#jonah oc

[khazadspoon]

@kakmem drew my western OC Jonah and I need people to see. I need him to be seen. I have a vague backstory for him and stuff but my main visual idea was “stern handsome man MUST have cleft in his chin” and that was that

[khazadspoon]

I was gonna nap but I felt like writing so here have some terribly sad OC stuff. Jonah and Tristan are mine, Hale belongs to @westernmeowmeow

—————

The headline stared up at him in glaring black print.

Notorious outlaw dead : Hale Gladwin hanged on Texas border.

For a moment he felt nothing. He stared at the paper, no thoughts in his mind, and then-

“Jonah?” Tristan walked to his side, a warm hand on his shoulder. “Oh. Oh God, Jonah I-”

He turned, feet moving without any reason behind them, and walked to the wagon. The paper crumpled in his hands.

“Take me home.”

His voice sounded weak, far away even in his own head. The town faded to a high pitched humming and Jonah couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t feel anything, not even the worn wooden seat underneath him.

Tristan climbed onto the wagon and urged the horses on. The ride was relatively short, but before they could make it to the farm Jonah felt bile rise in his throat. He grasped blindly at Tristan’s arm and hissed; “stop the wagon.”

The horses protested the sudden change, but the wagon slowed to a stop. Jonah stumbled from the seat and fell to his knees, acid in his mouth as he vomited on the hard ground, tears stinging his eyes as he heaved. It hit him like a punch to the chest. He threw up again, nothing left inside, but his body insisted it had to happen. His stomach muscles cramped, his nose ran, an utterly humiliating display of pain he was powerless to stop.

“Jonah,” he heard his husband murmur by his side, only just noticing the warm hand rubbing his back. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

The rest of the journey was a blur. Trees passed, their leaves dull and unmoving, but then all colour seemed to have drained from the world. Jonah floated like a sailor thrown from his ship, waiting for rescue but knowing only the terrible, cold depths of the water below would greet him.

Hale was dead.

Hale was dead.

Hale was never coming back.

Tristan’s voice was muffled as he ushered Jonah into the farm house. His hands were warm, impossibly kind and gentle, but Jonah felt only cold as he sat at the kitchen table. He thought if he looked up he would see himself sat there, some terrible empty shell of a man clinging on to a newspaper and seeing nothing of the world around him.

Hale was dead.

He didn’t eat that day. He didn’t weep like he thought he would when the inevitable happened. Tears stung at his eyes but never fell. Grief settled over him like a thick, scratchy blanket, dulling his senses and blotting out the light. He moved from room to room with no thought, no aim, and found himself sitting on the guest bed cradling that damned newspaper as though the words writ large on the front page would somehow change if he gripped it hard enough.

Part of him knew Tristan was worried - he heard his husband call his name, offer him food and water, felt himself lifted and carried to their bed, but it was all so far away. When he slept, all he could see was Hale dangling from the gallows, all the brightness of his eyes gone, all the vitality of him drained away.

He woke to find himself curled into a ball, his muscles aching from how tightly he held himself there.

On the third day he wept so hard he thought he would never stop. It hurt. Everything hurt. Every inch of him was tired beyond measure but he couldn’t stop.

Hale was dead.

He walked to the rise beyond the farm and stared at the sunset. His hands longed for something to hold on to, something sharp to grip, and he avoided the kitchen when he returned. Tristan hovered with an aching sadness on his face Jonah couldn’t bring himself to see.

On the tenth day, he ate a full meal. Tristan smiled at him, and he smiled back. It hurt to smile, as though he was being punished for any glimpse of happiness he might feel.

On the third week he laughed. He still avoided a particular drawer in the kitchen, but he could sleep in their marriage bed without guilt.

Hale was still dead.

But Jonah was alive. Tristan was alive. Their life together still had miles to go and Jonah would be damned if he let that slip away. Hale wouldn’t have wanted him to-

Hale was dead.

