his head back and forth. “Sometimes. When I need to. Not all the time.” He pauses. “I do what I have to.”

You huff, the words falling out of you before you have time to reel them in, “You keep being so vague.” In his pause, you swallow.

“I’m sorry, sweet thing.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t mean to make myself sound so dishonest.”

Quietly, watching his profile as his eyes roam over the glittered horizon, you reply, “You won’t be poisoning me if you tell me the truth.”

After a pause, he sighs again, finally looking back at you, eyes studying your face. Then he turns them back down, lowering his voice. “I’m not worried about that. ‘M worried about poisoning myself in your eyes.”

This makes you turn yourself to him, taking his jaw in your hand. “You won’t.” You whisper. “…I understand that there’s things I’ve never seen, never had to see. But I’ve known people with blood on their hands. There’s no love lost.” You pause at the word, but push past it, trying—hopefully not in vain—to avoid suspicion. “If you were some trigger happy lunatic or something,” this pulls a chuckle out of him, and therefore out of you as well, “it would be different. But, I know that you gotta do what you gotta do. I understand that. It won’t make me think any less of you.” You pause again. “I trust you. I’m asking you to trust me.”

Joel reaches his hand to brush his knuckle down to your jaw. “I do trust you.” His voice is gentle and soft, and flowers bloom in your chest. “I haven’t been this close to someone in a long time.”

A breath pushes out of your lips. “Really?”

He nods. “I’m not used to it.” He pauses. “It’s nice, with you.” With you. There’s a long pause, his finger still dragging over your cheek, then he chuckles. “‘S not like I’ve done all that much. It’s jus’…” you can see in his eyes the temptation to pull away again, but he resists, though he flicks his gaze to the ground and drops his hand from your cheek. You keep yours on his. “I’ve shot men. That’s the worst I’ve done, though; no more than I can count on one hand and no one that didn’t have it comin’. But that’s a common fact of life, might have to take a man’s life once in a while, as sad as it is.”

He’s right. You’ve seen people get shot in Cleardune, though it’s been a while. There have been groups of wrongdoers that stroll into town and stir up trouble, but that’s what the sheriff and his pistol is for. Some people like blood too much. And other people have to stop them from spilling any more. Sometimes it needs to be done.

“I’ve talked my way out of things,” he continues, “I’ve run when I’ve had to, I ain’t no coward, I’ve never kneeled. Lots of funny stories to tell, but lots of ugly ones, too. It’s a way of life, you gotta learn it. And I have. And it’s been 10 years,” Joel chuckles, looking back at you, “and seein’ a I’ve got no holes in me, have all my fingers and toes, and can still sleep soundly at night, I’d say I’ve done a damn good job. I avoid getting blood on my hands. But you can’t hide away from death out there. He is the one true constant.”

You nod, speaking softly. “I understand. I’ve seen people shot.” In his eyes, you can tell he wasn’t expecting to hear that. “This is a quiet town, and like Winona said, it’s been a while, but we’ve had shootouts. And I’ve been there, next to the table, laying my hands down over a wound while someone gets needle and thread ready. I’ve never shot a gun, never stared down the barrel of one, but I know what they can do.”

After a moment, he slowly grows a small smile. “You’re tougher than I gave you credit for, little lady.”

You smile back. “You can count on that. You think I’ve never ran into trouble, all those years I’ve spent behind that bar? Drunk men will be drunk men.”

Joel chuckles, nodding, “Drunk men will be drunk men.” Turning his head down, he smiles, then looks back up at you with a readying sigh. “So, what kind of unfunny story would you like, darlin’? Big, bad, or ugly?”

Suddenly realizing what you’ve gotten yourself into, you reply, “Big. When we have more time, the bad and the ugly.”

Joel chuckles. “Good choice.”

The story is of an epic shootout, complete with an underdog, runaway horses, and two scars—one bullet grazing over his bicep, the other a couple inches from a swiped blade right above his belt. As your finger dances over it, it’s almost hot, so long as you push the image of blood out of your mind. His warm chuckle helps, then, too, as does his hand over your thigh.

“Well, you satisfied, little lady?” Joel’s voice is soft and low, and, at the look in his eyes and the smile on his lips when you peer up at him, along with your hand still on his warm skin, right above the thing you already miss the feel of, your heart flutters. But, as he is maturely trying to remind you, you really do have to go home tonight and get some sleep. So, you nod.

“For tonight, yes. But just for tonight.” You end, many more words meant under just those four.

Stars twinkling in his eyes, he nods with a smile, “Well, I’m countin’ on that last part, darlin’.” The hope his words spark in your heart makes you want to throw your arms around him, but you reel it into a softer embrace. He wraps his arms around you tightly, and you close your eyes to feel the sighed breath from his nose over your shoulder with his lips pressed against your skin.

