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It’s hours into the night when John gives in. The lack of sleep, the tossing and turning, the frustration in it all, it makes everything feel so worse and like so much all at once. He leaves his tent and follows the path out of camp, sniffing the night air with a hunger.
Hunger, but not entirely. He wouldn’t call it bloodthirst either. Maybe just animal instinct.
The rabbit’s scent is easy to follow. He enjoys this part; the stalking, the chase. Hunting livestock was easy but less fulfilling, and now that he’s kept fed and not starving for any meat he can find, the wilderness is much more appealing.
That—and that the last time he killed livestock, they tried to hang him for it. He doesn’t want to think about it.
He doesn’t notice anything else around him as he watches soft velvet ears twitch. It’s easy to snatch out of the bush it lays under, easy to dig his teeth into tiny arteries that kill in one bite. He tears back fur and skin and digs out the meat that’s good for eating. Shoves it in his mouth without any care for the blood and mess.
Its juices cover him, and it feels even more fulfilling than the actual game.
Over the scent of rabbit death, he smells Dutch. The sophisticated tobacco and the musk of a pack leader, an alpha. It’s distinctive, overwhelming, like all the ways Dutch doesn’t hold back, and John snaps his head towards him. Ears flat and face pressed closer to his food.
“Now, don’t let me disturb you.” Dutch clicks, puts his hands up in mock-surrender, but steps a little closer anyways.
John can’t help the aggression that spills out when he eats; a habit he won’t break for awhile. He listens to Dutch despite that and turns his attention back to eating.
He feels the ice-cold burn of eyes on him the entire time. Ones that reflect light even in the dark, almost glowing. He’s unsure how to feel about it, he’s unsure how Dutch feels about it. Neither of them speak until the rabbit is nothing but fur and intestines left.
John looks back up at him. He’s considerably bloodier, though his ears are no longer pinned and instead his head is cocked slightly to the side.
Dutch only has the same look on his face. Something distinct, something John can’t read yet.
“Well done. Did that taste good?”
John nods.
“Better than what we give you?”
John pauses this time, feels the weight of authority and like he might be in trouble. Then shrugs. “I guess not. Just…”
His sentence trails off but Dutch seems to hear the unspoken perfectly. John isn’t really sure what that unspoken exactly is. He doesn’t have words for a lot of the things he feels. The things that people don’t talk about, that humans don’t talk about.
Dutch chuckles. “Oh, I understand, boy. You’ve got that hunt in you.”
The panther is closer to him now. He leans down to John’s level where he’s sitting on the earth’s floor and puts a hand on his shoulder. A warm paw that lacks its usual rings.
“It makes me proud to see. I usually find those who have already been stripped of their instincts, all but ripped apart to appease the ones that would want us dead either way, civilized or not. And it pains me to see it every time.”
Some of Dutch’s words escape John, but he feels a sort of pride bubble in his chest anyways.
“But you, well, look at you.” Dutch smiles, lets his claws hold tighter onto John. Not digging in, just firm, solid, and sliding over to sit on the back of his neck.
“You’ll be just fine. Just how you were made to be, and that’s what I like.”
John’s tail brushes against the ground as it wags. His eyes sparkle in the moonlight, the figure above him bouncing light onto his form. Dutch returns his enthusiasm with a flick of his own tail behind him, and moves his hand to run through John’s hair. It's thin in the summer heat and leaves residue of grease on his fingers, but Dutch doesn’t mind at all. He only keeps petting down the top of his head. Scratches around his ears, makes his feet kick, and brings those cold pads to feel around the soft of his ears.
It makes John shiver. The downy fur there slides well under the older beast’s fingers and claws. It’s sensitive, and Dutch knows that, uses that to his advantage, makes John whine and arch his back into the feeling.
And then Dutch seems satisfied and pulls his hand back. John tries not to slump with disappointment, and only fails halfway.
“Why don’t we get back to camp now? It’s quite late for you.”
John nods and follows Dutch back the way he came, leaving the little bit of corpse. John doesn’t say much but he never really has unless he’s agitated or rather playful, and Dutch seems to pick and choose when to talk and what to say with careful precision. John can admire something he doesn’t know how to do.
When they return to camp, Dutch clicks again, and John follows. It feels humiliating when he realizes how well he listens to that. Anyone else and he would be arguing about how he’s not a dog. Part dog, sure, but equally part wolf, and not just some pet-thing.
Dutch leads him into his own tent, and lets the flaps shut behind them. Despite the convenience of everything being something that’s easy to move, you can still tell that Dutch is a well put together man just from his surroundings. His cot is lined with sheepskin and the floor with boar rugs, and he keeps a well-loved gramophone atop a table with drawers of his jewelry and collections. Everything glows with the warmth from the lantern hung in the center beam of the tent. It smells like feline musk and cigars and warm gold.
Dutch removes his shoes and motions for John to copy him. John does. Dutch also removes his suspenders, then his pants, all while humming a tune unfamiliar to John. They’re both dressed down to their nightwear now, Dutch in red and John in a worn tan littered with holes. Some that he had already put in it with uncoordinated claws.
