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cb-writes-stuff · 5 months ago

Note

points. give me a lore dump about your dnd campaign/characters

Do you have any idea what you’ve just unleashed?

*CLAP*

LEMME TELL YOU ‘BOUT (almost) ALL THE CHARACTERS I’VE NEVER HAD THE CHANCE TO PLAY.

Cut because this is really long. “Keep reading”, in this case, is a command.

The Developed Ones

1. Lina - Changeling Twilight Cleric/Wild Magic Barbarian

Lina doesn’t know who her biological parents are. As a baby, she was adopted by a tiefling couple who raised her as their own. They knew she was a changeling, and they didn’t condemn her for it. But… they weren’t the most supportive, either. They told her to always stay as the Lina that looks like their daughter. Brown hair, ram-like horns, peachy skin, the works. Often, she’d get rid of the horns at night, since they weren’t comfortable to sleep in. That earned her more than one scolding.

From an early age, Lina wasn’t really sure what her identity was. She was born as Lina, so that should make her Lina. But, that was just the name she was given. Her parents called her their daughter, called her Lina, but was that enough? Is Lina her? Or is Lina the diligent tiefling daughter her parents raised? Well, okay, then she is her body. But, if her Lina-ness is so uncertain, then how can that define her?

One particularly stormy night, hours after she was supposed to be home, she was taking shelter under a tree, too tired and scared to be anything but her natural self, gray-skinned and black-haired. Then she met her future mentor, a dwarf Cleric of Twilight. He took escorted her home, told her about his temple, and said she should visit sometime. Not long after, she ran away from home. Religion gives people a sense of identity, right?

At first, it was going great. For one thing, she was fascinated by the divine connections between day and night, between light and dark. She knew who she was: an acolyte of the Twilight domain, and later, a Cleric of it. For another, she got to wear pajamas all the time. Sure, no one else did it, but neither did they judge her. They’d even compliment her on it. It was fun to be “the girl with the pajamas”.

But still, it wasn’t enough. Those were just things she was doing, not who she was. And what identity it did offer was insubstantial. The very thing she served, that she claimed to follow wholeheartedly, was forever insubstantial, never concrete, neither day nor night, neither light nor dark. So she fell back into despair.

One day, in one of the weekly services, the head priest taught on the “evils of fey”. Fey, he said, are wholly evil creatures, who only seek to cause misery and sow confusion. He listed many examples, but the worst of them all was changelings. They wear a thousand faces, and can switch between them at will. They could easily replace anyone, and for all you know, they have. How do you know your brother isn’t a changeling? Or your wife? It’s impossible, of course. It would never happen in their temple, but the fact that they can make you question it is evil in itself. The best thing to do is kill any fey you encounter. This, obviously, did not sit well with Lina. She was at her lowest point, considering turning herself in to… well…

Before she had the chance, her mentor came to talk to her. They’d lost touch with each other over the years, and it was nice to see him again—for a few seconds. He was the only person who knew what she was, so she had to run. It’s hard to get by a dwarf, though. He assured her, he wasn’t going to out her. Rather, he had a message for her that came directly from their deity: “You are. This is enough. Now go.” So, Lina set off on adventure because, as she interprets it, she’ll find her identity out in the world.

Lina refuses to wear armor, or anything other than her pajamas. She didn’t wear them for this long to stop wearing them now. She is also extremely protective of them, and is enraged when they’re damaged. Once she brutally and mercilessly kills whoever tore her pajamas, she calms down. Unfortunately, she loses control of her divine magic when blinded by fury—or rather, she can still control it, but she just goes absolutely wild with it without thinking.

2. Quinn - Centaur Totem Barbarian

Full name, Eleanor Quinn Fieldrunner, of the Fieldrunner Clan. Goes by Quinn because too many people called her “E. Quinn” and she never found it funny.

In her clan, wisdom is prized above all else, whether spiritual, intellectual, emotional, or tactical. Everyone has their job, and you must strive to be the best at what you do. Everyone has to decide what wisdom they will seek, and where.

