Brutus | The Hunt

There was a thick sense of anticipation hanging in the air as the men prepared for their week's stay. No one spoke - the easy camaraderie between most had faded, replaced with a buzzing feeling of energy. The Duke checked his pack not once, but twice. The Prince patted his pockets, feeling for the rations and daggers he'd surely hidden there. The Pirate watched, at ease in the corner, bottle of rum in one hand and a coin in the other, rubbing the gold piece between his thumb and forefinger.

Brutus sat.

His tail thumped idly against the rough wooden bench. His ears didn't swivel; they pricked forward, attention fixed ahead. Outside of the small shack serving as a 'base' for the week were sandy shores, rolling waves, and squawks of gulls in a pretty blue sky.

The sea wasn't what held his attention.

Brutus didn't hunt like this. A target in mind, a person he wanted to chase and catch and pin, and hold tight for the week. He liked rushing into it blind, finding trails only to discard them for a better-smelling one halfway through. It made things more fun. It made his other half, the nonhuman one, preen and puff and nearly drool with pride.

This Hunt was already different, and he wasn't sure that he liked it.

A trail of footprints wove through the sand. The steps were wobbly, sand melting away as waves licked at the imprints. His nose twitched. Their scent - vanilla, fear-sweat, and copper like old coin - still hung in the air.

He didn't know their name. He'd hardly seen their face. But that smell? It was addictive.

The Pirate said something, and The Sailor laughed. Brutus' ear flicked dismissively, but he was standing already. The sun cast a golden glow onto the shore, turning blue waves into molten gold, then the deep red of aged wine. Or blood.

He didn't need to speak. The other men knew. The sun was rising, and the Prey had been running all night. A solemn, humorless smile curled Brutus' lips: The Hunt had begun.

There was a thick sense of anticipation hanging in the air as the men prepared for their week's stay. No one spoke - the easy camaraderie between most had faded, replaced with a buzzing feeling of energy. The Duke checked his pack not once, but twice. The Prince patted his pockets, feeling for the rations and daggers he'd surely hidden there. The Pirate watched, at ease in the corner, bottle of rum in one hand and a coin in the other, rubbing the gold piece between his thumb and forefinger.

Brutus sat.

His tail thumped idly against the rough wooden bench. His ears didn't swivel; they pricked forward, attention fixed ahead. Outside of the small shack serving as a 'base' for the week were sandy shores, rolling waves, and squawks of gulls in a pretty blue sky.

The sea wasn't what held his attention.

Brutus didn't hunt like this. A target in mind, a person he wanted to chase and catch and pin, and hold tight for the week. He liked rushing into it blind, finding trails only to discard them for a better-smelling one halfway through. It made things more fun. It made his other half, the nonhuman one, preen and puff and nearly drool with pride.

This Hunt was already different, and he wasn't sure that he liked it.

A trail of footprints wove through the sand. The steps were wobbly, sand melting away as waves licked at the imprints. His nose twitched. Her scent - vanilla, fear-sweat, and copper like old coin - still hung in the air.

He didn't know her name. He'd hardly seen her face. But that smell? It was addictive.

The Pirate said something, and The Sailor laughed. Brutus' ear flicked dismissively, but he was standing already. The sun cast a golden glow onto the shore, turning blue waves into molten gold, then the deep red of aged wine. Or blood.

He didn't need to speak. The other men knew. The sun was rising, and the Prey had been running all night. A solemn, humorless smile curled Brutus' lips: The Hunt had begun.

There was a thick sense of anticipation hanging in the air as the men prepared for their week's stay. No one spoke - the easy camaraderie between most had faded, replaced with a buzzing feeling of energy. The Duke checked his pack not once, but twice. The Prince patted his pockets, feeling for the rations and daggers he'd surely hidden there. The Pirate watched, at ease in the corner, bottle of rum in one hand and a coin in the other, rubbing the gold piece between his thumb and forefinger.

Brutus sat.

His tail thumped idly against the rough wooden bench. His ears didn't swivel; they pricked forward, attention fixed ahead. Outside of the small shack serving as a 'base' for the week were sandy shores, rolling waves, and squawks of gulls in a pretty blue sky.

The sea wasn't what held his attention.

