and i hold your beating chambers until they beat no more

[evolved]

[ It's just not the time to push his buttons.

Sylar wants to, possibly, strangle Peter - watch him suffocate, close a hand around his throat like a vice and just squeeze until his lips turn blue and his windpipe breaks under the force of his fingers. He's bracing his neck with a forearm, attempting to keep him pinned beneath him to the floor with his weight (which may or may not be effective) and yes, to throttle him, it would feel so very good.

It's a lovely temptation. Pulling away far enough to move his arm, the fingers of his free hand wrap around Peter's neck and at first, his grasp is firm, bruising, but then ... there is suddenly no pressure. He's breathing heavily, absolutely seething, but his grip has slackened enough that now, he's just ... holding. Touching. Feeling Peter's pulse under his fingers and staring down at him like this isn't all kinds of horrible. ]

Comments

[askedtobe]

[ For a few seconds, he's scrambling, heels skidding at the ground as he tries to gain purchase, fight back for control of the moment. Reaching up, he has every intention to shove at the other man as Sylar's fingers close in, anticipating the terrifying loss of breath he's bound to get hit with at an moment.

But it never comes.

His own hand is frozen at Sylar's shoulder and Peter is just confused. What else is he supposed to be? Because Sylar's just staring at him, fingers settled in against his skin, and Peter can feel his pulse pounding against them, pounding against his temples, a constant thrumming that seems to still the moment completely. This is the way out he was looking for and yet he can't move, too consumed with wanting to know why. ]

What?

[evolved]

[ Sylar couldn't provide him with answers to the question why any more than he can say anything to the what. His gaze is intense, so very intense, and he's alternating between watching his hand and ... perhaps studying Peter's face, occasionally letting his eyes lock with his. Sylar's expression has softened just a little, from absolutely murderous to something else, and maybe, just maybe, it isn't just his not yet subdued fury that has him breathing so raggedly.

The control and dominance he had over Peter a moment ago -- still has, is thrilling, and he's not coming down from that high. The way his fingers brush his neck is experimental, he's testing the waters but at the same time, taking, because that's what Sylar does. It's with an odd sort of delicacy that he touches his fingertips to the place where he can feel Peter's heart beat, presses his palm against his throat to feel his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, and he's still watching, still staring, still saying absolutely nothing.

He could kill Peter, right now - press his fingers down and cut off his air supply, choke him, but he doesn't. If he wanted to, he could, and they both know this, but it never happens. ]

[askedtobe]

[ Swallowing thickly, Peter digs a heel into the ground, not entirely sure why he isn't fighting back harder to get out of Sylar's ghostly chokehold. Maybe it's because he still can breathe -- because the threat is only imminent and not overwhelming. And yet it's all too consuming without taking his breath away. Literally. Maybe if Peter could understand what was going on, he'd be more willing to fight back, and yet he's well aware that fighting right now would get him absolutely nowhere apart from dead as a doornail. ]

Sylar-- [ Voice a rough growl, partially from the hand still around his neck and partially from his own irritation, Peter offers up a shove to the other man's shoulder, though it's weak by anyone's standards. He simply does it to emphasize the word, a silent 'don't do that' that's being left unspoken but lingering there anyway. But each exploratory movement of Sylar's fingers is near making Peter twitch, heat flooding up underneath the other man's hands and making Peter all the more tense in all the wrong ways.

But the other man's name is all he can force out because the adrenaline-fueled-rush of the moment is practically making him squirm and somewhere in the back of Peter's head, he's screaming at himself to get a move on, to get out. And yet, he's still staring back, starting to breathe harder from eye contact alone and the gathering intensity of the moment, waiting for things to combust. ]

[evolved]

[ Peter's skin shifts and tightens under Sylar's fingers and it's occured to him that when the other man snaps out of his momentary confusion, he will attempt in some way to shove him off, but he cares little about that when he's tasting a strange new flavor of wrong and the tension between them is thick enough to almost make Sylar feel as if he's the one who can't breathe.

The push to his shoulder finally comes, accompanied by his name said in that warning tone, and there's something so ... appealing about Peter trying to be tough and defiant that becomes horribly clear right now.

