A few small dreams

A Few Small Dreams

Methos propped his chin on his hands and looked down at the dead body on the floor. The boy's close-cropped hair reminded him of a goat he'd once owned, a long time ago. The small black one with a white spot on its chin, dead, oh, three hundred years now. That goat had been one hot fuck.

The trouble with goats, of course, was that they never stood up to a really good torture session. For that, you needed either a very hardy mortal or an Immortal with a taste for pain. Some days he *really* missed Kronos and Caspian; they'd been so beautiful when they bled under the desert sun. He ran one hand through the dead boy's hair--poor kid hadn't been strong enough. Not his fault, really, but very disappointing.

Sheep were hardier than goats, surprisingly enough, but there was the wool. And the smell of the wool. Besides, sheep reminded him too much of Scotland, which reminded him of Duncan, which made his dick go limp. How boring.

He concentrated on the goat, running his fingers over his dick, feeling it swell against his palm. Her name had been Maisie, and he'd raised her from a kid. She used to follow him around like a faithful slave, her large liquid eyes adoring. Animals didn't feel much different from humans inside, though of course...well, horses were just too *large*. He'd given up on mares after the first two tries, and had never again considered anything that came up higher than his waist. Maisie...Maisie had never even fought him, just braced her legs and pushed back, sweet as sin.

He wiped his sticky fingers on the bedspread.

He leaned half-off the bed and stared at the body. He put his hand into the ragged stab wound in the chest. Maisie had been so much less complicated to deal with than his human lovers. She hadn't even protested when he killed and ate her during a lean winter. For a moment, he considered disposing of the boy by eating him, but really--there was too much there. He'd be sick of the taste before he got through it all.

He sighed and searched around for his boxers. He supposed he'd have to use acid again--and make sure it got all the teeth this time. He'd nearly gotten caught a few years ago in Britain when he hadn't been careful enough. He lugged the body to the basement and began to butcher it, tossing the pieces into an old bathtub. He set aside a rib roast, thinking it would make a lovely dinner for Duncan tomorrow night, and poured sulfuric acid over the rest. He spilled some on his foot and hopped around, cursing in languages as dead as the boy.

When his foot healed, he took the rib roast up to the refrigerator, wrapped it in tinfoil, and headed to bed. Maybe he'd dream of Maisie tonight.


The End