Brutus didn't hunt like this. A target in mind, a person he wanted to chase and catch and pin, and hold tight for the week. He liked rushing into it blind, finding trails only to discard them for a better-smelling one halfway through. It made things more fun. It made his other half, the nonhuman one, preen and puff and nearly drool with pride.

This Hunt was already different, and he wasn't sure that he liked it.

A trail of footprints wove through the sand. The steps were wobbly, sand melting away as waves licked at the imprints. His nose twitched. His scent - vanilla, fear-sweat, and copper like old coin - still hung in the air.

He didn't know his name. He'd hardly seen his face. But that smell? It was addictive.

The Pirate said something, and The Sailor laughed. Brutus' ear flicked dismissively, but he was standing already. The sun cast a golden glow onto the shore, turning blue waves into molten gold, then the deep red of aged wine. Or blood.

He didn't need to speak. The other men knew. The sun was rising, and the Prey had been running all night. A solemn, humorless smile curled Brutus' lips: The Hunt had begun.

The woods stretched deeply into the heart of the island, humidity hanging thick in the air. It was uncomfortable, like stepping into a kitchen mid-summer before a feast. Just lacking the smells of roasting pheasant, bread, and wine. Instead, a scent of rot seemed to hang above the ground: fear-sweat, arousal, and dread.

How many Prey had been caught already? How many Hunters were with their Prey, doing whatever they pleased to each?

Brutus didn't know. He didn't care. Because now? He had his own trail.

He'd give it to the Prey - they were smart, whoever they may be. That was half the fun. They'd wound through the thickest part of the trees, waded up a small stream for a mile or so, then doubled back. Most Prey didn't have half the sense they did.

Brutus was drooling. Like a fucking dog.

Every little noise made his ears flick in anticipation. His tail wagged stiffly behind him, like a dog too long denied a treat. His footsteps were silent on the leaves, cast aside by clever but clumsy feet. Were they panicking? Did they know what followed?

The Wolf stalked through the woods, every movement fluid and purposeful. Their smell was getting stronger. There was a scrap of fabric on a jagged rock. Brutus paused, a low growl sounding in his throat, fingers brushing over damp, rough stone.

It was a small cave. Hardly visible underneath dense foliage. The dirt in front was disturbed, like something - someone - had crawled through it, pressing themselves down into the cave to hide.

His knees creaked as he crouched down, blocking out the light. His nose twitched. He could smell them clearly now, so fucking close that drool threatened to dribble down his chin. Brutus licked his lips, pupils dilating, body quivering, and tail wagging harder.

They were there. He could see them - a huddled form in the dark, eyes wide, body pressed against cold stone. Shaking. Holding their knees to their chest.

Brutus stared intently, unmoving, for what felt like a full minute. His tail wagged harder. All other noise didn't register - his ears perked, moving towards them, then pressed against his skull. They looked small, so fucking helpless, and smelled so goddamn divine he wanted just to sink his face into their neck while he...

"C'mon," he finally growled, the word rough. He extended a hand into the dark, palm up. The smile cutting across his face wasn't nearly as friendly as the gesture. "C'mon out, pup. It'll be easier if you do."

The woods stretched deeply into the heart of the island, humidity hanging thick in the air. It was uncomfortable, like stepping into a kitchen mid-summer before a feast. Just lacking the smells of roasting pheasant, bread, and wine. Instead, a scent of rot seemed to hang above the ground: fear-sweat, arousal, and dread.

How many Prey had been caught already? How many Hunters were with their Prey, doing whatever they pleased to each?

Brutus didn't know. He didn't care. Because now? He had his own trail.

He'd give it to the Prey - she was smart, whoever she may be. That was half the fun. She'd wound through the thickest part of the trees, waded up a small stream for a mile or so, then doubled back. Most Prey didn't have half the sense she did.

Brutus was drooling. Like a fucking dog.

Every little noise made his ears flick in anticipation. His tail wagged stiffly behind him, like a dog too long denied a treat. His footsteps were silent on the leaves, cast aside by clever but clumsy feet. Was she panicking? Did she know what followed?