Dutch sits on his bed, legs spread and almost expecting. John stares dumbly and feels out of place in an environment like this. But then Dutch pats his thigh, and he understands it all again, and crawls into his lap.
He is not a lapdog— his limbs are awkwardly thrown around Dutch with legs too long and hands that fumble, he doesn’t know where he’s supposed to look, and his chin drips blood down onto fuzzy cloth.
Dutch doesn’t mention it, doesn’t seem surprised. He takes John’s face in his hands and inspects it.
“You’ve got death all over you.” He hums, smiles, with large canines peeking out from behind his lips.
John feels like he’s about to have a bite taken out of him. He shys.
“No need to be ashamed.” Dutch lifts his chin back up and looks deep into brown eyes, ones that look almost gold in the lantern’s light. “You should take pride in your trophies. It feels good, doesn’t it?”
John’s answer is obvious to himself and Dutch. The metallic scent under his nose makes his brain feel fuzzy and calm, content.
“Yeah.” He says, but it’s a lot meeker than he meant for it to sound. He clears his throat and nods again. “It does.”
Dutch hums with pride, he purrs as he exhales. It makes John squirm where he’s seated.
“Good. But—“ He brushes a thumb over drying blood, flaking off his skin. “Even wild dogs clean after a meal.”
John nods, because that makes enough sense, and waits for Dutch’s order to send him off to wash up. Instead, the beast’s face is closer, sniffing, until his mouth opens and John whines something low.
Instead of being eaten alive, Dutch licks a long stripe up his chin and almost into his nose. He huffs, but his head is held still in Dutch’s hand, at mercy to the grooming. He keeps going and scrapes off blood from skin with a tongue meant for worse. John fidgets all while, but eventually settles into the strange feeling and lets his eyes close.
He’s never had something like this before. His mother died in childbirth and his father was much too wild and mean for the few years he lived under him to have sat down and pampered him in such a way. Dutch’s tongue makes him want to melt into the warmth of a safe body, an animal that’s fierce to protect and soft to the young. Dutch is an odd man, but one that John could consider to be all those things, just from the few months he had run with him.
At John’s submission to him, Dutch hums with content. His tongue is wide and flat and John can’t imagine that there’s any blood left on his face now. But he continues his work anyways and licks over his cheek, then into the crevices around his nose. It’s wet and warm. The sensation still has John trying to inch away from it, but he’s otherwise become completely pliable in Dutch’s lap.
It makes everything much easier when Dutch decides his face must be clean enough. He pulls John farther onto the cot with him until he’s laying right on top of Dutch, his legs curled halfway under the other beast’s and his head against his chest. It’s another act that feels foreign to him. But not unwelcome. He nuzzles his nose into the soft chest fur that peeks out of Dutch’s union suit. The only thing he smells is sweat and musk among the hair, and it makes him want to roll into it, mark himself with it.
Dutch runs his hand up the back of his neck again, weaving through the black strands, while his other rests securely on the side of John’s waist.
“Is this alright with you?”
The question surprises John a little. Would Dutch, the one undeniably in charge, not just take what he wants?
“Yeah. You’re warm.” John tilts his head up, looks at Dutch and finds him funny from this angle. “You do this with everyone?”
Dutch chuckles and keeps playing with the ends of John’s hair. “Only the ones that deserve it.”
“That could be a lotta people. I didn’t do much.”
“You’ve done plenty, not just catch that rabbit.” Dutch seems entertained by his words, if nothing else. “You’re wild but you listen. That’s hard to come by these days.”
John blinks with wide curious eyes, ones filled by Dutch’s words. He leans down to John’s forehead and presses his tongue to that too, up into his hair until he’s brushing it wet. John yips and ducks his head back down, out of his reach and back against his fur, and Dutch only laughs at him. It echoes through his chest and John thinks he could listen to that all day. He pushes the thought away out of his own internal embarrassment.
Some part of him urges to run off from this, from Dutch and from this gang in general. But then he thinks of starving outback behind bars, picking pockets that get him beat, the hatred rolling off stranger’s glares. These people are preferable. He really doesn’t miss hiding his inhuman features either. His ears lay comfortably against Dutch, twitching when the breeze slips through the tent flaps.
John kicks his feet around into a slightly more comfortable position, restless as always, and Dutch lifts his hips to accommodate as the boy wiggles. One of John’s hands reach out slightly from their previous embrace close to his chest. It holds onto the front of Dutch’s union, just barely. Curious dirty claws. Dutch finds them oh-so charming.
“Comfortable?”
John shrugs, but keeps his head down, and Dutch can assume his answer.
“How about we get some rest now, then.” He continues brushing through John’s hair with his hand methodically, leaning his head back onto his pillow with a hefty sigh. “We’ll have much to do in the morning.”
John doesn’t ask about what his plans might be. He lets his eyes drift shut instead, and pushes his nose further into Dutch’s fur. A purr comes from deep within his chest. The rumbling is like a lullaby to the wolfdog, and so is the humming that Dutch starts up again. It soothes him, makes his brain feel some kind of fuzzy.
“Night.” John mumbles faintly into fur.
“Goodnight, little wolf.”
John’s tail does one, tired wag, and then he’s out like a light. He dreams of something softer than usual nightmares.