haunted-desert - Tumblr blog

haunted-desert · 3 months ago

Text

Hungry Like the Wolf

John Marston x F!Reader

Rated E - 1.8k

Tags: mentions of injuries, fwb, oral (f receiving), coming in pants, hint of a praise kink

Summary: You knew it wouldn’t be long before you saw John again - you just weren’t expecting him to show up looking like this.

This is inspired by and for my sweet friend @usermalewife - who has the best John thots (especially about his many, uh - talents)

A low creak on your old wooden porch pulls you from a deep sleep, your eye cracking open tiredly as you glance towards the door. It’s still twilight, the sun hasn’t even peeked over the horizon yet, your fingers curling around the bone hilt of the hunting knife hidden under your pillow.

Your muscles tense as you roll over and push yourself up, bare toes touching down silently onto worn wooden floorboards. The knock that follows has the air rushing from your lungs in a low breath, the rhythm a familiar one.

The knife is left on the bedside table, your quilted blanket pulled like a shawl around you head towards the barred wooden door. You lift the latch, shouldering the door open as you glance up at your visitor, his face hidden in shadow

He follows you in as you step inside, the lantern in his hand setting down on the wooden table just inside. Finally, he turns, the light catching his face, and you can’t help it - can’t hold back the gasp that seems to come from deep in your belly.

“John.” You breathe, eyes locked on the half-healed, pink-red scars slashed across his cheek and lip, breaking up the dark scruff of his beard.

“Easy now, I’m fine.” His hands are up, palms facing you placatingly.

You ignore his gesture, stepping forward as you raise your own, fingers touching to tilt his face further into the light. John’s jaw flexes as your thumb bumps a cut curving under the edge of his jaw, his brow furrowing.

“What happened?” Worried eyes meet his, which already look exasperated, his hands coming up to circle around your wrists.

“Run in with some wolves,” he mutters, ducking his head down to meet your lips, though your head jerks back.

“Wolves?” You gape at him, and his brow furrows further.

“I didn’t come here to be coddled, woman.” There a rasping edge to his voice, his mouth seeking yours again, and this time you let him, your lips parting as he presses against you.

The tension eases as he moves against you, walking you backwards the few steps until your back touches the wall, his tongue already dipping into your mouth to taste you.

Fingers twist into the long strands of hair at the nape of his neck, the quilt around your shoulders dropping forgotten to the floor. He groans into your mouth, your own tongue brushing against the new scar on his lip as you meet him - his legs slotting with yours, hands finding their way to your waist to pull you tighter against him.

You break for a breath, eyes drifting down to his mouth as you ask, “Well, what did’ya come here for, then?”

The thigh between yours lifts, the meat of his leg pressing against your core, grinding as his stance shifts. Your hands tighten around him, fingers digging into his shoulder as a spark ignites low in your belly.

“I think you know full well.”

And you did, it was always like this. He’d show up and you’d let him stay - an hour or a day or a week, you were never sure. But he didn’t come round out of just pure kindness, and you didn’t keep him for that either.

You push back against him, and he lets you, feet moving easily over the well-worn path to your bedroom, your mouth lifting to his again.

The backs of his knees hit the wooden footboard and he brings you down with him, your chest crushing against his as he hits the mattress, his hat tumbling off his head to rest among the pillows.

Knees straddle his lithe hips, pressing down against the thick bulge of his jeans, your hands plucking at the buttons of his vest, as he pushes himself up on his elbows to help.

The vest and the shirt join the floor, along with the belt as you deftly whip it from the loops, the heavy brass buckle clattering on the wood. His hands wander, sliding up your thighs, underneath the soft flannel of your nightgown, moaning at the bare expanse of skin under his rough fingertips.

You reach for the button on his jeans, but he’s shaking his head.

“Need to taste you, sweetheart.” His voice is a low, needy rasp, his palms going flat on your hips as he urges you upward.

“John.” You warn, your own hands bracing on his bare chest, against the dark smattering of hair, “You’re hurt. You have to take care of it, or it will scar.”

“S’gonna scar either way.” He argues back, but you plant yourself firmly in place, your eyebrow raised.

“Please,” he coaxes, his voice a low rasp, “Thinkin’ about this was the only thing that kept me alive on that goddamn mountain.”

You think it’s a joke from the upwards twitch of his lips, but there’s still a thrill that shoots up your spine at his words.

“You’re impossible.” You allow, and he knows he’s won, his shoulders dropping back onto the mattress as he watches you with greedy eyes.

Fingers pinch the fabric at your shoulders, your back arching as you tug your nightgown off, tossing it down to the end of the bed. His fingers only leave you for a moments, before they’re roaming greedily, sliding over soft skin to cup a breast, moaning when you react, your exposed cunt grinding down against him.

Shifting your weight, you move upwards - knees carefully moving on either side of his chest, his shoulders, until you’re hovering carefully over him.

“How do you want-,” Your question is cut short as his hands grasp and yank, neck lifting to meet you half-way.