Quinn could never decide, though. Her family called her lazy when her only aspiration was to come back with the hunting party alive. Eventually, she had enough. She wanted to leave. Simply leaving wasn’t an option, though, so she told people she was going to “become wise in the world, to know what’s out there, and… y’know, stuff.” And it worked, so she left and started adventuring.

As a Barbarian, she wears wrappings instead of armor. Centaurs are meant to be free and mobile, not burdened by suits of metal. She also has to deal with being a centaur in a world of non-centaurs. Everywhere she goes, she gets looks, because “woah, a centaur”. She always has to correct people, that they’re her withers, not her hips, as she sassily puts her hands on her withers. In taverns, she has to tell people to stop looking at her flanks. It’s fair the first time, but if they do it excessively she gets annoyed.

3. Erthwyn Dinfire - Water Genasi Glamour Bard

A bard from the Elemental Plane of Water, Erthwyn is known across many worlds, his songs sung on countless planes of existence. Yes, in fact, he’s quite surprised you don’t know the Worlds-Famous Erthwyn Dinfire.

At least, that’s the story he tells people. In reality, he’s from Brookside, a village between two brooks that merge into a river, which feeds into a lake. He and the other kids played there a lot. The lake, as it turned out, was suffused with a marid’s magic, but Erthwyn is the only water genasi in the village. Though his human parents would never tell anyone, this is because he was conceived on the lakeshore.

Anyway. His parents were never sure what to feel about him. Sure, he was their child, and they tried their best to love him, but it was strange to have such a child.

One day, a bard came through the village, and Erthwyn wanted to go see. Turns out, it was the famous adventuring bard Nirv Ané, a tiefling with blue skin and hair like clouds. Since Brookside is the boonies, though, they’d never heard of her. Her songs were of drows and orcs, goblins and yuan-ti, all doing great, heroic deeds. Erthwyn was surprised. He asked her, how could she sing songs praising species that people usually thought of as evil? She explained, she does it because she’s tired of hearing about humans and elves and dwarves—she’d adventured with all three. She wanted to tell stories about people that were feared, especially unfairly. She wanted to change things.

In that moment, Erthwyn had a revelation: bards are really cool. From then on, whenever he was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he’d say he wanted to become a bard. And he did. And what do bards do besides become famous? So he tells people he’s famous and composes songs about all the adventures he’s never had. Eventually, he’ll be famous for being famous, and then the whole thing will just sustain itself.

Deep down, he really wants to be a bard so he can change what people think about him, especially his parents. He’s not just a genasi, or a weird version of the kid they were supposed to have. He’s not a gimmick, or a novelty. He’s a person, and he can do things.

He knows other genasi exist, but he avoids them like the plague so they don’t out him as a liar. Same with anyone who studies magic or the like, but because they might actually know stuff about the Elemental Planes and reveal how much he made up (basically all of it).

(Some of Nirv Ané’s hits include “Fragrances Similar to an Adolescent Ghost”, “Regarding a Maiden��, and “Every Pardon-begging”.)

(Yes, his name is an Earth, Wind, & Fire reference. And he’s a water genasi to complete the four elements. And I think it’s hilarious.)

4. Qiana - Plasmoid Astral Monk

Seven cultists are gathered around a table in a dark room, an angel strapped down to the table. Their hands are interlocked, forming a continuous circle, keeping the angel drained of power. An eighth cultist surgically extracts a cubic inch of her flesh and puts it in a crystalline tube and closes the door. The tube fills with salt water. The cultists begin chanting, casting the Clone spell to create a soulless body with all the power of an angel, so they can animate it for their own purposes. Finally, after an hour of constant chanting, the cube transforms… into a viscous, kinda-gross glob of pink goop. The head cultist turns to the angel, raging. “What have you done?” Restrained, powerless, unable to help herself, in absolutely no position of power, the angel laughs. “The body of an angel is too holy to be created by such evil magic.” That only stokes the cultist’s fury. He conjures a wicked green flame into his hand, intending to burn the soul straight from her body and use it as their puppet instead.

