Sheep by Pluto



Radu twitches in his sleep. He dreams of Angelo, and he growls deep in his throat, and he kicks one foot like a sleeping dog dreaming of hunting deer. He has been seeing the same dream for weeks now, over and over, a rhythm of desire and blood cycling without end.

In his dream, he hunts. Teeth bared, he is Angelo's tiger come to flesh. The boy knows nothing of hunger, devouring. Odogi live wild, live pure, hunt free. Sangsue are so tainted with the blood of the vache, they've forgotten what it is to be true efjeli. True monsters.

Control your tiger, Angelo.

In his dream he is always covered in Weasel's blood, that precious Jacques, the one that makes his Angelo's heart flutter. He likes that. He likes that Weasel makes Angelo soft, slowly filed down his edges. Even better that Angelo doesn't know it. In his dream, he smells like Weasel's blood, and Angelo doesn't even realize it until it's too late. Radu flares his nostrils, scents Angelo, follows close behind him. Always close, always just out of sight, two heartbeats behind.

Angelo is hunting too. His mouth is wet with recent blood, his senses bloated and smudged with it. "Weasel?" he asks, wiping one corner of his mouth with a delicate finger. He is looking to Share. In Radu's dream, he wears Weasel's blood like a wolf in sheep's clothing. He pounces.

Teeth in the back of the boy's neck, pinning him down, like a struggling cub. So easy now, to snap that spine, one two and a good sharp shake. Jump me, Radu invites, crushing Angelo into the ground, clothes dissolving under hands like twisting claws. He pours his anger and his hate and his violent desire into Angelo, channels emotion like black poison.

"Amant," the boy cries, every time, underneath him. He savors that word, sweeter than the rich blend of Angelo's blood, of his flesh like lean, raw pork. He reaches around, tears out the boy's throat with his bare hands, with vache shaped hands. He makes sure to bury himself deep as the boy's body twitches and spasms. Fucking and eating, eating and fucking, satiation of desire in any way possible as the utmost goal of life -- at least this they both understood, once, before Jacques bloodyfucking Dollet. The feel of hot, wet flesh slipping deep into his gut always makes him come nearly as quickly as the tightness of Angelo's shredded body underneath him.

He rapes, kills and devours Angelo in the shape of Angelo's lover, wearing his skin. This he dreams, every night, for weeks on end. He always wakes up wet with his own come, filthy, hungry. Even Sangsue for dinner is unsatisfying after it.

Some day, he vows, he wants dream to be reality.

He eyes Weasel in a new light.