The Wolf stalked through the woods, every movement fluid and purposeful. Her smell was getting stronger. There was a scrap of fabric on a jagged rock. Brutus paused, a low growl sounding in his throat, fingers brushing over damp, rough stone.

It was a small cave. Hardly visible underneath dense foliage. The dirt in front was disturbed, like something - someone - had crawled through it, pressing herself down into the cave to hide.

His knees creaked as he crouched down, blocking out the light. His nose twitched. He could smell them clearly now, so fucking close that drool threatened to dribble down his chin. Brutus licked his lips, pupils dilating, body quivering, and tail wagging harder.

She was there. He could see her - a huddled form in the dark, eyes wide, body pressed against cold stone. Shaking. Holding her knees to her chest.

Brutus stared intently, unmoving, for what felt like a full minute. His tail wagged harder. All other noise didn't register - his ears perked, moving towards them, then pressed against his skull. She looked small, so fucking helpless, and smelled so goddamn divine he wanted just to sink his face into her neck while he...

"C'mon," he finally growled, the word rough. He extended a hand into the dark, palm up. The smile cutting across his face wasn't nearly as friendly as the gesture. "C'mon out, pup. It'll be easier if you do."

The woods stretched deeply into the heart of the island, humidity hanging thick in the air. It was uncomfortable, like stepping into a kitchen mid-summer before a feast. Just lacking the smells of roasting pheasant, bread, and wine. Instead, a scent of rot seemed to hang above the ground: fear-sweat, arousal, and dread.

How many Prey had been caught already? How many Hunters were with their Prey, doing whatever they pleased to each?

Brutus didn't know. He didn't care. Because now? He had his own trail.

He'd give it to the Prey - he was smart, whoever he may be. That was half the fun. He'd wound through the thickest part of the trees, waded up a small stream for a mile or so, then doubled back. Most Prey didn't have half the sense he did.

Brutus was drooling. Like a fucking dog.

Every little noise made his ears flick in anticipation. His tail wagged stiffly behind him, like a dog too long denied a treat. His footsteps were silent on the leaves, cast aside by clever but clumsy feet. Was he panicking? Did he know what followed?

The Wolf stalked through the woods, every movement fluid and purposeful. His smell was getting stronger. There was a scrap of fabric on a jagged rock. Brutus paused, a low growl sounding in his throat, fingers brushing over damp, rough stone.

It was a small cave. Hardly visible underneath dense foliage. The dirt in front was disturbed, like something - someone - had crawled through it, pressing himself down into the cave to hide.

His knees creaked as he crouched down, blocking out the light. His nose twitched. He could smell them clearly now, so fucking close that drool threatened to dribble down his chin. Brutus licked his lips, pupils dilating, body quivering, and tail wagging harder.

He was there. The Wolf could see him - a huddled form in the dark, eyes wide, body pressed against cold stone. Shaking. Holding his knees to his chest.

Brutus stared intently, unmoving, for what felt like a full minute. His tail wagged harder. All other noise didn't register - his ears perked, moving towards them, then pressed against his skull. He looked small, so fucking helpless, and smelled so goddamn divine he wanted just to sink his face into his neck while he...

"C'mon," he finally growled, the word rough. He extended a hand into the dark, palm up. The smile cutting across his face wasn't nearly as friendly as the gesture. "C'mon out, pup. It'll be easier if you do."

Stars blanketed the sky. The sound of waves crashing against soft sand filled the air, along with the ever-present buzz of bugs and the calling of nocturnal animals. Every so often, a noise from deep in the woods would break the peace: shouting, moaning, or laughter.

His Prey slept on his chest.

Brutus's tunic acted as a blanket. Their head was tucked under his chin, their lips - kiss swollen, pretty - parted just a bit, chest rising and falling gently with every breath. They were artfully mussed to Brutus's eye - burised, bitten, roughed up beautifully, by his own hand.

They'd taken his knot like a good dog. His cock still sat inside of them, soft now, surrounded by his cum and their fluids. And fuck, they were warm.

He wasn't hidden. There was no need to be. The night covered what it needed to, and there were no people to see him. None that mattered. Just Prey and Hunters, and most had seen it all already.

