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Soo...another freaky art...don't tell me after I didn't warning you

HELP ME PRT.2

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Sooo me and @ratsniffer we create a discord server

We welcome you

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Writing lucky Luke x oc is driving me crazy

EVERYTIME I WANT TO WRITE A BOOK, BUT THE PROBLEM IS I HAVE TO WRITE IT

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Imagine getting home and this fine shit waits you at home

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New funfiction lucky Luke x oc + someone else oc😍😍

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🏳️‍🌈?🧐

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Stay Tonight🚬

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blondie x Reader | soft / human-style writing / emotional intimacy

The fire was almost out, just a few glowing coals left, flickering like they were trying to hang on. I was the only one still awake. Or so I thought.

Blondie was lying a few feet away, his hat pulled down over his face like always. I watched him for a while, wondering how he ever managed to sleep so easily out here. Even after everything we’d been through today—gunfire, dust storms, nearly getting our heads blown off—he was calm. Like nothing stuck to him for long.

Me? I couldn’t stop thinking.

I shifted a little, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The desert was cold at night. I guess I was shivering more than I realized, because out of nowhere, his voice broke the quiet.

"You should try sleepin’."

I flinched. “Didn’t know you were still up.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, adjusting his hat but not looking at me. “But you’re makin’ enough noise to wake the damn coyotes.”

I sighed. “Sorry.”

He was quiet for a second, then added, more gently, “You alright?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. Just… hard to turn my brain off sometimes.”

That seemed to hit something in him. He sat up slowly, brushed some dirt off his coat, and looked at me. Really looked. His eyes weren’t cold like people said. Just tired. Quiet. Like someone who’d seen too much.

“Come here,” he said, patting the ground next to him.

I almost didn’t. I almost told him I was fine. But I was cold, and I was tired of pretending I didn’t want to be close to him. So I got up and sat beside him, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

We didn’t say anything for a while. The wind picked up a little. He lit a cigar, took a slow drag, then offered it to me. I took it, mostly just for the warmth. My fingers brushed his. His hands were rough but warm. Steady.

"You keep watchin’ me," he said, not accusing, just observant.

“Guess I do,” I said, staring into the fire. “You’re hard to figure out.”

He huffed out a little laugh. “Ain’t much to figure.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. “I think you care more than you let on.”

That made him quiet again. The silence stretched out, heavy with things neither of us knew how to say.

Then he turned his head, looked at me sideways. “You ever think about not runnin’ anymore? Just… stopping? Stayin’ somewhere?”

I blinked. That caught me off guard. “I don’t know. I never thought I could.”

“Well,” he said, voice lower now, “maybe you could.”

I looked at him, really looked. His eyes weren’t tired now. They were searching.

“You offering something?”

He smiled, just barely. “Maybe I am.”

We didn’t kiss. He didn’t say anything sweet or perfect. But he reached over and took my hand, slow and gentle like he was worried I’d pull away. I didn’t. I leaned my head against his shoulder, and we just sat there.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. Not because the world was any less dangerous—but because I wasn’t facing it alone.

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Favourite hdc from every lucky Luke and the Daltons show?

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I had to, he’s so cat coded

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youre not “bad at art” you just need to find a character to latch onto to where you draw them 1 million times and you improve dramatically

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It isn't much😔 but I am waring you, if you want to see it, you have the responsibility

Lucky Luke x beauty Steve art

SOMEBODY TO HELP ME 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

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Uhh i maybe drew ur modern AU lucky luke and ur oc..

(+ my oc lmao.)

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH I CAN BELIEVE IT AHHHH THANX YOU😍😍😍😍😜😜😜😜😜😜💋💋💋💋💋

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“Where the Smoke Settles”

El Indio x Reader

---

Chapter One: A Stranger’s Song

The desert didn’t forgive, and neither did El Indio.

He came into your town like a storm wrapped in silk—dust on his boots, a silver pocket watch in his palm, and the devil’s gleam behind heavy-lidded eyes. Men feared him. Women whispered. You? You watched.