“Now, as much as I want to,” he says low in your ear, “I can’t let myself steal away any more of your beauty sleep. Let’s get you home.” You hum in agreement, but stay in his arms. This time, he brings you up by slipping his arms under your thighs, pulling you up to then hoist you over his shoulder. You yelp and giggle, then yelp again when he slaps your ass as he carries you through the barn. In the doorway, he drops you to your feet, but you’ve yet to stop giggling.

“C’mere, pretty girl,” his smile plumps his cheeks, but soon enough it’s against yours in a series of pecking kisses before you bring your arms around his neck to pull him in further. The hunger begins, but once again being the more mature one, Joel pulls away.

“You better get going before I lose my head, darlin’. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?”

“Okay.” You nod and sigh, looking over his face.

“Okay.” He nods back, eyes flicking over your face before smacking one last kiss to your lips and turning you around by your shoulders. “Go on, now,” he commands with a smile in his voice.

Giggling again, you take a few steps before turning back. “Goodnight, Joel.” You smile.

“Goodnight, sweet thing. I’ll meet you for a whiskey.”

At his promise, you nod, then bring yourself back around to head home, body immediately remembering you're exhaustion, and before you know it you’re tucked into bed, the warmth of the covers reminding you of your lover's arms.

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delivery-guyy · 2 months ago

Text

Intro

My name is Jasper but I also use Tyler, so either one is fine.

I'm 15 He / Him mmtrannyfagcore

Before you interact

I'm not okay with slurs. If you use them while we are talking I'll prolly let the conversation die there or ignore whatever you said. But!!!! I am okay with Fag and Tranny, since those two are ones I can claim :P but if u say the n or r slur I'll just leave it there.

FOX NEKONOMIMI, CALL ME FURRY AND I'LL CUT YOUR THROAT 🔥🔥🔥🔥💗💗💗

If I make any mistake in English don't correct me I have zero respect for this language. 💗

(do correct me, I don't mind)

I'm into true crime! - I do not condone or dignify any of their actions, but if you do, I honestly don't care nor mind.

I consider the way I type to.. energetic? I will use a lot of '!!' and kaomojis or just any face.

If we become friends there's a 90% chance I get attached, and I will stop texting first to check if u text first too and it'll prolly end there :P

I love talking about anything, I love DMS, I love asks, I love people who yap, shit is interesting, honestly!

Academically smart, way too dumb for other shit.

Mentally ill, not enough money for therapy to know what's going on in my head.

And I think that's pretty much it to the byi section

My interests!

I'm interested in various topics and I'll give some examples of a few topics I like.

Art; I'm really interested into art and I specially love oil on canvas. My favorite paintings are the ones of flowers!! I do not paint tho.

History; I really like reading and/or learning about different wars, important events and just, history in general.

If you're a history nerd PLEASE I BEG ON MY KNEES FOR YOU TO YAP ABOUT IT W ME.

Animals; I LUV ANIMALS!! My fav animals are foxes, bats, coyotes, raccoons and deers.

Movies; I'm really deep into movies and I'd like to work in the cinematographic industry one day. My favorites movies are [not in order of preference] Fight Club, Zero Day, Trainspotting, The good, The bad and The ugly, Akira, Fantastic Mr. Fox, Gone Girl, Stay, Brokeback Mountain, Little Miss Sunshine, and way more!!

Music; some of the bands I listen to are, MSI, The Smiths, The Strokes, Hole, Radiohead, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Bauhaus, De Saloon, Lucybell, Tronic, Gufi, Glup!, Lemon Demon, Mitski, ICP, MCR, KMFDM, Machine Girl, TV girl, Midori, The Smashing Pumpkins, Placebo, Soda Stereo, Deftones, SOAD, Adrianne Lenker, Slipknot, Leathermouth, Limp Bizkit, Aphex Twin, Kittie, Jack off Jill, Alex G and yeah way more..., i really can't stick to any genre.

Games; Faith: The Unholy Trinity, Postal, Portal, Psychopomp, Rental, Nocturnals, Psychosis, Limbo, Milk inside a bag of milk + Milk outside a bag of milk, Babbdi, Cry of Fear, Buckshot Roulette, Hotline Miami, Cult of the Lamb, Party Hard, etc..

Books; All quiet in the western front, Huáscar, Dracula, Piercing, The setting sun, Kwaidan, The perks of being a wallflower, Fight Club, Complete Poetry of Pizarnik, The song of Achilles, Circe, The Stranger, Metamorphosis, some more too that I can't remember rn.

DNI

I pretty much block freely, but I do have as DNI Racist, Trans/homo phobes, pdfiles, 🍇 ists, yk, all that kind of yucky people

That's pretty much all, if u want to talk dms are open.