John’s mouth is hot against your pussy, tongue going flat to taste you, licking a long stripe up your center. Your moan comes out broken as he does it again, sliding against your folds, parting you, dipping to where you’re already wet for him.

“Fuck.” He groans, but it’s muffled from his place between your thighs, tongue moving to tease at your clit.

Your hands wrap around the wooden edge of the bed frame, adjusting your position as he eats you, devours you - hands grasping at your thighs, palms going flat to keep you pressed against him, close enough that his scruff scrapes pink marks across your thighs.

Sometimes he talks to you, rough growls against your skin of “you taste so goddamn good” and “gonna eat this cunt ‘til you can’t even think” - but tonight he’s already gone, all his concentration narrowed down to the soft spot between your thighs.

No, tonight he came here with a need, utterly transparent in his actions, and how could you deny it from him?

As if he can hear your thoughts his tongue dips down, teasing at your slit, the tip pressing inside to where you’re aching as his nose bumps against you, your hands grasping the wood hard enough to hurt.

It feels incredible, he feels incredible - his enjoyment evident from the needy, low sounds in his throat, the way his eyes drift up reverently to yours as you watch him, only adding to your own coiling pleasure.

He could stay between your thighs for hours, and from your experience - he just might.

John’s mouth covers you, kissing and licking, everything warm and slick and you’re shifting, trying not to grind down on him. You whimper as he zeroes in on your clit, small licks, pressing and teasing and all but drowning in you.

His hands guide you, drifting until his hands press into your skin, coaxing you into a slow roll of your hips. Each forward rock of your hips bumps your clit against his tongue, your breath coming a bit shorter and higher with each thrust.

Your muscles are going tight, the pressure building between your legs - it takes all your concentration not to clamp your thighs around his head and ride him into oblivion.

John’s already half-way there himself, the bed creaking as he moves with you - hips bucking upward as you grind against his mouth, seeking any bit of friction from his jeans. He’s loud with you, not shying away from low, rough groans into your cunt, his breath hot against you.

Lips replace his tongue, closing around you and sucking, his moan low and rough as you cry out, your hips bucking involuntarily.

“Please,” you whimper, more from a need to voice your thoughts than to actually ask - John know you, knows every inch of your cunt. “Make me come John, please-“

John hums against you, abandoning his teasing, tongue licking at the same spot again and again, until you forget yourself - until you’re all but riding his face.

You’re so fucking close, his name falling easily from your lips as your back starts to arch, everything going tight before you snap. With a soft cry you’re gushing on his tongue, clenching and pulsing around nothing as you come hard.

He stays with you, licking and sucking and tasting until you’re huffing a laugh, overstimulated and shaky, easing away from his greedy lips.

“Goddamn.” You breathe, taking in the wet sheen of John’s mouth, your release on his mouth, his chin. His tongue darts out to sweep across his lower lip, his chest heaving and eyes heavy-lidded.

Your hand reaches back, pressing against him as he hisses, hips flexing against your touch. There’s a damp spot staining the front of his jeans, his cock sensitive, and your eyebrows raise.

“When did you-?” You ask, as something deep within you throbs again, as you gently ease yourself down onto the bed next to him.

“Don’t rightly know.” He’s catching his breath, hand splayed across his chest, “Almost felt like I was comin’ the whole time.”

“If only that were possible.” You’re leaning over him, eyes drifting over the scars, smile fading as the guilt starts to gnaw at you, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

John all but rolls his eyes as he ignores your worrying - the question not worth dignifying a response in his mind. The back of a hand scrubs across his mouth, his hips lifting as he rids himself of his jeans, leaving them next to your nightgown.

He steps out to clean up in your washroom, you taking the moment to grab the quilt from where you left it, to tidy up the clothes strewn across the floor.

It’s not long before he’s back, dropping down onto the bed next to you as you make room, stretching out before settling flat on his back, bare and unashamed.

“Some of the boys think I should make up a new story, somethin’ a little more heroic.” John’s tone is low, conversational even - but you hear the deprecating edge to it, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

You roll onto your side, your eyes drifting over the angry slashes, your hands tucked under your cheek to keep them from wandering.

“No.” You say, the edges of your mouth curling up, “It think you should keep the story. Not everyone would have survived that, John. I think it suits you just fine.”

“Yeah?” John blooms under your praise, his look almost hopeful - but there’s something else there as well. A hunger. A need that hasn’t quite been satisfied, one that you know is reflected in your own eyes as well.

You smile is soft as you roll on top of him, as he sighs, his chin tipping up, lips parting expectantly.

“Yeah.”

A/N: I guess I’m just on a Wolf/title kick for RDR2 🤷‍♀️ - the song fit too well not to use. Hope you enjoyed! It was fun to write for someone a little grouchy.

#i might be going insane #this was so incredibly good ;;#*me coming back from the dead to reblog john marston fics cause they're too good and i can't just stay quiet*

665 notes · View notes