You weren’t naïve. Living on the edge of the New Mexico badlands taught you to smell blood before it was spilled. Your father had run the saloon before you; now it was yours. Most men looked right through you, or too hard at you. But not him. El Indio saw you.

He walked into the saloon like he owned time itself.

“Whiskey,” he said, voice low and rough like weathered leather. His eyes—shadowed, sad—met yours and lingered just a moment too long.

You slid the glass across the counter, fingers brushing his glove. “You look tired.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just flipped open that silver pocket watch, a soft lullaby spilling from it. You froze. Something about the melody ached in your bones. His gaze softened—almost imperceptibly.

“You know it?” he asked.

“I used to. My mother hummed it when she was dying.”

A beat. A breath. The bar had gone silent, all eyes on him. But El Indio didn’t flinch. Instead, he nodded once and tucked the watch away. “It’s a hard song to forget.”

That night, he didn’t sleep at the inn. He sat outside under the stars, smoking and listening to the wind. You found yourself watching him from the window, something fragile stirring in your chest. He looked like a man carrying a graveyard in his soul.

---

Chapter Two: Glass and Gunpowder

Days passed. Then weeks. He didn’t leave.

He stayed in a room upstairs, paid in silver, and said little. But when he did speak—to you—it was always thoughtful. Quiet. Strange, for a man wanted in half the territories.

You learned things in passing.

He used to be a soldier. Or maybe a priest. He hated mirrors. He liked tobacco but not cigars. He never played cards. And he only smiled when you asked him questions no one else dared.

One night, after a fight broke out in the bar and you’d cut your palm on broken glass, he found you in the backroom, bandaging it poorly.

“You shouldn’t bleed over men like that,” he muttered, crouching in front of you. You expected roughness, but his hands were gentle. He wrapped your hand in a clean cloth and didn’t let go right away.

“I’ve bled for worse,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt.

He looked up at you then. “I know.”

Something unspeakable passed between you.

Later, you found yourself asking, “Is there someone waiting for you, somewhere?”

He answered, voice hollow: “There was. Once. Now she waits underground.”

You knew then why he never laughed.

---

Chapter Three: The Devil You Love

He warned you once. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, breath catching.

“Like I could be saved.”

But it was too late. You were already in too deep. And maybe—just maybe—he was too.

The town started to murmur. Folks asked why you let him stay. Why a man like El Indio hadn’t burned the place to the ground. But you saw through the smoke and legend. Beneath the fury was grief. Regret. Maybe even hope.

One night, he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t clean. It was like being caught in a thunderstorm after years of drought. His mouth tasted like whiskey and loss. But his hands trembled. You held his face like it might vanish.

“You’re not a monster,” you whispered against his lips.

His forehead pressed to yours. “Then you’re a fool.”

---

Chapter Four: Dust to Dust

The bounty hunters came at dawn.

You tried to warn him. Tried to convince him to run. But El Indio didn’t run.

“I deserve what’s coming,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek. “But I wanted you to know… You made me feel human again. Even if only for a little while.”

The fight was brutal. Gunsmoke filled the streets. He took a bullet to the side, fell to one knee—but not before taking two of them down. You ran to him after the last shot echoed into silence.

His blood stained your hands as you cradled him. “Don’t you die on me, Ramón.”

That was the first time you said his real name.

He smiled, faintly. “So you did know who I was.”

“I knew who you are.” You kissed him, the tears coming freely now. “Stay. Stay with me.”

And somehow, he did.

Epilogue: The Sound of the Watch

The bounty hunter’s bullet found its mark.

You held him as he bled beneath the low desert sun, his head in your lap, his breath shallow. The silver watch, cracked from the fall, played its last notes — slow, uneven, like the final beat of a tired heart.

“Don’t leave me,” you whispered.

He opened his eyes for the last time. “I already stayed too long.”

You wanted to scream. To beg. But he shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “You were the only good thing… in all of it.”

The last note of the watch played, and with it, Ramón “El Indio” Rojo exhaled. Not in agony. Not in fear. But in relief.