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voidsdamned · 6 months ago

Text

Wicked Natures - The Ghoul/OC (Female Character) Chapter Five

Summary: Bounty hunters are frequent customers at Mulholland's Saloon, and Rue's taken quite a shine to one gunslinger in particular: a cantankerous, old Ghoul in a tattered duster. Witness her unabashedly lust after him in all his irradiated glory (as we are all currently doing), as well as navigate the precarious relationship she unfortunately has with local law enforcement.

Minors, do not interact.

Content Warnings: more spice. Blood. Begging. Spanking. Roughness.

Enjoy.

Chapter Five: Stray Cat

Rue is fitfully sore when she wakes, and her back aches mildly, the curled-up position she slept in having done her no favours. She stretches until something pops –her left shoulder, maybe– and looks around the sunlit room. There’s not a soul in sight. No Ghoul. No Artie. She’s not terribly surprised. Artie doesn’t like staying too still, and the Ghoul… well, Rue’s equating him to a stray cat. He’ll just come and go as he pleases.

She drags herself to her feet, an old, grey bedsheet falling off her. It drapes over her feet, and she just stares at it for a moment, heart warming stupidly. She folds and stows it quick before shutting herself in the bathroom.

In the cracked mirror hanging above a pedestal sink, she can see the events of the night spelled out plainly on her body. Her neck is covered in splotches, the area around her pulse –where the Ghoul must have concentrated his efforts– is particularly bruised. Then there’s an ugly spot on her left shoulder where dried blood stains honey skin. There’s an outline of teeth amongst the bruising and split flesh having scabbed over. Telling bruises litter her breasts, and her wrists are a little red where the ropes rubbed her.

Rue, for once, is thankful she works in a glorified whorehouse. She knows a few tricks to disguise the marks the Ghoul left on her, and she’ll definitely have to. Deck may be out of town and his posse isn’t being as attentive as they should be, but they do still pop in on her. If they saw her in this state…. There would be a shitstorm when Deck returns, one Rue isn’t too keen on imagining. So, she doesn’t, she just sets to fixing the problem.

She’s quick about a bath. Quick to dress, donning a blouse with a more conservative neckline (but still standard for her). It covers the bitemark completely, and a bit of yellow concealer and some kind of cream almost her skin colour disguises the bruising on her neck decently well. She halves her hair, weaving twin braids to fall over her shoulders. With them providing more cover and a bit of shadow, Rue can’t even tell the Ghoul had gone to town on her.

As for the marks on her wrists… her blouse sleeves cover them mostly. But if anyone asks, she’ll say she got tangled up in the clothes line again.

Made up to the best of her abilities, Rue goes about the rest of the morning as she normally would: breakfast, laundry, and general tidying. There’s a period of time where she goes back into her bathroom, strips off her shirt, and studies the Ghoul’s handiwork again –and it gets her worked up horribly. She’s still sore, almost too sore to touch herself.

Almost.

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Rue leaves the house earlier than normal, heading straightaway to Artie’s to check on him. She finds him in the schoolyard, working on one of the garbage sculptures he likes to put together –and most of them aren’t bad at all. Some don’t even look like garbage anymore he’s done such a good job with them. Some of the smaller pieces, he even manages to sell.

He’s on his knees, bent over working on an abstract shape of jagged edges, all of metal bits and shards of glass. It glints brightly in the noon sun, causing Rue to shield her eyes as she picks her way across the yard to him. He doesn’t notice her, doesn’t look up from his project, until she’s tapping him on the shoulder and giving a very gentle, “Afternoon, Artie.”

Artie jumps a touch, head snapping up to look at her with wide eyes –well, eye. One of them is black and swollen nearly shut, and it hurts her heart to see it –and to see all those other bruises peppering him. The little cuts. But his nose looks straight and fine.

He settles once he realizes it’s her, giving her a bright, toothy smile. “Rue! Y’see this? Got the idea in a dream last night. A bright, burnin’ star sharp enough to cut.”

She crouches beside him, examining his work and nodding her approval. “It’s nice. Really does have a kinda starburst effect to it. …How ya feelin’ this mornin’?”

“Bit foggy when I first woke,” he tells her, fiddling with a piece of metal, “bit sore. And ‘course I can’t see all the way. Havin’ to keep an even sharper ear out for the Dust Devils.”

“Y’know, I haven’t even seen the first one today.” Rue hopes that will calm him, allow him to relax a touch more. “Thinkin’ that wind storm we had a few nights ago really scattered ‘em.”

Artie gives a deft nod. “Good. Real good. Get a breather in before they start congregatin’ again.”

“I plan to. …You manage to sleep okay?”

“Like a baby. That um… rum? Yeah, rum. It knocked my lights out. Don’t think I want it again, but it did help me last night.”

