#tender cowboy

[sapphicblight]

i think i’m redeeming myself with the third chapter of eat bathe love

[lustnhim]

save a horse ride a cowboy 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

[daguerreotyping]

Unidentified photographer, #29. Cow Boy Dance "Stag" c. 1910

[sid3buns]

DAY 4 of Blue Lock Rarepair Week @bllkrarepairweek !

The prompt is cowboys and It's my favourite I think 🥰 Just men being dudes (also putting Isagi in a bolo tie was especially satisfying)

[whump-cravings]

D&D Whumpee: Fizlei Delrem

[id: A woman with short dark brown hair, olive skin, brown eyes, hairy forearms, a straight nose, and a wispy beard. He wears gray high-waisted ladies' pants with suspenders, a belt with a gun holster, and a button-up shirt with its sleeves rolled to the elbows. He points a revolver off to the side with a confident smile. /end id]

(btw those are him titties, not buff pecs)

Fiz (he/she) is a 27 year old intersex demiwoman and an arcane gunman ranger (homebrew subclass).

Fiz flirts and shoots his way through the world with confidence and ease, seldom giving any part of himself away while briefly appearing in others' lives. Everyone is a friend or potential bedmate to this gal—even those on the other side of his guns. Very few things seem to ruffle his feathers, and his charms make it difficult to dislike him.

Once upon a time, the mask of the cowboy Casanova was just that—a façade. But after spending so long this way, Fiz can't be sure anything's beneath it anymore.

—

Roughly 17 years ago, at a little farmhouse in the Dhorosian countryside, Fiz's parents and siblings were consumed one by one by an ooze-type monster. Upon locating Fiz, the last and youngest of the family, it did something decidedly strange—it took on the forms and personas of her family members, attempting to comfort her.

Fiz tried telling neighbors what had happened, but the hysterics of a 10 year old girl are easily dismissed. Those who briefly followed up to allay the girl's fears found no evidence of anything amiss—all the Delrem family members were present, healthy, and able to recount past experiences. The Thing as her parents would apologize and comment on how Fiz was upset with them—"You know how girls can be at that age," it would say with a rueful shake of Ma's head.

[id: 10 sketched portraits of a family of two parents, seven kids of varying marked aged, and a daughter-in-law /end id]

While the aberration's mimicry was flawless, it made no attempt to conceal its nature from Fiz, denying her the chance to pretend everything had been a nightmare.

—

So she ran away.

Unfortunately, Fiz has remarkably poor luck and ran straight into the den of a different monster that eats people. She was placed in its living larder with other unfortunate souls who had wandered into its clutches.

Fortunately(?), Fiz had something scarier following her. The Thing swooped in and kicked the other monster's ass, slurping it—and the other victims—up. It scooped Fiz up, chiding her for leaving home. "The world is much too dangerous for you," it said as Pa, carrying the traumatized girl home. As it patched up her injuries, it found it was able to take on recent memories from ingesting a little blood.

From there, it was careful to keep a better eye on her for a while, and Fiz learned to keep to herself.

—

At 14, she ran away and kept running for a long while, until one morning she was so desperately hungry that she snuck into a chicken coop for eggs. The rooster kicked up a fuss and the farmer (butch he/him lesbian, unnamed) rolled out of bed with a shotgun, only to find a crying girl cornered in the coop, surrounded by broken eggs.

So he (pretending to be gruff and not like he was pitying her) was like, "You gotta pay me back, so come in here and eat so you got energy to work," and brought her inside, where she met the farmer's similar-age daughter, Amara.

Over the course of a summer, Fiz and Amara grew close and well. your honor it started with the hayloft a-creakin. And life was good.

[id: two sketched busts, one of a dark skinned human woman with short-cropped curly black hair and a shotgun, labeled 'Butch lesbian farmer'; and one of a girl with moth antennae, straight black hair in a bob, and monolid eyes, labeled 'Amara?' /end id]

(this was also the point in Fiz's life where she learned she could use whatever pronouns she wanted) (and also found out that she's intersex probably)

Until it caught up.

The sound brought Amara running. And. And yeah they were added to the victim count. and the Thing (also known as "the parent") dragged the heartbroken, kicking and screaming Fiz back home.

[id: a speech bubble reads "So this is where you were," above a drawing of teenage Fiz staring wide-eyed at the viewer. Her hair is in pigtails and her little beard hairs have just started to grow in. "No... You can't—how are you here?" Fiz says, horrified. The other speech bubbles continue, "Took me a while, but I finally tracked you down. You're a clever girl, Fiz, but I have my own resources." /End id]

Farmer lady sensed the disturbance and once again came out with his shotgun, and tried to protect Fiz who was practically a second daughter by now. He got a shotgun blast on it... which only made it mad.