They buried him outside the town, unmarked, save for a single dry rose you left at his grave. The watch you kept, though it never played again.

Some nights, when the wind howls across the plain, you swear you hear it ticking.

And in the silence after, you still feel his hand on yours.

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Tuco x Reader – “Trouble on Two Legs”

You weren't sure how it happened.

One minute you were riding solo, minding your own business, and the next, you were stuck with Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez — yes, he insisted you say the full thing the first time you met. Then he winked and said, “But for you, bonita, just call me Tuco.”

Trouble had a name, and it had just fallen off a moving train, rolled into your campfire, and eaten all your jerky.

It started like this:

You were camped under the stars, peacefully roasting beans over a fire, when a man — dusty, sweaty, and extremely loud — stumbled out of the shadows like he'd just been chased by every bounty hunter west of the Mississippi.

“¡Ay caramba! What a day!” Tuco groaned, flopping down by your fire like it was his own personal hotel.

You blinked. “Who... are you?”

“Tuco!” he said proudly, grinning like he wasn’t bleeding slightly and covered in cactus needles. “And you, mi cielo, are my new traveling companion.”

You stared. “I never agreed to that.”

Tuco pointed at your pot. “You gonna eat all those beans by yourself? That’s a lonely way to die.”

🌵 Weeks Later...

Against all reason and sanity, you hadn’t kicked him out. In fact, you'd gotten used to his wild energy. His dramatic storytelling. His endless arguments with himself. His stupid, lopsided smile.

He called you “angel” when he was in a good mood, “brat” when he was in a bad one, and “mi amor” when he wanted something.

One evening, after escaping a shootout (again), you collapsed behind some rocks, both panting and dusty.

Tuco looked at you, face smeared with dirt, eyes wide. “You... you are amazing.”

You raised a brow. “You mean because I shot that guy who was about to kill you?”

He grinned. “Yes. And also because you did it without spilling our dinner. That’s talent.”

You tried not to smile. “That dinner you didn’t help cook?”

He pulled a shiny, stolen spoon from his coat like it was a treasure. “I brought utensils. That’s teamwork.”

❤️ The Funny Kind of Love

Tuco wasn’t exactly a romantic, not in the traditional sense. He tried to be.

Once, he gave you a flower — still attached to the whole bush, roots and dirt included.

Another time, he tried to serenade you and ended up breaking two guitar strings and swearing in three languages.

But one night, you woke up from a nightmare, heart racing. Tuco was on watch. He walked over silently, sat beside you, and handed you his revolver.

“You feel safer with this next to you,” he said. “I sleep with mine under my hat.”

You stared. “Thanks…?”

Then he added, quietly, “No one hurts you while I’m around. I’ll shoot 'em. In the knee first. Then twice in the butt, for fun.”

You laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked. “You like that about me.”

You did. Way more than you were willing to admit out loud.

🌙 Final Scene – Campfire, Cuddles, Chaos

You sat by the fire, legs draped over Tuco’s lap, his poncho wrapped around you both. He was dramatically retelling a story about escaping a jail using only a spoon and a bored guard. You were pretty sure 90% of it was made up.

But you didn’t care.

His hand absentmindedly rubbed circles on your thigh as he talked. When you leaned your head on his shoulder, he stopped mid-story.

“You okay, angel?”

“Mhm. Just comfy.”

He went quiet for a moment, unusually soft. Then he said, “You know, I’ve had gold, guns, and trouble... but you’re the only thing that ever felt like a home.”

You looked up, surprised.

Tuco blinked. “I mean, not like a house home, I ain’t ready for curtains or nothing. But, like... y’know, feelings.”

You laughed into his chest. “I know, Tuco. I know.”

He kissed your forehead, grinning. “Good. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now. And I snore.”

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Blondie x Reader — “The Quiet Kind of Love”🚬

The desert was quiet that evening — one of those rare moments when the wind settled, the coyotes hushed, and the fire crackled softly, like it was trying not to wake something sleeping. You sat by the flames, legs tucked under you, your rifle beside you out of habit.

