[ He says the word like they both aren't, or maybe like they both are. He grips both of them in his grip, and he hisses out another shuddering breath, it hurts, it doesn't hurt. It's everything in between, and he both wants to struggle out of his grip and buck into his hands over and over again to chase more of that pain, more of the pleasure that comes with it.

It hurts. It's good. His lips peel back — into a sharp smile. ]

Is that what you think I want?

[ He meets his gaze, watches him stare down at him, and his fingers dig in. Gripping into him, into solid muscle and scars. One of which he'd made himself. He can't break skin like this, but it doesn't seem to matter. He just wants to press in, as if he can dip his fingers into his muscle and flesh and wind his way deeper into him.

Make it so neither one of them can pull away.

Can they? They can't now. ]

I've never wanted anything but. [ He uses the leverage of his hands digging into his thighs to pull himself up, lean forward. Look him in the eye, all lean sinew and bone, his lips curled into the slightest of sharp, knowing smiles. ]

Don't you? [ His fingers tighten into his thighs. ] You wouldn't want me if I couldn't take all of you, would you?

[ Silco may be a mascochist, may enjoy the pain, and hurting; but doesn't he? Doesn't this go both ways? They started out with violence, and blood, and biting each other until they were draining each other dry. It started with stabbings and violence, both external and toward each other. It's more than that now — he has him, doesn't he? — but they are still men masquerading as monsters.

It's always there, that capacity for violence. That's what draws him in, even if it hurts, even when it doesn't. ]