—

Now, the Thing's mimicry becomes outdated after a while—it can't replicate aging and growth. So between non-aging siblings and the increasingly sullen teenage Fiz, neighbors began to catch on that something was indeed wrong. When approached, Fiz told them to mind their own business. Some listened, some didn't, but the Thing parent found out in every case, one way or the other (overt suspicion or something in Fiz's memories tipping it off). Consequently, those neighbors mysteriously disappeared (eaten).

Eventually the entire surrounding population caught on and showed up on the Delrem's doorstep with pitchforks, torches, the like. Fiz begged the Thing to spare them, begged them to leave. but of course that didn't work.

The morning after, all the houses in that part of the countryside were empty.

The Parent moved itself and Fiz far away.

There were rules to running away, each learned at the cost of freedom or someone's life.

—

The Parent always finds Fiz. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later, but always eventually. When it does, it learns everything Fiz has said and done (via his blood).

If Fiz resists returning home once it shows itself to him, the strictness/severity of his 'grounding' increases.

Fiz is not allowed to tell people about the Parent or let anyone become too concerned about his situation.

Fiz is not allowed to have lasting relationships.

(There's also been times where he was thrown into jail for something he may or may not have done and then the jailers got eaten, so Fiz is wanted in several places for murder.)

—

He remembers the last time he fought back.

7 years ago, a young child needed help reaching safety, and Fiz got them there. The details aren't important, but the situation got Fiz thinking on how he would never be able to have a family of his own if things kept on the way they were.

—

Dhoros, his home country, wasn't particularly rich in sellswords, but Fiz hired the ones he could find.

Even with Fiz's aid, they stood no chance. When the confrontation came, the others were wiped out in under a minute, dealing little damage. Fiz emptied the chambers of his guns into the Thing to little avail, and fell back to striking it with his whip until it pinned him and ripped his weapons away.

"Fizlei Delrem," it reprimanded as Pa. "Is this how I raised you, to be hangin' out with folks that'd get you to attack your own family? ... Maybe I ain't been tough enough on you."

Before it took Fiz and left, it caught a few hiding kids who had witnessed the fight. Fiz could do nothing as it ruthlessly subsumed them. "I didn't like doin' that, Fiz, but you forced me to."

It dragged the struggling Fiz every step of the way home that time, binding him in chains and refusing to let him out until he saw reason.

Fiz made peace with his lot in life.

He let go of his anger, buried his grief, forgot his dreams, and made himself content with the meager freedoms allotted to him.

If all he could have was a pretense of connection when between the sheets, then that was what he would have.

If all he had to do was play nice to placate his parent, he would fawn for it.

If all he could do was enjoy the time spent out in the world, that was what he would do.

If all the bridges he could cross had to burn behind him, he would light each fire.

—

@nabanna @acecasinova @flat-san @emcscared-whumps @jblockman1

[aplicobelt]

“For a silent, wavering second, they sit on the floor of the cave together, just breathing, staring. Suspended in the moment before they jump.”

Little sketch that’s based off of a scene in a charthur fic I’m reading called “what is all else to us” by Anderfels. Think of it as my late valentines present to charthur fans

[candylungs]

please post will smut im begging on my knees

Listen, one of us has got to get up. We can't both be begging in the dirt for Will smut. Rise up and take this naked depressed clown with you.

Notes: Congrats to Will for paying for bathwater before it became cool. This is barely smut. But I felt possessed writing it so here, take our cowboy clown enjoying a bath and then some brief tender non con.

Paying for leftovers was something Will seldom did. Especially not leftover water. The creek rushed frigid and fast and felt severe against his flesh. He liked that it made him cold straight to the bone. Numbed his skin enough that he could pretend that's all there was.

When he hurried to dry, pulling on clothes with his skin still half-wet, he felt like one of those carnival skeletons left askew in moldering suits. Mags hadn't liked them. She'd shrieked, almost delighted to be so alive and scared, and clung to her father's legs to be picked up and carried away. But Will had stayed. He had stared at them for a long while and tenderly shook the bare-knuckled hand when one of the performers waved it toward him. With much fuss, Mags had refused to be near him till he'd scrubbed his hands in a trough on the way home, their fathers laughing to see him so cowed.

Looking back, he had fancied them siblings of the Tulliver style. Mags was certainly so spirited. But the older Will got, the more he realized he had always been the hunchback. Destined to walk the forest, forgotten for shinier sights.

But then, what did that make you, always looking back to smile his way? And what could he make of himself, shuffling through the back of the Inn to pay to soak in a tepid tub of leftover bath water?

Will did not look at Amon beyond the smooth hand that snatched his coin, nor did he return the well wishes to have a good evening. He was pathetic. Desperate. So possessive of your being that even your leftover filth excited his passions.

He was erect and alone in the cloudy water you'd left just moments ago. Will had trailed near the wooden box that served for a bath house and had to keep adjusting his pants as he snuck close enough to hear the water splash. To hear the uneven tone of your humming.