Grief came in waves, sometimes like the tide coming in, sometimes like a great wave crashing against a cliff. Parts of Jonah crumbled into that sea of grief. He didn’t know if they would ever come back. He didn’t know if he wanted them to. The scar his grief left behind was a marker that showed he had loved a man so deeply it had changed him.

Hale was dead, and Jonah was left behind to mourn a man he never said he loved out loud.

And when a horse and rider approached the farm, grief and rage became a storm, whipped up by love and longing into a typhoon.

[khazadspoon]

Jonah but this time in colour thanks to the wonderful @kakmem

[khazadspoon]

Day 4 entry two days late because I’m a nervous Nelly but now I’m brave enough to post. Jonah kisses Mr Favor because he is dealing with some internal stuff.

———

Jonah was drunk, or at least well on his way to being drunk. That was the only explanation really. Or at least that’s what Gil told himself in the days after.

He helped the man back to his room with an arm around his waist, smiling softly at the quiet and tuneless humming. Jonah was an odd fellow, keeping to himself for the most part but coming out of his shell when you caught him alone. Gil liked him. He was good at following orders, yes, but he was also sharp eyed and keenly intelligent. But there was something about him that was… different.

Rowdy knew, or he had implied as such, but whatever it was had remained a secret. In time, if the man wanted to tell him, Gil would listen. For now he let it be. Men’s secrets were their own, after all.

He nudged the hotel room door open with his hip and guided Jonah through, smiling a little more at the muttered curse as Jonah stumbled to take off his boots. They were scuffed and well worn. Gil thought they must be very comfortable, soft as butter perhaps. He reached down and helped the man stand up straight.

“Here, let me-”

He stopped mid sentence, his attention caught by Jonah staring up at him with wide, almost grey-blue eyes.

“I think,” Jonah started, his voice breathy, “if it had been you, I might’ve been happy to be a bride, for a while at least.”

Gil blinked at the words. They burrowed into his mind and settled there like dormice.

Then Jonah kissed him.

His lips were soft, softer than they had any right to be. His hip and shoulder were warm under Gil’s hands, his breath a gentle sigh as he stretched up to reach Gil’s lips.

Despite himself, despite how he knew it was a bad idea (a terrible idea, a dangerous idea, liable to get one or both of them badly beaten at least should anyone find out) he found himself kissing back. His hands moved, arms wrapping around the shorter man until they were pressed together, his neck bent so he could kiss him easier, and the shaky moan that came from Jonah’s chest made his gut twist pleasantly. He felt Jonah’s hands on his shoulders, felt the warmth of a tongue against his lips and made a soft sound in his throat. He parted his lips, let Jonah in and tasted the rum they had been drinking, heat blooming somewhere in his stomach.

It had been so long since he had-

And then it was over. Jonah tore himself away and turned to face the bed, his back to Gil and the door. It looked like he was shaking.

“I’m- I’m sorry. I… just go.”

Gil stood for a moment, lips tingling, his hands still halfway raised where he had been holding on to the man. He could see the tremor in Jonah’s hands as he folded his jacket. The urge to step forward, to reach out and take Jonah in his arms again struck him like a mule kick to the stomach.

Jonah whirled, something cold and broken in his eyes. “Please, Mister Favor, go! Leave me!”

Gil shut his mouth, swallowed, and turned away. The door shut behind him with a click that was almost deafening in the quiet hallway. He went back down the stairs and to the saloon across the street, eyes glancing up to the dark window where Jonah’s room was. The lamp was doused. The curtains were shut.

“Everything alright, boss?” Rowdy asked when he walked in and sat down.

“Mm.”

Rowdy didn’t look convinced. Gil didn’t blame him.

“Well if you change your mind, I’m all ears.”

He took the beer from in front of his ramrod and drank deeply, hoping that if he could wash the taste of Jonah from his mouth he could somehow get rid of the warmth of him too, and forget the broken pain in his eyes.

Rowdy didn’t complain as the drink was taken. He waved the bartender over and ordered another, rubbed his cheek with one hand and drummed his fingers on the wooden bar top.