Meanwhile, a group of paladins approach the entrance to the ritual chamber. To the side is a desk with a little woman behind it, the receptionist, not looking up from her work. The paladins stand there politely. One clears his throat and she looks up. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks. The lead paladin, unsure what else to say, tells her, “Uh… yes?” “Name?” He gives his name in the way people give their names to receptionists. “Stormwind Thundercall, Champion of Justice, Herald of Compassion, Exemplar of Purity, Mighty Protector of Good, Crusader of Light, Keeper of the Dayblade, Ninth Protector of the Great Weave, Holy Paladin of the Lady of Might, Mistress of Magic, Power Incarnate, and the One True Spell, Mystra.” She flips through a few pages. “I don’t see an appointment for—” She thinks for a moment. “For you.” “Well, can we call it a walk-in?” She looks at him levelly. “You can’t go in without an appointment.” One of the other paladins sniffs the air and whispers to Stormwind, “Sir, she’s a fiend.” Stormwind has had enough of this, and starts walking to the door. A thick black tentacle reaches from behind the desk and blocks it. “I said,” she hissed, rising from the desk and revealing a very tentacle-y lower half, “you can’t go in without an appointment.”

As the head cultist is about to burn the angel’s soul out, a group of paladins bursts through the door. “Your receptionist is dead.” An intense battle breaks out, holy paladin magic against evil cultist magic. In a Hail Mary to weaken the paladins, one of the cultists casts Antimagic Field. “Wait, NO—” The spell is cast. The beefy paladins look at the squishy casters. The squishy casters look at the beefy paladins.

With the cultists dead and the rest of the temple being cleared out, Stormwind frees the angel from her restraints. Casually, he asks, “How was it? Not too bad, I hope?” “Ah, I’ve had worse.” She looks at the back of her thigh. “My leg healed pretty well too.” Stormwind nods. “No one imprisons an angel of Mystra without facing retribution.” The angel smiles a little uncomfortably, and thinks, Paladins are all the same. The other paladins return, reporting that the rest of the cultists didn’t put up much of a fight. They’re all dead. “Um, what’s… that?” The paladin points to the pink goop in the test tube. They all find it kinda gross. Stormwind raises an eyebrow at the angel. She takes a closer look, using some sort of magic. “It’s… alive. In the same way that a vegetable is alive. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” Stormwind nods and signals for the paladins to move out. The angel lingers a little longer, gazing upon the goop. I’m sure it won’t be a problem… Probably.

Years pass, the pink goop slowly absorbing the salt water. When all the water is gone, it’s grown to about 2½ square feet. It wakes up, unaware of what senses it has, feeling nothing but the ground beneath it and the crystal of the test tube. No one enters the temple. Then, months later, the ceiling begins to crumble, and for the first time the pink goop becomes aware of new senses. Light enters the temple, and the pink goop realizes it can see. It feels the sun on its membranes, cells vibrating and moving faster with heat. External vibrations in the air become birds singing and wolves howling. More months pass, and the pink goop is alone. It has thoughts, but has no vocabulary. It has never heard speech. It has never even encountered a living creature.

It’s been decades. No one remembers what the crumbling, ruined temple was once used for. Suddenly, the overgrowth is disturbed by a few monks, distracted from their pilgrimage by curiosity. Inside, they find a crystal test tube, a pool of viscous pink goop inside. One of them, a halfling, goes up to the tube and taps it tentatively. The pink goop ripples, waking up, and directs its light receptors at her. It’s in awe, with no words to describe the feeling. For the first time in its life, it sees another living creature. For the first time in its life, it has a desire. If only it had the words, it would think, “I want to be like this. I want to be like this moving thing.” The pink goop tries to shape itself, slowly, laboriously, assuming a new shape. It molds itself, forming rudimentary arms and legs, then a head and hair, positioning its many receptors in what seem to be the right places. (It would have to fix them later.) When the pink goop settles, it’s in the very vague shape of a young girl. It lays prone, limbs spread out in a star, in the test tube, looking up at the monk.