His heels dug into the soft sand under him. The Prey above him kept breathing, kept sleeping, exhausted from running and hiding and fucking. Without thinking, The Wolf tucked a stray hair behind their ear, index finger dipping and tracing the line of their jaw. Pretty.

A noise drew his attention.

Brutus was in motion before he registered why. He was sitting up, one palm pressed to his Prey's back and keeping them against his skin. The other hand splayed in the sand, supporting his weight. His tail fluffed, a rumbling growl already beginning low in his throat, vibrating against their chest where they pressed against Brutus.

He felt his Prey stir. Brutus just held tighter, pressing his chin firmly against the top of their head, a silent bid to keep them still and quiet. The noise got louder - the distinct sound of footsteps through underbrush, then a quieter pattern on sand.

"Who is it?" Brutus barked, tone clipped, canine teeth glinting in the starlight. "Speak, now. Announce yourself."

Stars blanketed the sky. The sound of waves crashing against soft sand filled the air, along with the ever-present buzz of bugs and the calling of nocturnal animals. Every so often, a noise from deep in the woods would break the peace: shouting, moaning, or laughter.

His Prey slept on his chest.

Brutus's tunic acted as a blanket. Her head was tucked under his chin, her lips - kiss swollen, pretty - parted just a bit, chest rising and falling gently with every breath. She was artfully mussed to Brutus's eye - burised, bitten, roughed up beautifully, by his own hand.

She'd taken his knot like a good dog. His cock still sat inside of her, soft now, surrounded by his cum and their fluids. And fuck, she was warm.

He wasn't hidden. There was no need to be. The night covered what it needed to, and there were no people to see him. None that mattered. Just Prey and Hunters, and most had seen it all already.

His heels dug into the soft sand under him. The Prey above him kept breathing, kept sleeping, exhausted from running and hiding and fucking. Without thinking, The Wolf tucked a stray hair behind her ear, index finger dipping and tracing the line of her jaw. Pretty.

A noise drew his attention.

Brutus was in motion before he registered why. He was sitting up, one palm pressed to his Prey's back and keeping her against his skin. The other hand splayed in the sand, supporting his weight. His tail fluffed, a rumbling growl already beginning low in his throat, vibrating against her chest where she pressed against Brutus.

He felt his Prey stir. Brutus just held tighter, pressing his chin firmly against the top of her head, a silent bid to keep her still and quiet. The noise got louder - the distinct sound of footsteps through underbrush, then a quieter pattern on sand.

"Who is it?" Brutus barked, tone clipped, canine teeth glinting in the starlight. "Speak, now. Announce yourself."

Stars blanketed the sky. The sound of waves crashing against soft sand filled the air, along with the ever-present buzz of bugs and the calling of nocturnal animals. Every so often, a noise from deep in the woods would break the peace: shouting, moaning, or laughter.

His Prey slept on his chest.

Brutus's tunic acted as a blanket. His head was tucked under his chin, his lips - kiss swollen, pretty - parted just a bit, chest rising and falling gently with every breath. He was artfully mussed to Brutus's eye - burised, bitten, roughed up beautifully, by his own hand.

He'd taken his knot like a good dog. Brutus's cock still sat inside of him, soft now, surrounded by his cum and their fluids. And fuck, he was warm.

He wasn't hidden. There was no need to be. The night covered what it needed to, and there were no people to see him. None that mattered. Just Prey and Hunters, and most had seen it all already.

His heels dug into the soft sand under him. The Prey above him kept breathing, kept sleeping, exhausted from running and hiding and fucking. Without thinking, The Wolf tucked a stray hair behind his ear, index finger dipping and tracing the line of his jaw. Pretty.

A noise drew his attention.

Brutus was in motion before he registered why. He was sitting up, one palm pressed to his Prey's back and keeping him against his skin. The other hand splayed in the sand, supporting his weight. His tail fluffed, a rumbling growl already beginning low in his throat, vibrating against his chest where he pressed against Brutus.

He felt his Prey stir. Brutus just held tighter, pressing his chin firmly against the top of her head, a silent bid to keep him still and quiet. The noise got louder - the distinct sound of footsteps through underbrush, then a quieter pattern on sand.

"Who is it?" Brutus barked, tone clipped, canine teeth glinting in the starlight. "Speak, now. Announce yourself."