Their relationship is blood and fury and Sylar gets so incredibly hot when his vision begins to bleed red and just like that he buries a hand in Peter's hair and pulls. He pulls hard with his fingers biting into his scalp until he can crush that protest and until they're close enough to share breathing space and heat and breathe into each other, and that's too close, closer than they should ever be and it's perfect and awful. ]

[askedtobe]

[ Tipping his head up slightly to offset the pressure created by Sylar's suddenly tight hold on his hair, Peter's gritting his teeth, jaw set in hard anger as lip begins to curl into something sort of like a pitiful attempt at a snarl. Holding his breath all on his own, Peter's now doing everything in his power not to make a sound, no matter how hard Sylar might pull; defiant to the bitter end. Sylar can take what he wants, but at least Peter's not giving that up so quickly. If only because Peter's still stuck in the land of the confused, every continuous piece of what Sylar's doing only making the prospects of him coming out of it in one piece that much worse.

But finally his jaw falls slack, pulling in hard breaths far too close to Sylar's and Peter's right back to skidding his heels against the ground as if he can get any manner of leeway. But he knows he's quickly losing his right to even attempt escape the longer he stays put, the longer he doesn't actually try fighting back.

A quietly sharp sound -- some might call it a whimper, Peter would call it one made purely from a mixture of pain and irritation -- makes its way from the back of Peter's throat, and he shoves again, palm aimed squarely at Sylar's chest to make up for the slip. But he can't deny that it existed and Peter's trying to look away but he can't. Determination set to maintain some kind of eye contact, Peter's still huffing hard breaths, near seething, but his anger is slowly turning inward. Because he's the one who hasn't made his move and Sylar is so close to breathing him in, Peter can practically feel it coursing through his veins and all he wants to do is shout for him to do it already. ]

[evolved]

[ Peter could get out of this, Sylar knows that Peter knows, somewhere, that he's as aware of that fact as he is. Perhaps he's at war with himself, with his thoughts - Sylar is familiar enough with that stubborn pride of Peter's to expect him to put up a fight - or maybe he's not thinking at all, doesn't have to when they're so used to pushing and shoving and hurting and destroying each other that it's a natural response.

He's still staring, not at him but into him because this close, it's as if he can see right inside Peter's skull if he stares hard enough into his eyes.

Peter's chest heaves beneath his own, and Sylar takes, every heavy breath that Peter gives and he can almost taste him, he tastes just like the anger that's written all over his face and he returns it, equal red hot fury with every exhale of his own. Maybe there's an uncertainty somewhere in the harsh and unrelenting pull of the hand twisted in Peter's hair, but it's masked by demand and when he finally, with another tug of those fingers, claims Peter's mouth, it's a wet and agressive crush of teeth and stubble and Sylar kisses like they're somehow still fighting.

He slides his hand from Peter's neck to dig his fingers into the hinge of his jaw, into the warm edges of Peter's face right where it fades into the tendons of his throat, and in this moment, under Sylar's hands, he feels like someone he would've been able to care about, once. That thought stays buried, but it's still there, and Sylar laughs into his mouth and cuts off the sound by angling his hips and pressing them down into Peter's with a slow, forceful grind. ]

[askedtobe]

[ Maybe if Sylar hadn't spent so much time staring through him, dissecting him with his gaze, Peter might have found a way to react differently. Or at least that's what Peter's telling himself because he's not sure he could bear a thought that was different in any way; that some part of him might actually have wanted this. It's not as if the kiss, if he can really even call it that, catches him off guard -- every inch of him was expecting it, and yet he still can't help his reaction, muscles pulling stubbornly tight as if he can ward off the other man through non-reaction alone.

But Peter can't ever not react. If anything, he feels things too much, too strongly and after only a seconds worth of fighting the hard pressing of lips, Peter's biting back into it, fueled by far too much rage and hatred and something somebody might call devotion to try to put a stop to it. But he's not devoted to the other man in a way he might usually be except for the constant need to put up an endless fight, a devotion to the hatred that's always been caught between them. They're not supposed to be doing anything but tearing each other apart, ripping into each other until there's nothing left.