What he would give to bathe with you. Would you let him smooth the pads of his fingers against your knuckles, he wondered. Would you let his flesh worry against them like stones. Could he hope to trail his fingers firm against the trail of bone that would lead him up, up, up to your pretty smile and kind eyes.

Isolated enough that he didn't worry about being disturbed, Will began to twist his cock, heart thrumming and face deeply flushed beneath the remaining smears of paint clinging to his cheeks and chin.

"That's perfect," he muttered as the slap of water led him to imagine your irises dissipating in the lapping of your pupils, so large, like moons, luring him closer. They would be easier to hold. The kind of eyes that were hungry and eager to swallow him whole.

Will would kiss you, pressing into your shoulders, tracing the hard circle of your bone as he licked your teeth. And maybe you would touch him too.

Your hands would find his elbows before trailing lower. "Is this okay," you would whisper against his cracked lips, because you were always considerate of him. Ever since he pulled a knife your first meeting.

The tickle of your nails against the hair of his chest and stomach almost felt real as he came, gripping his cock with both hands, whining through his release. It came too soon. He wanted to stay there with you longer. To linger in the remains of the busy day you washed away.

But he suddenly couldn't bear to be sitting naked in the middle of town anymore. Will hated to be in town even shielded in layers of dust and grease paint and the bleak night. His cravat choked him in his haste to tie it. He fumbled and missed a middle button of a once-smooth vest, no so worn that the swirling patterns were abrasive against his chapped fingers.

A few hours of waiting, well away from the dusty streets, calmed him enough to return. He loved to watch you sleep. Sometimes you slept so deeply he felt confident enough to lift your night gown and gaze between your legs. And then he couldn't help himself. He had to touch. He had to heat your skin against his until the blaze overwhelmed him to spill seed over your back.

Crouched at the foot of your bed, he felt this would be one of those nights. You were on your stomach, one leg hitched high, with your arms soft around your pillow. Will wanted to crawl under you and place himself in the circle of your arms. You could rot there together.

Or more novel, perhaps wake together day after day. And you would want to do that with him. Wake with him in your arms. Will shivered at that, his hands grazing up your thighs and forcing your nightgown up too.

"So warm," he quivered, "so smooth."

By the time you woke, mind and body beginning to wriggle into awareness, he'd already aimed his seed to paint your spine.

"That was wonderful," he couldn't help but say. One day he would do the same to your clavicle. To the space between your shoulders. Between your teeth. Maybe inside of you, between your thighs, the way everyone did.

He thought your head raised before he could get out the window. But Will buried the want to wait and meet your eyes. Scared that he wouldn't like the expression there.

Hope was something Will seldom did, but you still waved at him the next day and approached with a well-loved book of poems. Even when you both knew. He hoped you knew.

[seadem-on]

Still sad about Midnight Cowboy.

Rico just wanted to be remembered. He just wanted to be himself. Everyone mocked him and called him Ratso. No one allowed him to just be Rico. He wanted to be Rico - he said it multiple times.

That’s the story of too many people. People who are crushed by capitalism and ableism. People who are nameless and are forgotten by the world.

We gotta tell the story of these people. They have a name. They have a dream. Rico had dreams.

[yloiseconeillants]

anyway here's antimony

[tetsuskei]

taking time to teach ace abt love and how to be loved and being patient w him bc he was never raised or properly taught it

[wandaluvstacos]

my rule going forward is that if you want to draw tender cowboy art you have to know how to draw a western saddle. You would be shocked at how much skilled gay cowboy art I see with them riding with an ENGLISH SADDLE. NO! STOP THAT! That is an entirely different piece of tack for an entirely different culture/discipline. It'd be like dressing a punk kid up like a frat boy! It doesn't work!

This is Western tack:

This is English tack:

learn the difference before you draw your tender gay cowboy art, I'm begging you.

[princenothinq]

would you listen to modest mouse with him behind a dumpster

[jimmyspades]

"I’m not about to go to Texas and not ride the mechanical bull." "You'll get hurt." "Nonsense. I grew up riding the ponies at the pumpkin patch." BOSTON LEGAL 1.17 "Death Be Not Proud"

[maraskywalkers]

ok so my "what if Tim's mom was a Horse Girl ™️" hc has evolved & now she's possibly an equine therapist (yes it's whole journey & no I will not explain myself) so now I'm like does Tim have a canon opinion on horses? lmao bc listen I now decided that he has a way with horses bc of his mom and never really comes up until they're working a case or something & Tim totally calms down a horse & like bonds with it & Raylan tries really hard not to swoon but Tim being all soft & gentle with a scared horse or whatever just does something to his heart okay

[verilydigital]

I just think he’s neat [and underrated]✨

yeehaw🐮

[Dakota Dude from Wild West C.O.W-Boys of Moo Mesa]

[likeahammer]

From John Belton’s American Cinema/American Culture