Rue smiles bright. “That’s good to hear, Artie. Oh, here. I brought ya this.” She pulls out a small, glass bottle of painkillers Doc Nguyen had given her when she twisted the hell out of her ankle a few months ago. “It won’t knock your lights out, and it’ll help if you’re havin’ any pain. Doc Nguyen told me it’s okay to take two every six or so hours.”

Artie takes the bottle from her hands, shaking it. Holding it to his ear as he listens to the contents clink around. “No worms?”

Rue shakes her head. “No worms.”

He nods again. “Thank ya, Rue. Can I keep the bottle once it’s empty?”

“Of course. I can bring you by that empty rum bottle, too, if ya want it.”

Artie nods ecstatically, that toothy grin taking his mouth again. “That’ll be just what I need.”

“Great.” Rue pulls herself up to her feet, dusting off her skirt as she rises. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow, and I’ll try to get your clothes patched in the next few days. Got ‘em dryin’ on the line right now.”

The artist’s toothy smile transforms, becoming something sweet and a little watery. “You’re always real good to me, Rue. I appreciate it.”

“You’re very welcome, Artie,” she assures, squeezing his shoulder. “And I’d love to stay and watch ya work on this lovely piece, but I’m already late gettin’ to work. Take the meds if ya need ‘em, and try to get some rest, okay?”

Artie nods dutifully. “Yes’m.”

Rue gives him another smile and a small wave as she bids him goodbye for the day, and Artie goes right back to working on his sculpture, pausing only for a moment to pop two pills into his mouth before moving right along.

She moves right along as well, into another long, busy night at Mulholland’s.

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When Jimmie Boone brings in a fresh shipment of moonshine, Mullholland’s tends to see a big crowd. It’s good shit, apparently. Volatile as rocket fuel. Rue’s never tried it, because it smells like it could kill her (she does have a gifted bottle of it at home, though). She also doesn’t like the particular brand of stupidity her tables exhibit when they’ve had moonshine. They get drunk, fast. They get clumsy. They get a little testy. They start throwing fists.

And then Rue finds herself watching full-out brawls transpiring in the midst of the saloon until Hal unholsters his revolver and fires a warning shot into an old dartboard pocked with bullet holes. That usually settles things down, but tonight… tonight, two men get a bullet to the ass and Hal gets so fed up he calls it early. He just about decides not to order anymore moonshine from Jimmie -but, of course, that’s a decision Deck will ultimately make once he gets back to town (and Rue already knows he won’t even consider it).

Rue meanders her way home in a fantastic mood. She seldom ever gets off early, and she really is looking forward to a long night of sleep after how hectic Mulholland’s has been lately. She also has a basket full of muffins curtesy of Hal, and she’s so excited to eat one in the morning for breakfast. They go beautifully with coffee, and she’d managed to get her hands on a small bag. She doesn’t have milk, though, which is unfortunate. But she can’t justify buying it when it doesn’t keep and she doesn’t have a fridge.

Home is quiet and dark. Rue sets all her belongings down on her wardrobe and shimmies out of her clothes, catching sight of bruises almost faded and a bite mark almost healed. All so faint, it’s almost like her encounter with the Ghoul didn’t happen. She needs him to come back around and leave some fresh ones (and she knows she’s stupid for that, considering the murderous prick of a warden she’s under the thumb of).

Rue dumps her caps into the slowly-filling, glass jar by her wardrobe, sighing long and deep through her nose as she gets on her tiptoes and stretches her arms high above her head. She doesn’t get a pop like she wants, but the stretch of her muscles feels good regardless. She tries again, rolling her shoulders, touching her toes, and twisting, but earns nothing for her efforts.

Giving up, Rue tosses herself onto the misshapen form of her couch, settling into the lumpy comfort of it. It doesn’t take long for her mind to go sleepily wandering, drifting further and further. She starts seeing a hare with antlers hopping around in her mind, every movement it makes sounding like the jingle-jangle of spurs.

Those jingle-jangles are a little too crisp and clear, and they tickle something in Rue’s mind into a state of quasi-awareness. Her eyes part a fraction, blearily focusing on a dark figure breezing towards her, steps soundless except for the jingle-jangle that excites her heart.

Rue pushes herself up onto her elbows, rubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand as her lips tilt sleepily up at the Ghoul. “Hey you.” She yawns largely. “Want a muffin?”

The gunslinger pauses, giving her a look that tells her exactly how stupid he thinks she is –narrowed, tired eyes and incredulity. “I ain’t here for muffins, ya thick thing.”

“I know it.” Her grin stretches, teasing and smug. “You’re here ‘cause I’m stuck in your head.”

He rolls his eyes (why does Rue delight in that so much?) and shakes his head. His steps towards her are slow, resounding in the small space. The jingle-jangle of spurs stokes a heat in her belly. “I’m here ‘cause I got an open invitation to ruin you any-fucking-time I want. Remember?”

Rue rocks a hand from side to side, feet kicking idly. “That sounds like me, though.”