The monk, very spooked, calls over her friend. “What is this?” she asks. “I don’t know,” says the other, a dragonborn, “but… it is trapped. Whether it knows its own cage or not, it is trapped. Stand back.” The second monk channels ki, and thin, delicate arms appear in the air beside her. Translucent blue, they are ethereal—a product of her ki. With them, she punches the glass, shattering it instantly. Shards fall on the pink goop-girl, sinking through as in molasses. The goop-girl watches them curiously. “Come here, little one,” the monk says, offering a hand. With great effort, the pink goop-girl flips herself over, and struggles to crawl to the monk’s hand, having absolutely no experience moving with legs, much less moving at all. Awkwardly, she rose onto her feet, wondering. It reminded the monks of a baby, learning its legs were able to support its full weight.

The pink goop-girl tentatively reaches for the monk’s hand. Upon making contact, she begins absorbing the skin. That’s new. She’d never encountered organic matter before. The monk yanks her hand away. Though her scales weren’t absorbed at all, it still stings. Trying to suck the pain from her index finger, she reached for the pink goop-girl with an ethereal hand. The goop-girl reaches for it, her hand engulfing it completely and giving her ample support. The two monks nod to each other, satisfied that they figured out a solution. Together, they walk out. The monks waiting outside are quite surprised to see a girl made of pink goop stumbling beside them.

The goop-girl travels with them on the rest of their pilgrimage, and they teach her to walk, and talk, and write, and everything else they think of. Finally, they arrive at the monastery. They register the goop-girl as an orphan (they can’t think of anything better), and name her Qiana. Once she’s old enough, they initiate her as a monk proper, and teach her according to the traditions of the Way of the Astral Self.

(There was originally going to be a comic about how Qiana even exists, since plasmoids are more sci-fi than fantasy. I mean, they come from Spelljammer, for crying out loud.)

(Would y’all read a story about Qiana? After revisiting this, I might write one.)

And now…

The gem 〜★

5. Ocha - Tiefling Shepherd Druid

Once upon a time, there was a husband and wife, both humans, who loved each other dearly. One day, the husband became very sick. The town physician said he couldn’t help, no medicine he had could heal him. The wife went to the nearby city, but the doctor there said the same thing. No medicine could heal her husband. He was as good as dead.

Grief-stricken, the wife returned home to her husband. With labored breath, he told her of the stories he heard as a child, of a dryad that lived in the forest. No, she said, she would not turn to such a creature for help. The husband assured her, only the dryad could make an antidote powerful enough to cure him. Reluctant, she packed her bags and made the journey deep into the heart of the dryad’s woods.

The dryad was waiting beneath the branches, tending nature itself as if a garden. Dryad of the woods, said the wife, I have come for your help. The dryad paid no mind, growing flowers. In her own time the dryad asked the wife, help with what? The wife explained that her husband was very sick, and no one could help him. The dryad listen, and thought, and told her: I can give you an antidote, but it will cost you greatly. The wife asked what the dryad would have from her. You are no mother, the dryad said, so give me your firstborn child. The wife was mortified at such a demand. But she had no choice, her husband came closer to death every day. So she made the deal, and left the forest, antidote in hand.

Many years later, the wife was with child. She remembered the deal she made with the dryad, but she had a plan. She would hide away with the child, so the dryad could never find them. The time came for the child to be born. The midwife fainted, and they thought her dead. The child had bony stubs on its temples, and eyes entirely emerald green with no white or pupil. The wife had given birth to a hideous tiefling.

When the dryad came for the child, the husband and wife were ready and waiting. Take it, the wife said, you do me a great service. She thrust the thing upon the dryad and slammed the door shut.

The dryad looked at the child in her arms. How could they have such a thing? She thought the bouncing babe, with his fledgeling horns and incredible green eyes. She’d never had a plan for what to do with the child… And his parents had abandoned him…

Returning to her woods, infant in her arms, the dryad made up her mind. She would raise the child as her own, teaching him the ways of the dryad.

Meet Ocha! Or, a guy who introduces himself as Ocha. He’d never give you his actual name. That’s not how fey role. He was raised by a dryad, who he calls Dryad-Mom. He’s a child about heart and innocent about everything (even the ruthlessness of nature, which he knows all about). He always follows fey customs and etiquette, even though no one else does. He will simply announce “I’m coming in!” very politely and lightly rather than ask permission to enter, or knock. He also heats up his food slightly so it wasn’t entirely made by someone else. He also swears in Sylvan.