And maybe that's all this is, just one more force of destruction bringing them colliding together, one way more to hurt that's just coming from a purely different angle. Whatever it is, though, Peter's hand has curled it's way against the back of Sylar's neck, fingers digging into his hair and grabbing hold, pulling the other man closer until the lack of space between them is what's laughable. Except at least part of his anger is now is fueled inward, coming from a place more upset with himself for letting this happen, for wanting it near just as badly.

It's the grind that Peter wasn't expecting though, and the strangled noise he makes in response has to be torn from his lungs, forced hotly back against Sylar's mouth. Peter squirms only slightly, fully aware of his own reaction as he's suddenly grabbing for a fistful of Sylar's shirt in retribution, pulling the fabric taut. Trying to gain leverage with his foot pressed against the ground just so he can push back against Sylar is near impossible -- he's crushed too hard beneath the other to do anything but sound exponentially more frustrated, raging his own war against Sylar's mouth in return for all that he can't do elsewhere. ]

[evolved]

[ Sylar stops forcibly trying to pry Peter's lips apart when he stops denying him a response, and that he gives in, instead of simply bracing when Sylar pushes, he's pushing back - it feels like a victory and he knows that it only makes Peter hate him even more.

His mouth is wet and warm inside and when Peter's own hand comes up to tangle in Sylar's hair, to yank him down, down and closer, when Sylar swallows the sound Peter makes and pushes again until their hips collide once more, near violently, everything turns into overwhelming, hot heat and the kisses devolve again into their teeth clashing and open-mouthed, breathless gasping for a moment.

It has Sylar, for the first time in so very long, deliciously and terrifyingly out of control. He can't stand it, the feeling, and he wants to make up for it by controlling the situation and take away all of Peter's control as well, take what's left of it. He's not supporting his weight in any way, as if he wants his presence that's warm and heavy and crushing to be everything that Peter is aware of, completely surround him and even when Peter fists a hand in his shirt and brings them seemingly as close as they can get, pressed flush together from hips to chest it's not close enough, it's not enough.

Sylar wants - no, he needs, and he tugs sharply at Peter's hair again like he tugs at his shirt in turn, greedily and uselessly until he can expose skin and touch what he's never supposed to touch, not like this, but Peter is warm and pale and smooth and soft under the palm of his hand and his fingertips and Sylar is just a fraction away from desperate and he doesn't think he ever cared in the first place. ]

[askedtobe]

[ Peter has half a mind to shove Sylar's hand away, his own fingers twitching with temptation as he imagines grabbing hold of the other man's wrist and throwing him off because he doesn't want this. How could he? This is still destruction, simply by another name, and Peter's lost to it. Sylar's not supposed to be getting under his skin, at least not literally, not intimately, going where he isn't meant to tread without a single moments worth of hesitation. But no matter how many times he repeats it in the depths of his mind, Peter can't make himself react the way he knows he should be.

Instead he's somehow warming to it, an impossible reaction to an impossible moment. Peter can feel every one of his muscles pulling tighter under Sylar's fingers, retracting, making a pitiful attempt at escape from a touch that shouldn't even be there in the first place. But Peter's just too overwhelmed, too overtaken to get a grip on this and for a man who's astonishingly good at remaining mute when he'd like to be, he can't keep himself from making overly frustrated sounds, hating himself even more than he ever thought he could.

It certainly doesn't help matters that Sylar's pressed as close as he can get and Peter's still smaller, desperate and somehow needy without even meaning to be. There's no room for lies between them anymore, not that there ever was to begin with, and it makes Peter feel vulnerable, control slipping through his fingers in ounces. But he isn't needy for Sylar, not for any of him. He doesn't know what he needs to begin with, but it's definitely not this, and biting harder into the kiss isn't going to answer the questions he didn't want to ask in the first place, nor is letting his hand curl against Sylar's jaw.