He comes to the edge of the couch, close enough Rue could lean forward and plant a through-the-clothes kiss to his dick if she wanted to (and she kind of wants to). She licks her lips, eyes picking their way up to his, holding. His gaze is always so severe, so serious. Rue thinks he could peel back the layers of her with eyes like that.

“Think you’re cute, huh?”

Rue, not looking away, dips her head forward and presses her lips to the front of his trousers. “I think I’m adorable.”

And there comes the fire, that smoldering glint in whiskey eyes. His voice is gruff, a growl, as he orders her to, “Get up.”

Rue complies, drawing herself to her feet to stand pressed to his body –firm and cool with all that leather. “I was thinkin’ ‘bout ya not too long ago,” she shares, stretching her arms above her head. Her back finally pops, and she can’t help the pleased, little moan that escapes her. “All my lil’ trophies are healin’ up, and I like havin’ somethin’ to remember you by.”

Rue watches his trailing eyes, how they fix on a spot on her neck –one of the more lingering bruises. A cocky, little smirk twists at a corner of his mouth that she wants to pepper with kisses. “With the way you’re runnin’ that mouth, I dunno that you deserve ‘em.”

“Can’t help myself. You’re so fun to tease.” She reaches to touch his leather-vested chest, but he snags her wrist, holding tight enough to have her wincing.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Ya ought not tease a man like me, sweetheart.”

Rue sticks her tongue out at the mean, old man. “Would ya rather me just sit there all quiet like and take it?”

The Ghoul snorts. “I don’t think ya can be quiet.” His other hand ensnares her free one, and he pins them behind her back. “But I like to watch ya take it.”

Rue’s smile goes wide. “Challenge accepted.”

He cocks a browless brow at her in question.

“I won’t make a sound.”

He laughs, timber low and vibrating into Rue. “Shit, we both know I can getcha screamin’ if I want.”

Rue doesn’t say a word, only waggles her brows.

The bounty hunter gives an amused, “Hmp,” and tips his head. “Alright, then. Ya make a peep, and ya don’t come. I’ll just find out how deep I can shove my dick down your throat and be on my merry way.”

Just the threat of it makes Rue want to moan, but it’s much too early in the game. In fact, it just started. She raises her chin in a short motion she hopes he reads as, “Bring it.”

The Ghoul drags her in closer, letting her feel all his sharp edges and the hardening bulge of his cock beneath his trousers as he slowly ruts against her. Rue’s eyes flutter, and she bites down on her bottom lip to keep the whimpers in when his free hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head to the side so he can lavish her neck with his brutal brand of attention.

Against her pulse, he tells her, “I guess I can admit to thinkin’ a bit about ya –the kinda games I’d play with ya. What positions I’d put ya in. Thinkin’ I want ya from behind this go ‘round.”

Rue shivers and squirms, wanting that desperately. They didn’t get to that position last time, and she thinks it would hit like nothing else. She nods her approval probably a little too exuberantly.

The Ghoul grinds against her a final time before his body pulls back a touch. He fetches a length of rope from his belt, and Rue holds still as he binds her wrists behind her back. Then he takes a few more steps back from her, eyes thoughtfully, hungrily, scanning her body before they latch on hers.

Pure wickedness brews in those whiskey eyes, and the devilish curl of his lips promises her undoing. So do those goddamn hands when he takes his gloves off. He really isn’t playing fair.

And he’s playing rough when those hands greet her breasts, the tweak of her nipple something that wracks its way down her spine and has her biting down on her lip. She doesn’t make a sound, only shakes as his fingertips ghost against the flesh he’d just abused. And he makes sure her other tit gets the same treatment. Along with her clit, and goddamnit, is he particularly thorough down there, hooking his fingers into her, curling and coaxing. Flicking. That has her eyes wide around, and her hold on her lip harsh enough she tastes blood.

Rue silently quivering, watches the Ghoul suck his fingers clean of her. “Huh. Guess I gotta admire your determination,” he comments, eyes raising from her cunt and to her face. They go straight to her lips. The grin that takes his is feral as he licks his fingers. “Now, look what ya did. Makin’ a mess. I’m the one who’s supposed to be doin’ that.”

Why is that when he speaks she wants to moan the most? To whimper and swear?

The Ghoul grabs hold of her face and presses his lips harshly to hers, tongue trailing. The taste of blood intensifies as he deepens the kiss, as he bites at her. When he pulls away, his mouth is smeared with crimson. He licks that clean, too.

Rue almost goes to her knees, a series of swears threatening to spill from her battered lips. But she’s good at games, and she’s resolved herself to win this one. She wants to feel his body pressed to hers from behind, fucking her absolutely silly.

She steels herself and smirks, winking at him for good measure.