(His name, “Ocha”, is the Japanese word for tea, from a disagreement I had with a friend over how he word “tiefling” is pronounced.)

This dumb doodle is somehow the only art I have of him. He doesn’t know.

I think the funniest part of this drawing is that none of the crossed out things are powders.

This took me all day to write. You asked for a loredump, and you got it. My palm hurts from holding my phone. I hope you’re happy.

#dnd #dnd character #dnd5e #dnd art #dungeons and dragons #original characters #my characters #characters #lore dump #lore #oc lore #answered asks #this took me all day

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skullsandp0tions · 4 months ago

Text

the life of an outlaw is a lonely one.

(Javier Escuella x John Marston.)

CW: Alright guys so there is a lot of kissing here, and so much fluff. There’s mentions of body dysmorphia, anxiety attack, body mutilation mentioned but not committed, comfort, slight suggestive themes towards the end. And, Divorced! John Marston.

Writers note : I wanted to update my writing style a bit since I haven’t been writing for quite a bit so I’d appreciate any feedback! Also, I don’t have the ability to reply to comments or messages sadly but that is currently being dealt with !

Enjoy.

The life of an outlaw is lonely when you feel out of place. The occupation or lifestyle isn’t exactly known for its happiness and love, usually labeled as countless negative words. Whatever you can think of, chances are the outlaws have been called it.

John never intended to be an outlaw, sure his dad was an ass who died in a bar fight and he never met his prostitute mother, he got into the gang early in his life but he’d never planned to be there. As a kid he wanted to work with people, but he went the entirely opposite way. Waking up was a chore, looking himself in the mirror much worse. Having to see the scars etched into his skin on the body he couldn’t recognize, paired with the dirt under his nails and bags under his eyes, was exhausting. He always threw on the same-ish clothes, hoping they’d cover up the parts he couldn’t face, the parts of his body he’d want to carve out with a hunting knife if he could. He’d found that the black covered him up best, so that’s what he stuck with.

Javier was one of the few in the gang who seemed to notice when he was off, even if John never actually spoke about it. He tried to just pretend it was his shitty sleep schedule fucking him over but Javier knew. And John could tell. He could see it in the way the Mexican would glance at him in between his guitar strumming, could feel it in his rough palms when Javier would pat his shoulder. But unlike the usual condescending feeling that would build in his gut, Javier’s worry felt different.

There was no laughter or mocking, no judgemental glances or annoyed scoffs, just attention. And worry. It felt weird, distant, uncomfortable in its very own sense of the word. But at the same time it felt comforting, like a kind of support he wasn’t used to, the kind of support he hadn’t felt in way too long if ever.

Arthur and Dutch would try and help in their own way but it wasn’t the same . It wasn’t Javier. They could pat his back but they didn’t leave their hand on his back as if leaving a hand print etched into his spine. They didn’t put his head on their shoulders and just let him stay there. When the two of them comforted him it felt forced, awkward even. But Javier did it as if it was like breathing, as if comforting and caring for him was the easiest thing he’d ever done. And it was.

To Javier holding John was like breathing. Being allowed, no, honored to hear his breathing even for a second while he kept his head on his shoulder felt like finding an entire bag of gold bars. It was like listening to the melodies he could strum with his guitar when he heard him talk.

———————————

As the morning sun pushed its way onto the sky , bullying the moon aside to reclaim its place, John was sitting on his cot. The tent surrounding him like barriers from everything outside, but also stopping anything inside to get out. A safe way to start his morning. But even so he kept his gun by the cot on the ground, letting him quickly grab it if needed. Getting onto his feet felt like swimming up to the surface of the ocean, not that he’d know what that felt like. Sluggishly walking to the mirror in his tent, getting a short glance at the unrecognizable face in the small reflection as he put on his black everyday over-shirt, looking down at his body as he buttoned it up at the very top.

Even when he pulled on his pants he didn’t look at the mirror, trying to extend his peace of mind for just a bit longer before finally looking into the reflection and sighing. The scars on his face were still there, not that he expected them to randomly vanish with a good nights sleep, but it was a nice thought. His gray eyes stayed glued to his face, his hand moving up to slowly touch the scars on his cheek before sighing and laying the mirror down on the barrel and grabbing his brown vest and then stepping out of his tent. The morning sun cascading across his face as he put on his hat.