“Somethin’ just happened. I don’t know… it probably ain’t gonna mean anything but-” Gil shook his head and felt a sigh work it’s way up his throat. He felt dazed. “I don’t know.”

Rowdy frowned, his eyes far too keen for a man who had spent the better half of the day in the saloon. “What do you mean?”

“Not here.”

He followed Gil from the saloon, the questions he was obviously holding in clear on his face.

When Gil explained what had happened, the surprise Gil had expected didn’t come.

“I mean, he didn’t exactly hide it, boss.”

Gil stared at his ramrod. “Uhh…”

“You mean, you really didn’t notice?” Rowdy raised an eyebrow. “Come on, boss, you can’t be that dense.”

Had it been any other moment, Gil would have considered smacking Rowdy on the back of the head for the comment. As it was, he just stared down at his boots. “I… I really didn’t notice. But now I know, it’s hard not to.”

They walked through the darkened town and stopped by the stable. Rowdy glanced at him a little nervously, the expression strange on his usually cute face. “I know it ain’t my place, but I feel I gotta say something. You be careful with him. He’s-”

“Older than you,” Gil interrupted with a small smile. “Than me, too, by a few years.”

“Let me finish!”

Gil raised his hands, suitably admonished.

“He ain’t like us. This,” Rowdy gestured to the town around them, “this ain’t his life! He should be in some city sippin’ fancy tea with his pinky- well, his left pinky sticking up.”

“I know, Rowdy. I know.” He rubbed his face, fingers lingering on his lips for a moment. “You coming back to camp?”

Rowdy nodded.

Gil glanced back over his shoulder as the rode away, eyes finding the little hotel room. Hopefully Jonah would sleep the memory away. He wouldn’t, he was sure he’d spend most of the night thinking about it, but… maybe Jonah would.

[khazadspoon]

It took a few days but I’ve finally finished the Jonah/Hale fic I was writing… pure OC smut with @westernmeowmeow’s Hale who I love.

———

Hale takes his sweet time turning Jonah into a flushed, whimpering mess. His hands, warm and large and calloused from gun fighting and a life of crime, trail over Jonah’s belly and thighs. The touches are light as a feather, each inch making Jonah’s belly tense and his gut tighten in anticipation. He gasps as the hands push his thighs apart.

“S’alright, boy, I won’t hurt you.”

Hale’s voice is low and sweet, thick like molasses, and Jonah bites back the groan that tries to spill from his lips. He shivers as warm breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. If he looks down, he knows he’ll see those dark eyes looking up at him. But if he sees that look he might say something stupid, might ask for more than just a hot mouth-

He looks down.

“Fuck me,” he breathes.

Hale sucks in a sharp breath. His hands tighten on Jonah’s thighs and the slight sting is wonderful. “You sure?” Hale asks, those deep brown and knowing eyes watching Jonah like a hawk.

Jonah nods and fists the sheets with both hands. He’s sure. He’s been sure since the last time they crossed paths, drinking in some rundown bar and laughing about something normal people would wince at.

“I’m sure. I- I want it.” He takes a shaky breath. “ I… Trust you.”

Hale’s gaze softens for a moment and Jonah swallows the lump in his throat. The man’s lips curve in a slow and heated smirk, the expression making him look like some large predator in the jungle ready to pounce. It makes Jonah’s heart beat wildly in his chest.

“You trust me? Bad decision, boy…” Hale turns his face, nips at Jonah’s thigh, makes his breath catch in his throat. “But I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll make it real good for you.”

The older man dips his head down and Jonah’s world narrows to the feel of a hot, wet mouth on his cunt. He gasps, keens as Hale licks at him, his tongue a wicked weapon of pleasure as it flicks over his cock. Jolts of sensation rush up his spine and Jonah curses at the ceiling. His hips buck, the muscles in his thighs tensing as Hale’s clever mouth (always quick with a remark, always ready to laugh and joke before cutting a man down) works at him with expert precision.