His eyes go half-lidded, dangerous. He clicks his tongue, a short laugh rumbling from him. “You’re just a glutton for punishment, huh?

Rue’s first instinct is to fingergun at him, but with the state of her hands, cannot do so. She settles for a nod and a slow, exaggerated licking of her lips.

The Ghoul is fast, grabbing and spinning her around. Pulling her down as he plops back on her couch. She lands across his lap, ass in the air and his fingers digging into the plushness of her left cheek. Which is all just fantastic, but what really has her attention is the way his dick presses against her stomach. It’s all she can think about until a breath-stealing, skin-searing, open-handed smack lights up her rear.

It robs her of her voice (most definitely the opposite of the desired effect), leaving her tense and wound tight as she awaits the next. And it does come, the sound sharp and the contact right where the first had been. But Rue was braced for it, ready, not a sound escapes her; but in her mind, she is gasping and giggling. On the outside, she squirms, toes curling and uncurling. Fingers clenching and unclenching. Her head hangs until a third smack has her snapping upright and biting down on her raw lip all over again.

“Tougher than you look.” The Ghoul hums, almost sounding impressed. His hand leaves her rear to grab her by the hair, tipping her head back further and making a “tch” sound. A scarred-up thumb drags across her cheekbone. “But ya sure are pretty with tears in your eyes.”

That small touch has her wanting to whine. She swallows thickly instead.

“That’s nice, too.” His thumb drags over her lips. “Wish I could see from this angle when you’re swallowin’ me down.”

Rue could make those dreams come true if she could get him on his back. Then she could approach from his right or left side, and he could have a nice side profile of her going to town. And if he was feeling sweet, he could finger or spank her. Or nice mix of the two.

Fuck.

Thinking of it has Rue squirming, needing some kind of friction below. There’s a pressure, a pulse, down there fast becoming unbearable.

Another disapproving sound from the Ghoul as his thumb withdraws from her mouth and his hand from her hair. “Nuh-uh, sweet. None of that. Not ‘til I say so.” One hand ghosts down her spine while the other rubs the tender spot on her ass in slow, lazy circles. Then pinches. Rue’s whole body goes tense, winding so tight it’s almost exhausting.

But I’m gonna win.

She chants that to herself, and almost immediately loses when that cruel hand slips between her legs to be so sinfully sweet she wants to purr and plead. Her head and eyes roll, breath gone completely erratic. Heart a mile a minute. Building and building and building, and-.

SMACK.

It truly takes every single drop of Rue’s resolve, stubbornness, and self not to scream. To shout and gasp raggedly and likely sob just a little. All she can do is shake and bleed and feel tears slip hotly down her cheeks.

The Ghoul huffs. “I was sure that’d get ya.... You don’t wanna sing for me, Rue?”

A dirty, fucking play to use her name, but she nods her head like crazy, curls spilling all around her shoulders and face until she’s shrouded by them.

He’s back to sweetness, touches gentle on her thighs and the spot on her ass likely to be as raw as her lips. Then he’s shoving her off his lap, and Rue’s hitting the floor with a bang that shakes her vision.

“You’re gonna,” the Ghoul promises, voice rough, husky, and even vaguely threatening. “You’re gonna sing and scream and pray for me.” His spurs jingle-jangle as his boots hit the floor as solidly as Rue had. She hears his belt buckle jingle, too. A zipper unzipping. Fabric sliding.

The Ghoul is on the floor with her, hands on her hips, jerking her onto her knees as the left side of her face scrapes against the floor. A knee firmly spreads her legs, and Rue, so excited, tries not to quiver as she feels the hot, rigid girth of him prodding at her from behind. The sharpness of his hip bones pressing into tender flesh.

She doesn’t expect gentleness, and she doesn’t get it. He’s as forthright as he was the first time, slamming his way into her completely in one, debilitating stroke that nearly pulls a whispered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yes,” from her throat.

The Ghoul’s groan does something to her, that deep, throaty, purely pleasured sound. It stokes the fire he’s built up. She wants to hear more, loving to know the feel of her can draw out such a musical sound. That she can make him sing.

But the Ghoul’s grip is like iron, not allowing her to shift or angle her hips any differently. Or let her attempt bouncing off him herself. His fingers only dig in deeper, aggravating the spot he’d favoured, and Rue’s body clenches. The Ghoul’s hands hold tighter, an expletive hissing raggedly out of him.

He spanks and grasps her ass, tone rough and chiding, “That ain’t fair.”

Rue wants to laugh, to risk a glance up at him, but she thinks her smile would only work him up more –which isn’t really a bad thing, but it would only make the game harder. She’s struggling with it now. Really, really struggling when the Ghoul pulls back only to stroke roughly, fully again. Her eyes flutter. Her heart stutters. She needs to claw at the ground. She needs something to bite down on. It’s so good. The friction. The feel. Scratching at an itch so deep she wasn’t even aware of its existence.