Losing whatever focus he might have had, Peter can feel his chest going unbearably tight and with a finalizing huff of breath, he tears himself back from, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to remember how to breathe without stealing air from Sylar's lungs. Tries to remember who he is amongst the mess of limbs and the warm body that he's still pressing up against. Twisting Sylar's shirt in his fingers, Peter fights back against the hand in his hair, doing anything in his power to keep from making eye contact; there's no way he can let Sylar see inside his head when his hand has dropped to the other man's waist, taking hold only so he can struggle to grind upward. Peter wants to throw up walls and keep Sylar shoved as far back as he can but he's knows he's letting him in, inch by terrifying inch, and Peter thinks he might be losing his mind. ]

[evolved]

[ Sylar touches him with hands that have taken hundreds of lives and he's not in any way being gentle, his fingers dig into Peter's skin, skin that he knows all too well what it looks like painted red with blood and he's pushing more of his shirt out of the way to give himself access to more of Peter's chest. He isn't hesitating because he's aware of what he wants, so used to simply taking when he does that this feels like far less of an exception than it really should.

The noises that he knows the other man is trying to hold back are constant reminders of both Peter's defeat and the kind of effect everything Sylar is doing is having on him, and they make this feel so much more real, real like Sylar's voice does after he figures out how to breathe and speak again when Peter breaks the kiss. ]

Look at me.

[ It's rough and thick with arousal and it's a threat and a demand and a plea, somehow, at the same time. Because he wants to do just that, stare into Peter again, he wants to see, the hatred and the fury and everything that Peter is feeling and keeping from him and it's too intimate to even be close to alright. Sylar's shirt has shifted from Peter's tugging to reveal a bare hip and a bit of waist, just below where Peter's hand is placed, and the skin on skin contact that allows when they slide back together nearly makes Sylar's breath catch. It should've taken everything to an entirely new level, but things are already so hot and intense that they must've passed the point of no return the moment Sylar touched his fingers to Peter's neck. ]

[askedtobe]

[ The sound of Sylar's voice is a stark contrast to everything flooding his mind, under his skin, and it snaps him out of himself at least for a brief second. Though it anything but grounds him -- instead it sends a hard shudder down his spine, canting his hips upward in a gesture that's anything but defiant. But it still sounds far too much like a command and Peter doesn't want to obey; he doesn't follow orders given by Sylar. Except Sylar's the one who has his shirt pressed nearly up to his throat and Peter feels far too vulnerable, exposed in all the ways he shouldn't be. Prey to the predator.

Besides, looking at Sylar would mean that Peter knows exactly what he's doing and Peter still wants to play pretend. Even with his hands making use of the skin that's been exposed, fingers working intently up along Sylar's side before curling at the back of his shoulder and very nearly holding on. And yet in equal measure, Peter's holding onto all the hatred that he keeps tucked so closely; Sylar isn't supposed to be anything but a monster, a killer, a thing that embodies all the parts of the world that Peter can't stand.

But right now, even closer than his anger, is Sylar himself. And it's tearing Peter up inside, fighting the hand in his hair in an attempt to duck his face down against Sylar's shoulder. If there's one thing that Peter can let his rage do, it's fuel the need to look anywhere but at the other man, to not give in to what he wants. At least not yet.

Heaving hard breaths, Peter finally lets a sound slip, something akin to a whimper as he lets his other hand make a grab for the waist of Sylar's jeans, holding so tight to the things he keeps telling himself he wants nothing of. Heels still pressing in before sliding along the ground, as if Peter's trying to dig his way out from underneath the other man, in reality he's only doing it because he can't keep still, because Peter's so disappointed in himself he wants to scream. It's too much to take to want something so inherently wrong but when there's nothing left but the fact that he hates himself more than he ever hated Sylar, all he can do is want this more than the rest. ]

[evolved]

[ There's an angry hitch to Sylar's breath when Peter refuses to oblige. He can tell that it won't take much more for his walls of defiance to crumble, though, because he is so very close to giving in -- to Sylar, to himself, if the needy half-thrust of Peter's hips is any indication, up, up, up against the heat that is Sylar's body and the way he shudders near violently in response to a simple command, shudders in a way that is entirely and purely out of arousal and perhaps fear of the response itself.

It's something which almost alone serves to restore a bit of Sylar's patience, and while it's more of a demand of Peter's own than any form of plea, even though it's need that fuels the action rather than reckless greed as it is in Sylar's case, Sylar reciprocates and rewards him with the fervent press push grind of his hips and nudges Peter's thighs apart with his own, boldly sliding up close to provide friction through mutual thick layers of jean fabric.