Jonah threads his fingers through the thick hair on Hale’s head and holds him there, rocks his hips and takes what he wants. He’s only ever bold here, he thinks, naked and free with Hale who burst into his life and calls him friend. Hale, who kills and robs for a living. Hale who saw who he was and shrugged, treated him no different than any other man. The breathless moans he’s making only get louder as Hale presses long fingers inside him. One at first, then two, curling and rubbing at every sweet spot until he’s soaked and whining. Jonah’s fingers tighten their grip as the third finger pushes in, thrusts into him, Hale’s single-minded determination driving him crazy.

He comes with a silent shout, muscles taut as it rushes through him. He feels the vibrations of Hale’s pleased hum and shivers, letting go of the man’s hair and sinking down into the bed.

Hale wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and the action makes Jonah shiver.

“Now,” Hale says in a low voice, crawling up the bed to lean over him, “you still want it?” He leans down, his lips tacky as they drag up the length of Jonah’s throat. “Because if you ain’t sure-”

Jonah flushes and pushes up, let’s put a low desperate growl as he grabs at Hale’s shoulder and hip, tips them over so he can straddle the man’s waist. He can feel how wet he is, the way he’s making a mess on Jonah’s stomach. “You don’t gotta keep asking if I’m sure,” he grits out, unable to stop himself rolling his hips once to feel the shiver of arousal still thrumming through him.

Hale stares up at him with a grin, his dark eyes glittering as his hands reach up to roam over Jonah’s chest. He cups Jonah’s breasts, kneads them and rolls the nipples with his thumbs. “Just making sure, little prince.”

Jonah knows he must look silly; he’s blushing from head to toe, pale skin pink and hot to the touch, his hair a mess and his hands shaking slightly. But the desire on Hale’s face is clear, unrestrained. The man’s grin stays firmly in place as he grips Jonah’s waist, lifts him and shifts him back, the hard curve of his cock trapped between them and making the breath catch in Jonah’s throat.

“Go ahead. Take your time though, I know you ain’t done this before. Besides, we’ve got nowhere else to be, I want to see what you can do.”

Despite the urgency coursing through him, and the obvious lust on Hale’s face, he does start slow. He raises himself up slightly and takes a now almost familiar grip on Hale’s cock. He bites his lip and takes a deep breath, braces himself for the pain he’s heard girls talking about and-

It never comes.

He feels full, feels a deep ache that makes his toes curl. The sensation thrums inside him as though he’s been stood next to an explosion. His eyes drift shut, mouth open on a slow and shuddering breath, a strange but delicious need forming in his core.

“Fuck, I knew you’d feel good,” Hale groans, his own voice thready and softened by sweet pleasure. His fingers curl and grasp at Jonah’s thighs. He looks up, meeting Jonah’s gaze. “Whenever you’re ready.” His slow and easy grin is all the encouragement Jonah needs.

The first jerking movements of his hips make his breath fly from his lungs in sharp gasps. The ache inside him lessens, the sheer intensity of his arousal easing the way more than he had ever imagined possible. He rolls his hips, grinds them and feels Hale’s cock filling him and bites out a curse.

“Oh sweet Jesus-!”

His hands rest on Hale’s chest, his nails biting into tanned skin, and he stares down with wide eyes as his own cock rubs against Hale’s body. When he lifts up again there is a moment where he wonders what would happen, what Hale would do if he got up and stopped. He won’t, he wants it too badly now to stop, but…

He drops down again. Rises, falls, rises, falls, fucks himself on Hale’s hard prick until the muscles of his thighs start to burn. The man helps him with a firm grip. The sense of fullness only increases and Jonah can hear the constant high moans falling from his lips.

Hale holds him up, thrusts his hips to pound into Jonah and the sudden change has a scream of pleasure flying from him before he can even think to stifle it.

“That’s it, boy,” Hale hisses, “so good, knew you’d be good, fuck! Tell me how it feels.”