Blondie was a few feet away, cleaning his gun, as usual. That man could be carving his own tombstone and still take time to polish his Colt.

He hadn’t said much all day — no surprise there — but you’d grown used to the silence. It wasn’t cold with him. Just quiet. Thoughtful.

You glanced over. His hat was tilted low, casting a shadow over his eyes, cigarette perched on his lip. 🚬 The glow of it lit his cheekbone just enough to catch the corner of a scar there. Everything about him was sharp — his jaw, his focus, his timing.

But when he looked at you, he softened, just barely. And that softness? That’s what made your chest ache.

🏜️ Traveling Companions

The two of you had been riding together for weeks now. It had started out simple — mutual benefit, safety in numbers. But over time, something else had grown. Something unspoken.

He always made sure you rode in front so he could “keep watch.” He always split rations evenly, even when there wasn’t much to split. When you got a scratch from a bullet grazing your arm, he’d gone completely still — eyes dark and jaw tense — like he was holding something back from the world.

“You alright?” he’d asked, voice low and dangerous. Not from worry — from rage.

You’d nodded, cradling your arm, and he’d nodded once in return. Then, later that night, he left and came back with the man’s boots and three gold coins. Said nothing. Just dropped them by your feet.

You never asked what he did.

🌙 The Firelight Moment

That night, with the fire painting gold on his skin, Blondie finally looked up at you.

“You ever think of settling down?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Like... chickens and rocking chairs?”

He gave a tiny chuckle — a chuckle, from Blondie. A miracle.

“Something like that,” he said. “Less running. More... breathing.”

You looked into the flames. “I used to. Thought I’d marry a blacksmith. Raise loud, scrappy kids. But... the world don’t always work like that.”

He nodded, slow. “Yeah. It doesn’t.”

There was a long pause. You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and warm.

“But if I ever stopped running,” he said, voice softer now, “I’d want it to be with someone like you.”

You turned to look at him, heart skipping like a stone.

“Someone like me?” you teased, even though your voice came out breathless.

He flicked away his cigarette 🚬 and stood, walking over slowly. His boots crunched on dry earth as he knelt in front of you, close enough to feel his breath.

“No,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “You.”

He reached up and touched your face — rough fingertips trailing your cheek like you were something breakable in a world made of bullets. You leaned into it.

“I don’t talk much,” he whispered. “Never been good at words. But I watch. I notice. And I know when something feels right.”

“And this?” you asked, voice trembling.

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours.

“This,” he murmured, “is the only thing that’s ever felt real.”

💛 After That Night

You still traveled. Still got into trouble. Still argued over routes and rations. But something had shifted. Blondie held your hand when you walked near cliffs. He always poured your coffee first in the morning. Sometimes he’d wake up first and just stare at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And when you teased him about it?

He’d just shrug, that sly half-smile tugging at his mouth.

“You’re the only gold I care about now.”

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Cold Hands, Warm Eyes👁🪽

A The Good, The Bad and The Ugly – Angel Eyes x Reader story

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Remember one thing : Angel never shot blondi)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

👁🪽 The First Shot

You first met Angel Eyes when he was sent to kill you.

It was night, and the desert was as quiet as the inside of a grave. You were camped by a dying fire, your rifle close, your back against a rock. You’d been followed since Carson’s Crossing—ever since someone overheard you whisper the name “Sad Hill.”

You were fast.

But he was faster.

One second you were reaching for your weapon, and the next, the barrel of a revolver kissed your temple, and his voice, low and deadly, broke the silence.

“Don’t move. Unless you want to be buried with your map.”

You froze. Then slowly turned your head and looked up into cold, pale eyes beneath a black hat. Sharp cheekbones. Calm menace. A face that didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

“You’re Angel Eyes,” you breathed.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of me.”

“Who hasn’t?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Then you know what comes next.”

You swallowed. “You going to kill me?”

He hesitated.

For just a moment.

Then, for reasons neither of you understood at the time, he said:

“Not yet.”