She wants to tell him, “Again,” but doesn't have to. He’s a mind reader (more likely he planned on it already) because he does it again. Again. Again. Slow and deep and firm. Excruciatingly saccharine and biting. Something croaked and begging tries to escape from Rue, but she bites down on it with all her might, breathing roughly. Wildly.

She wonders if breathing counts as a noise? Hers is loud and unbelievably lewd right now –even to her own ears.

“So close,” the Ghoul muses, a genuine, wolfish delight underscoring the deep timber of his voice. His hips still. “Ya need a few more of those, huh?”

Rue bobs her head like a desperate fool.

“Ya gotta beg me.”

She shakes her head firmly. She wants to come. She needs to. She can’t have him running off on her tonight, not when she’s in such a twisted-up, terrible way.

A sharp smack greets her ass, and mercifully, it’s not on the likely-bruised cheek. She doesn’t make a sound, but her cunt throbs.

“Stubborn.” One of his steadying hands leaves her hips to fist in her hair, dragging Rue up, pulling her taught against his chest. The hand on her hip snakes to her front, between her legs to press firm, dragging circles against an overly sensitive bundle of nerves. The hand in her hair disengages, reaching around to grasp at her breasts.

Rue’s shaking from her head to her toes. Dizzy. So close to losing her mind.

“Beg me, Rue,” the Ghoul coaxes, voice low and beguiling. “And if it’s sweet enough, I’ll let you come.”

Grey eyes flutter open. She wants to ask him, “Promise?” but she doesn’t trust the offer in full. She wiggles her pinky against his chest.

The gunslinger pulls back a touch, the motions of both hands stilling. He scoffs out a disbelieving, “Really?”

Rue bobs her head.

An aggravated sigh and a grumbled, “Fine then.” A hand leaves her tit; the Ghoul’s pinky hooks with hers. “You’re a bit of a brat. Y’know that, right?”

“And you’re everything,” Rue gasps out. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Please, keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Please. I want you so bad it hurts. I’m about cryin’ over it in the best fuckin’ way.” She tilts her head back, hitting against his shoulder and finding his eyes. They’re hungry, dancing, delighted. And she knows hers only help her case. Wet, wide, and pleading. “You fill me up so fuckin’ good. It’s all I can think about. Please. Please. Fuck me. Fuck me ‘til I see stars. ‘Til I can’t walk. ‘Til I’m screamin’. Make me scream. Make me sing. And, darlin’, if ya gave me a name, I’d pray to it.”

The gunslinger’s hips buck –involuntarily or not, Rue doesn’t know. She just feels everything so acutely that a reedy, pitiful whine rips from her, her head dropping, lolling. Another plea marked by desperation.

A pull back. A stroke that sends her eyes to rolling. The Ghoul growls into her neck, “Ya don’t need a name. Anytime I hear ‘oh god’ come from ya, I’ll know it’s for me.”

Rue decides she’ll give him plenty of that, and she has every opportunity to. The Ghoul hears her pleas, and he answers. He gives her the slow, powerful thrusts that feel as if they reach to her gut. Hands pushing her buttons all the while. His pace alternates, him holding her tight and fucking into her with wild abandon, the snap of his hips quick and brutal.

She’s nonsensical. She hears her voice but cannot understand the words she might be speaking. No thoughts exist in her mind other than those of the Ghoul and everything he makes her feel. She’s lost completely to the mix of aching pleasure and too-sweet pain. And it really doesn’t take him long to send her toppling over the edge. Coming hard and shaky and loud. Her entire body tautens, especially around him. She can hear the way he swears around the buzzing in her ears. She feels every touch, how grasping and desperate his hands become. The unsteadiness his strokes devolve into.

His grip on her torso disappears, and Rue cannot hope to keep herself upright. She has no strength, no control, and no hands to catch herself with. Her chin strikes the floor, setting her teeth to ringing and eyes to swimming. And still the Ghoul fucks her, his hands on her waist and hips until a final, broad, shattering thrust spells out his end. As well as a second one for her that disconnects her brain from her body. She floats, overwhelmed and awash. She could happily drown in such pleasure.

But the Ghoul's voice and touch keep her afloat. Has her trying to reattach her scattered parts as she picks up bits and pieces of what he says. A bit of praise, him telling her he loves the way her filthy, fuckin’ cunt milks him for all he’s worth. How she’s such a good girl taking it like she did, singing like she did. He could get used to being worshipped.

“I’d exalt ya every-goddamn-day,” Rue mumbles, barely there, not even realizing he’s untied her hands until he’s flipping her over and she doesn’t crush her own arms. They just flop out uselessly beside her. She hazily watches as the Ghoul spreads her legs and kneels between them, his half-hard cock on full, lovely display before her eyes roll back into her head and her body seizes at the way he fingerfucks his way back into her.