The words hit Jonah like a bullet. They twist in his gut, coil around him and squeeze until he is panting Hale’s name like a litany. He can’t form sentences. He can’t think, can’t do anything but let Hale fuck him and gasp as he reaches down, rubs his cock in time with each powerful thrust. Each movement causes a wet slap, their hips meeting in a slowly degrading rhythm as they hurtle towards the end.

Jonah doesn’t want it to end.

He wants to stay here, suspended in sweet, aching pleasure until he loses his mind with it.

But that is impossible.

He falls into orgasm, muscles tensing and shaking, pulse hammering and his voice crying out into the air around them and it feels like-

Freedom.

Beneath him, Hale swears and holds onto him tighter. He pauses, lifts Jonah up and doesn’t protest when he lands heavily on the taller man’s chest. Jonah listens to the slick sound of Hale’s hand on his cock, bites and kisses at his neck as Hale comes with a low and rasping moan.

Fullness is replaced by a strange, almost beautiful emptiness. He shivers and curls up on Hale’s chest, mouths at his neck and tries to regain his breath. He doesn’t quite succeed, but then neither does Hale.

They lay together on the bed, two bodies soaked with sweat, lungs heaving and laughter beginning to bubble in their chests.

“Thank you,” Jonah mumbles.

Hale snorts a laugh. “Don’t thank me, kid, you did most of the work.”

“Still…”

Silence descends. It’s a warm, gentle silence, one that feels more like comfort than oppression. Jonah doesn’t want to break it. He feels exhaustion creep over him and is asleep before he can even think of moving.

He wakes alone. A blanket is draped over him, a pitcher of water on the table, and a hastily written note.

‘Keep out of trouble, small one. Until next time.’

Jonah smiles despite the disappointment in his chest. He had hoped for a little more time with the outlaw, more than the single afternoon they had shared. And if he had hoped for another round…

But, as Hale had written; he will wait until next time.

[khazadspoon]

It’s bedtime but who cares post OC profiles I edited with my thumb on my phone

[khazadspoon]

Jonah Gender Exploration happened. Here have a thing I love him so much.

———

The sense of disconnect and discomfort he had felt his whole life didn’t fade overnight. It still lingers, sometimes strong and sometimes a gentle background noise like being at the beach.

But, little things have helped.

The first had been his hair.

When he had been told he was to be engaged, to be married to someone he had never met, when he had been told that it was the last option available to the family to have him seen as a ‘respectable wife and daughter’, he had fled. The easiest thing to change had been his hair. He took a pair of rusty scissors from the counter in a store, the clerk busy with a customer, and tucked them in his pocket. He sat behind the building, heart hammering wildly in his chest, beating like it would burst from him any moment, and gathered his thick locks in one fist.

The scissors did their work.

A young woman destined to be a spinster died.

A young man with a world ahead of him was born.

The hair floated to the ground and Jonah wept. He wept for who he had been and who he would become. He wept for the person who had sprung up in between; Dionysos born from Zeus’ thigh, Adam formed from the earth. Made and remade, the hand of the unknowable shaping him.

Jonah doesn’t have the scissors anymore. But he kept a lock of hair, tied it with a ribbon, and tucked it in his pocket. Something to remember the past by.

Clothes had come next. With no money he had stolen them. Petty theft became commonplace in those early months. Jeans, a shirt, boots, a jacket. All of the items were too big but that only served to hide him better. Over the years that followed those same clothes were darned and repaired more times than he can remember. He loves them like they had been with him since infancy. In a way they have been.

Jonah had taken the essence of himself and reshaped it, adorned it and reformed it into something he could look at in the surface of a lake with… not love, not adoration like Narcissus, but satisfaction.

He only hoped others could feel the same in time.

[khazadspoon]

OK ONE MORE THING BEFORE I GO TO BED

I wish I would draw them so I could show you how beautiful they are in my head. I don’t know how old they are shush it’s fine.