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Getting What You Want

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"You know what? I would have to say that is really the damnedest thing about this entire sorry situation, my friend." The dark-haired man stood at the window, idly toying with the sheer piece of netting that served as an extra level of privacy. They did little actual good but it was all for show, anyway, just like most things in town. He did not even turn around to see if his audience agreed or not; it was easy to tell by the lazy set of his lean shoulders, anyway, that he could care less if someone else was even actively listening. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers as if the texture would present the answer to his real question. Finally, he sighed and dropped it, putting his back to the window, opaque with the black night sky.

"This entire thing could have been avoided. All you had to do was give her to me." A thin, gurgling sound answered him and he smiled thinly. "Oh, don't argue. No point. You and I both know it's the truth." He shrugged lazily and the very movement itself seemed to mock the other man stretched out on the bed, eyes nearly closed with swelling, lines of dried blood crossing his bared chest. "You see, there are those in this world who will always get what they want. Then there are those who will get what they deserve. You, my friend, get to be neither and you just don't realize it."

Brushing at a watery burgundy stain spreading over the coverlet at the foot of the bed, he frowned a bit before lowering himself to sit at the other corner of the mattress. "What was I saying?" Another tortured noise echoed dully through the room and he smiled brightly; there was more than a touch of terrible schoolboy to Kit when he gave over to good humor and high spirits. "Ah, yes. All you had to do, in the end, was realize where you fell in the grand scheme of things. You may have owned her before but here I am now and I want her. Can you understand that? I think I used small enough words."

"Y-you... What kind of monster are you?"

"Oh, good. You can still talk, after all. That's nice. I was worried I had gone too fast for you." Another unsettling smile was reward for the horrified question and Kit stood once more to pace about the small room. He trailed his fingers idly along the edge of the bureau, lifting up to draw a sharp clink from the porcelain wash set with a tap of the heavy gold ring on his hand. "Or too fast with you. Whichever." A few more steps and then he was at the bed again, reaching for the clotting knife laying quiet and lethal on the bedside table. "Sometimes it's hard to tell with you people," he continued in the same pleasantly even tone. "You break kind of easy sometimes. Even if you claim to be strong men." He tilted his head a bit and looked down at the other man who grimaced as he tried to twist his own head away to avoid the meeting of eyes. This only seemed to amuse his captor and Kit sat down on the edge of the mattress, too close and cool. Reaching down, he took up a handful of shredded linen that had once been a shirt and began to clean the knife. He shook his head over the way the blood clung to the blade. Twisting the fabric in his fingers, he began to rub at the crevices in the hilt. "You would not believe how many men in this town walk around lying about that sort of thing. It's a shame and a sin. It raises all sorts of expectations. Go west, young man, he said. Go west. So we do and we expect the propaganda. Billy the Kid and the Earps and that Hickock fellow." He made a sad sound, a click in the back of his throat. "And we get tired whores and their useless, prickless pimps." He smiled, nodding cordially. "That would be you, my friend."


Kit laughed and leaned over his victim. "So that's what upsets you, does it?" His smile filled the captured man's vision and personal space disappeared as he shifted even closer. He could smell the blood now, dying warmth and acrid tang, and he bit back the urge to lick his lips. Instead, he focused hard on the uneven breathing and the tight expression. He smirked. "Now I know why Daisy was so eager to change masters. Whores aren't very demanding but they do insist on a strong dicking. If you can't do that, well, how is she supposed to respect you?"

The man flinched. His lips moved silently, eyes shut in pained concentration. Every other word slipped out in a barely audible whisper, the others lost forever, until, after a handful, Kit started to laugh, having decoded the meaning behind them. "Matthew," he sighed. "Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. Where are Luke and John now? I think calling to your God now is a bit more than being the prodigal son. Especially if you're hoping for attention from the hard-liner. You know, he was really a bit of an asshole once. All fire and brimstone. He wasn't too keen on harlots but then I'm not him. Did you know that harlots used to mean sacred whores? That's what got up his nose."

Matthew turned his face away and the muscles at the corner of his jaw tensed, flinching as Kit again shifted into close proximity. This time the freshly-cleaned blade pressed against the clammy skin of the man's neck and the tip pricked expertly just below his adam's apple. A choked gasp rewarded the instant of pain. "Anyway, there's nothing sacred about Daisy so it won't even be heresy to hand her over." Kit paused and then, using the utmost care, turned the blade to slide it once more against the sensitive skin. He smiled at the hiss. "Though I should probably thank you for being delusional like this. It's made the entire hunt more amusing." Eyes half-closed, he traced a snaking curve down his captive's throat. A line of glistening red followed in its wake before he lowered the knife back to the bed below in dismissal. He made a hungry, growling noise beneath his breath and shifted his free hand to cover the new wound. His calloused fingers pressed against the cut, slid and probed until red stained the tips. Thoughtful, he then brought them to his lips, tasting with a quick tongue. "A woman is so much more interesting when you have to kill for her."


"You don't think I'm playing a game, do you? All this for your benefit? To put the fear of some hell and gone God into you?" Kit laughed and shook his head. "Hell, no, my friend. This is all for me. I don't give a damn about if you have a good time or not." His fingers again traced the scarlet line at the other man's throat. The blood spread easily, fresh and teased into a painful trickle through the pressure. "She's going to be mine and you... Well, Matthew, so are you." Smirking to himself, Kit idly pushed the knife from the bed and it fell with the faint clink of metal on wood. Then, hands to his captive's shoulders, pressing the weak man downwards, he loomed over top for a spattering of long moments. Slowly, he lowered then and his lips brushed against matted hair, sweat-drenched temple, stubbled cheek. "Goodbye, Matthew. It's been fun."

Teeth sunk into flesh and, as the hot blood burst forth into his hungry, waiting mouth, Kit smiled again - joyous, contented, and expectant. This had turned out to be the perfect appetizer.