“Hell, that’s a fuckin’ sight,” he breathes. “Fillin’ you up and watchin’ me spill out.”

Rue half-whimpers/half-gasps/half-laughs. “Ohhhh, that’s... that's fi- filthy. I... l-love it. But ya -fuck– you’re killin’ me.”

The Ghoul laughs at the state of her (most likely), and through lidded eyes, she watches him sit with his back against the couch and tuck himself away. His head hangs, chest rising slow and steady, and sweat glistens on his forehead and neck. A fucking painting, a masterpiece, is what he is.

Rue can’t help herself. “You’re so handsome.”

He’s close enough to reach out and pinch her. “Gonna make you eat your own tongue.”

The pinch is easily ignored, nothing compared to what she just went through. “So, so handsome.” Rue rolls over on her side, grasping for the couch and using it to haul herself up. She’s not successful. Her limbs are useless. She grins lazily at the cowboy. “Think ya broke my arms… and my legs, maybe.”

A short, bark of a laugh. “Ain’t sorry ‘bout it.”

“Neither am I.” Rue gives hoisting herself to her feet another go, barely managing to get on her knees. It’s an even greater feat that she manages to get to her feet. She feels wobblily, like a newborn radstag, as she crosses the floor. “I look as silly as I feel?”

“Like an idiot, but that’s nothin’ new.”

Rue snorts, sticking her tongue out at the Ghoul before shutting herself in the bathroom where she cleans up just a bit. When she emerges, she’s pleased to find the Ghoul sitting right where she left him, head tipped back and his boots kicked off. She leaves him to relax for the moment, going to her kitchenette and fishing out the sealed mason jar full of Jimmie Boone’s moonshine. She also fills two glasses with water.

She returns to the Ghoul, handing over the moonshine and a glass before joining him on the floor, back pressing into the couch. She upends her glass of water quickly before tilting her head back to relax and bask in the presence beside her. But the tired hits heavy, letting Rue know she's about to have a proper sleep whether she's ready for it or not. She fights to keep her eyes parted, to enjoy the Ghoul for just a little longer. She watches him unscrew the jar lid and take himself a sniff. Or as good of one as he can. She doesn’t know how much he can smell without a nose.

“Think I’ve had this before,” he mutters before taking a swig. His face screws up. “Goddamn.”

Rue grins smally, drowsily. “Two people got shot in the ass tonight ‘cause of that shit.”

“If they were drunk off this, bet they didn’t even feel it.”

“Sure howled like they did.”

The Ghoul snickers and takes another draw from the ‘shine.

She smothers a yawn, asking, “Ya set to head out after another bounty?”

“Yup. Got some raiders in the hills not too far from here goin’ after caravans. Boy standin’ in for Deck’s offering a hundred caps a head.”

Rue perks slightly at that. “Damn, that’s good money. …Ya sure I can’t bounty hunt with you?” It’s a question made in jest, but… some small part of Rue is stupidly hopeful.

The Ghoul tips back the moonshine, taking a deeper glug. When he pulls the jar away, his sharp intake of breath sounds like a hiss. He shakes his head. “I maintain that you ain’t built for it, sweetheart. I don’t even think ya got a gun.”

He’s not wrong about the gun. Rue doesn’t have one. Deck won’t let her have one. No one in Dust will sell her one either on account of her being not quite right in the head. They think she’ll hurt herself or someone else. But she has a fucking pocket knife. That’s all fine and dandy.

“I used to,” she mutters, eyes too heavy to keep open. He really does wear her out in the best way.... “It was pretty. Bolt-action rifle. Real antique lookin’ thing with gleamin’ wood and all these pretty lil’ whorls carved in it. I think it burned up with the ranch.” Her lips quirk at the thought of it, the mental picture in her head. The blurry sensation of what it felt like to hold it and fire. To feel the assuring weight of it strapped to her back.

She felt tough enough to take on the world back then. She knows that’s still somewhere in her. She feels it stirring sometimes, making her want to rip her skin off.

“Always noticed you take care of your guns,” Rue goes on, voice soft and sleepy. “Appreciate that ‘bout ya.”

“Gotta. They make me my money.” A pause. A shift she can feel vibrate through the couch they both lean into. He might be looking at her? She thinks she can feel his eyes on her, but she can't check. “Ya gonna fall asleep like that?”

“Yeah.”

And she does.

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

The Ghoul is gone in the morning, not that Rue expected any different of the stray cat. But she didn’t expect to wake up in her bed with the covers draped over her –or to find the glasses and jar they used last night washed and drying by the sink. It’s a nice, small surprise. One that has her smiling while she brews her morning coffee.

And her smile takes in her ears when she goes to grab a muffin from the basket on the kitchen table, finding half of them gone.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout the series #fallout 2024 #fallout tv series

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