The camp was bustling with faint conversation and laughter, the usual loud voices lowered to let the camp members who still were sleeping, continue to do so. It was nice to not be deafened by Sean’s loud cheering or Bill’s yelling. Though he knew that would change soon enough. As he sat down at the campfire it felt like all eyes. including his own, were on him. As if even breathing was a crime.

“Y’look like shit, partner” Uncle spoke, chuckling as he drank a part of his beer despite the early hour. John scoffed in reply but the sinking feeling rose in his gut regardless. Did he really? Sure he looked shitty always but did he look shittier than normal? With one shared glance from Javier, John got back up, walking away from the campfire. He tried to make it less obvious that he was genuinely bothered, but it seemed to have been noticed anyways as someone struck uncle on the back of the head. He didn’t know where or how far he went, but he stopped when he could no longer hear the voices at camp. Slowly he sat down by the riverbank’s edge, close enough to see the way the water rushed beneath the rising sun, but not close enough to be able to touch it. If he got too close he’d see his reflection, and that wouldn’t do him any good.

His breathing already felt like a challenge, like someone had his lungs in two iron pipes, not allowing them to expand far enough. He was getting dizzy, everything was spinning, his hand gripping his shirt after tearing off his vest to try and get some more room to breathe. But even that did nothing. And the lack of air freaked him out further, he even tried to splash some water in his face but even so he felt like he was drowning. Was he dying? Was this really it?

“Hey, hey Cálmate” The sound of a very familiar voice struck his ears, but he couldn’t bring himself to look towards the sound or think about who it was, too busy trying to get his brain to work with his lungs. He needed air.

The feeling of Javier’s arms wrapping around him caused him to tense, Javier saw him? He could see his pathetic panicking? This was so embarrassing. He attempted to shove the Mexican away from him but only got met with a tighter grip.

“you’re not pushing me away, Compañero.” he spoke almost sternly, and for the first time in whoever knows how long , it didn’t piss him off. No, instead John moved his hand from his rapidly beating heart to the back of Javier’s shirt, the grip almost threatening to break the fabric.

“I can’t- I can’t breathe-“ It felt pathetic to speak with such a broken voice and such desperation, but Javier didn’t judge, and john knew he wouldn’t. Which was why he was even talking or letting him help in the first place. Abigail was the only one John had allowed to see him like this, the only one he allowed to hold him. But now there was Javier.

But Javier didn’t say anything. Instead he put his hand on the back of John’s head, cradling it against his shoulder, his other hand rubbing John’s back slowly. He didn’t say anything. Why didn’t he say anything? Was he disappointed?

He didn’t seem disappointed, he wasn’t tense or sighing, not trying to tell him to ‘man up’. He just sat there and listened, rubbed his back and just nodded.

“I’m here”

Javier more-so whispered. John didn’t realize at first but Javier had pressed his lips against the top of his head, and despite the initial feeling of confusion, he didn’t mind. He’d think he’d be disgusted like the usual man at the sight. But he wasn’t.

If anything it felt nice, warm even. But he didn’t need Javier to know that. And before he even knew it himself, he was breathing slow and steady, in the normal pattern like he normally did.

But he didn’t want to move, and Javier made no attempt to move either. Just holding him as the sound of the riverbank slowly flowing beside them. It was nice, paired with the morning sun and slightly chillier air felt like a warm bed.

“Better?” Javier asked after a moment of silence, but John couldn’t bring himself to speak, instead nodding slowly to reply, to which the Mexican chuckled. “Bueno” The Mexican replied with a small sigh.

“you kissed me head” John eventually spoke, his voice slightly gruffer than usual, yet still low. Almost as if uttering the words would make the situation actual, real.

“Sí. Did you not want me to?” Javier replied reluctantly, making sure to question the other man’s words. The lack of a reply made him uncomfortable. Had he offended him? John was one of , if not, the most important people in his life. “I don’t know.” John finally whispered, and Javier felt himself ease up slightly. So he didn’t hate him.

