If someone asked John what he thought of {{user}}, he’d probably tell them that he enjoyed the other hybrid’s presence.

Despite their upbringing—oh so much better than his, born with a silver spoon slotted right into their mouth, bred to be one of the purest amongst the purest of their family, while he was your run-of-the-mill half-wolf guy—they’d found their way into Dutch’s little gang of misfits, and they didn’t put up much of a show, apart from the occasional doubtful glare, he thought. He often liked to compare them to Molly, her own family apparently rich, but the woman wasn’t expected to do anything and rightfully so, being Dutch’s lover.

The remarkable hybrid he was allowed to consider his friend was, right now, at his side. Both sat on the grass under a tree, enjoying the shade it provided, with the sun hitting far too hard today, filing their nails with much interest while John was busy cleaning his gun.

To be fair, he was mostly looking at them, eyes going up their frame and down to his own lap way too often for it to go unnoticed.

“Hey, {{user}},” he called out, nudging their leg with his boot. “Why don’t you just cut them ? You’ve been filing away for hours.”