👁🪽 Unspoken Deals

Instead of pulling the trigger, he tied your hands and took your knife. But he didn’t hurt you. Not really.

He rode beside you the next day in silence, keeping his hat low and his thoughts lower. You studied him from the corner of your eye, wondering what kind of man spared a target with a bounty high enough to retire on.

You tried to bait him.

“You always this chatty?”

Nothing.

“Tried to shoot me in my sleep last night. Almost flattered.”

Still nothing.

“You’re not half as scary as they say.”

That made him look at you. Just a flick of his eyes. But it was something.

“I don’t talk to people I don’t trust,” he said quietly.

“Guess that’s fair. I don’t usually trust men who tie me up and steal my biscuits.”

He smirked—just barely. “You bake?”

“Better than I shoot.”

He didn’t smile again, but he handed back your knife that night.

You pretended not to notice his hands were cold.

👁🪽 A Cold Killer, A Warm Fire

Days passed.

The arrangement became something else. You weren’t quite his prisoner anymore, and he wasn’t quite your captor. He let you ride beside him. He let you carry your rifle again. Sometimes you even caught him watching you—studying you with quiet intensity.

He told you things, eventually.

Not much. But just enough.

That he used to be a soldier. That he hated the sound of boots in mud. That he always slept with one eye open, because old sins make poor pillows.

And you told him things, too. That your family was gone. That you were chasing the gold because there was nothing else to chase. That you weren’t afraid to die, just afraid to die without being seen.

One night, beside the fire, you caught him staring again. His hands were laced in front of him, black gloves resting lightly on the worn leather of his belt.

“What is it?” you asked softly.

His voice was low. “You look at me like I’m human.”

You tilted your head. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. But later, when you fell asleep under the stars, you woke to find his coat draped over your shoulders.

👁🪽 Close Range

The bond didn’t come easy.

He was still cold, quiet, distant.

But he never raised a hand to you.

He gave you the last of his water in the dry basin near Abilene. He sat beside you when you were fevered from a bullet graze. He stitched your wound himself, hands steady, eyes unblinking.

“You’ve done this before,” you whispered through gritted teeth.

He didn’t look up. “I’ve had to.”

Afterward, you leaned into him without thinking, dizzy and vulnerable.

He didn’t move away.

“You’re not what I expected,” you murmured.

He finally replied.

“Neither are you.”

👁🪽 The Gold Doesn’t Matter

By the time you reached the cemetery, the map didn’t matter anymore.

He knew it.

You knew it.

The gold was there, waiting, but he didn’t care. You could see it in the way he stood beside you—not behind you, not in front of you, but with you.

Tuco was there. So was Blondie.

But Angel Eyes didn’t look at them. He only looked at you.

“If I take the gold,” he said in that smooth, dark voice, “I can keep running.”

“From what?”

He was quiet.

Then: “Myself.”

You stepped forward and placed your hand on his gloved one.

“You don’t have to run anymore.”

His hand didn’t shake—but it tensed. Just for a moment. Then it softened under yours.

👁🪽 The Gun, The Kiss

It ended as everything does in the West—with a draw.

But this time, Angel Eyes didn’t pull the trigger.

He let Blondie win.

He dropped his gun, slowly, and raised his hands.

Everyone was stunned—even Tuco.

He walked away from the gold, from the gun, from the legend.

And he walked straight to you.

You blinked up at him. “You didn’t shoot.”

“I told you,” he said. “You make me human.”

You barely had time to answer before he kissed you—rough, warm, desperate. Like a man who never expected softness. Like someone finally choosing something other than the kill.

👁🪽After the Dust Settles

You didn’t ride off into the sunset.

You stayed in the hills, in a small cabin by a creek. He hunted game and read you old army manuals like they were bedtime stories. You teased him for it.

He let you.

He didn’t talk much, even then. But when he touched you—your hands, your back, your cheek—it was always careful, always reverent.

His hands were still cold.

But you never were.

[5tef1]

LOOK WHAT I FOUND

I WANT THEMMM