“not sure? Did it feel bad?” Javier questioned, his hand on John’s back mindlessly continuing to stroke slowly, keeping the soothing action going despite there no longer being any need for it. “No” He whispered once more, and Javier couldn’t help the butterflies forming in his stomach. It was nice to not have to worry about disgusting him. Hopefully it’d stay that way.

“Good, then I’ll do it again” Javier replied, kissing John’s head once more and earning a small sigh, causing him to smile even wider. “¿Bueno?” he teased slightly, his hand on John’s back pausing a bit as he leaned back slightly, making the other man look at him. Javier took note to John’s slightly rosy cheeks and his smile grew slightly teasing.

“What?” John questioned with a frown, his embarrassment growing at Javier’s staring. He felt his body burn once more. He knew he was ugly but the staring and almost mocking expression on Javier’s face made him want to run away and hide under a rock for the rest of his life.

“John. Can I kiss you?” The question caused every thought or automatic action his brain was producing to halt, gray eyes wide as he stared at the Mexican man. “What?” he quickly questioned, needing to make sure he heard him right. But even if he wasn’t 100% sure, his cheeks and the tip of his ears grew rosier, the feeling of Javier’s hand on his cheek only making it worse. “Sí, can I kiss you?” Javier repeated as if his question was nothing different from asking how his day was, but to John it was like getting hit by a truck of ‘what if’s’ and embarrassment. But also flattery. Javier wanted to kiss him? Out of all the women in the world- and men obviously, Javier wanted to kiss him.

Javier took John’s silence as slightly endearing, seeing the cogs turn behind his eyes, which made him smile slightly softer. At the silence, despite his morals (which he lacked), he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his friend’s lips, smiling as he felt the other man practically melt into it. Javier took it as an added bonus to feel John sigh against his lips. He took the chance of moving closer to him at his compliance, feeling John’s hand on his hip.

Javier had kissed a lot of people, always been the one in control and never wanted it any different. But feeling John’s lips against his made something in his brain crack. A sigh leaving his lips when he felt his back get pressed against the grass, lips slowly molding and moving against the other’s as he gripped the back of his shirt, forcing him to stay close. John had only ever really kissed Abigail, and some girl in an alley behind the saloon in valentine, so feeling Javier not only kiss him but enjoy kissing him was like being handed a trophy for being amazing. As they broke apart, John remained above Javier, his upper arms on the grass beside the Mexican’s head as they caught their breath, a string of saliva connecting their lips.

“Eres tan guapo” Javier whispered breathlessly,

(ts: you’re so handsome)

and despite the fact that john didn’t understand his words, he felt himself get hotter all over again. “Translate” he spoke shortly to which Javier chuckled, arms wrapping around John’s shoulders and pulling him back down. The Mexican managed to flip them over so he was straddling John’s lap, hand ghosting down his clothed torso.

“you’re so handsome” he repeated in english, causing John to flinch slightly. Handsome? He looked like shit , how was he handsome? That coming from Javier was either a ton of bullshit or the biggest compliment ever. Cause Javier? Javier was handsome. Especially now, on top of John, with the morning sun cascading across his face and his lips slightly agape in a small smirk. John swore he could die right then and there.

“I’m really not” the words caused Javier to pause. “Yes, you are.” he spoke almost sternly, leaning down slightly. “If you weren’t, i probably wouldn’t have kissed you” he spoke, placing a chaste kiss to John’s lips before he could argue with him. Then moving his lips to his scarred jaw, kissing over the old wolf scars and then down to his neck.

“Especially with these scars.” Javier spoke against his neck, causing John to tense slightly. “I’ll kiss all of them til you believe me , cariño” Javier spoke against his neck once more, reveling in the way John sighed at the feeling of his open mouthed kisses.

“I’ll show you just how handsome you are”

#rdr2 javier #javier escuella #rdr2 fluff #Jovier fluff #John Marston #Marston rdr2 #divorced!Marston #Javier Escuella x John Marston #I LOVE THEM #BARK BARK BARK BAKR #THIS TOOK ME ALL DAY

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