Denying the biting reality of it all and the many, many kinds of wrong with the situation is different from what Peter is doing; there is no use pretending at this point that this - the hungry collision of hips and hands seeking bare, flushed skin to somehow cause destruction without inflicting pain - is anything other than what it looks like. Something he's coming to realize, Sylar realizes, when Peter's hand deviates to make its way upwards and grab a hold of his shoulder and the other finds purchase lower, clenching in and grasping at the top of his jeans. The fingers in Peter's hair don't let him get very far, don't allow him to bury his face somewhere by the crook of Sylar's neck and hide - if anything their grip tightens, but instead of yanking back to press him down into the floor, he drags him up to eye-level, far enough to make him stare back into Sylar's eyes by ensuring that there is no other option for Peter than to possibly close his own.

Dragging a thumb over a nipple, Sylar watches, dissecting again, picking Peter apart with his hands and eyes for as long as the eye contact lasts. Only a handful of seconds pass before his hand slides between their bodies to determinedly pull at the front of Peter's pants, tug until the button finally pops open and the zipper gives and the sound of fabric shifting is loud. Far too loud, like before he really learned to control Dale Smither's ability, when everything was obnoxious and the sound of a slamming car door penetrated his eardrums like a jackhammer, far louder than it should be and even then it's not as loud as the blood rushing through his head and it's a wonder he can even tell over the insistent pulsing of his own arousal in time with his heartbeat. ]

[askedtobe]

[ There's only pieces of it left, his conviction, and even those are starting to fall away, leaving Peter with a broken sense of what he wants versus what he thinks he needs. He almost wants to plead, though for what he no longer has any idea, and the last thing he wants is to sound pitiful, on the edge of desperate, as if he’s actually ever wanted this before now. But each additional touch of Sylar’s fingers has his skin warming, darkening, a hard ache settling into nerves that Peter would do near anything to be able to ignore.

Giving into it with an angry snarl of a breath, Peter finally has no other choice but to stare up at Sylar, despite how desperate he is for the confines of the other man's neck, putting up a seconds-long fight against the fingers tangled tight in his hair. There's something far safer about not having to look, not having to know exactly what it is he's doing shot back at him in Sylar’s eyes, but maybe he can get by if he holds onto the last dissipating curls of his anger, wanting for all the world to shove Sylar away just as hard as he's holding on. But Sylar’s making quick work of jeans and Peter knows there isn't much left of himself to hold on to; this was never the way that Peter thought the other would be tearing him open and he has to look away for a split second, shame obviously stricken across his features as his hips cant upward towards searching fingers. Swallowing back his own self hatred is quickly becoming an addiction all the more difficult as his arousal becomes a pressing, obvious issue, coating his anger and making it drop away at the edges.

Peter isn't sure he could be breathing any harder, shaking under the hands of someone he's convinced himself is a monster. But the anticipation has him near bursting, heat buried beneath his skin making everything feel uncomfortable and too tight and raw in places he doesn't want to think about. There's too many clothes, too many layers left, but Peter wants them there for protection, no matter how irritating they're quickly becoming. And yet that doesn't stop him from digging his fingers into Sylar's waist, fingers skidding over a hipbone that leaves Peter wanting more. ]

Sylar. [ And there it is, all he sounds is pathetic and heady to his own ears and somehow spread too far open, far too offering of everything he is. Pulling his knee up against Sylar’s side, as if he can curl into himself off in the process, Peter’s fingers slip past the waistband of his jeans, barely making it very far underneath but that’s not the point. The point is that Peter wants, wants to be torn apart just as badly as he wants to rip into Sylar, but in an altogether different kind of way. Fingers just barely nudging against the curve of Sylar’s backside, they’re digging in all over again, all that’s left of his defenses in stark contrast to the shaky, almost enouraging roll of his hips. ]

[evolved]

[ The shield of denial is cracking, leaving Peter exposed to Sylar completely, vulnerable and with his emotions laid just as bare as his body because he swears that he can see everything in those eyes. It chases a shiver down Sylar's spine, the thought of Peter submitting to him, and it's more of a thrill than he thinks he could ever get out of killing him. Peter is betraying himself, betraying everyone and everything through this and all that hatred, it's building, burning, for both of them and it will keep growing until it all spontaneously combusts. Until Peter self-destructs with Sylar giving him this final push and he will allow himself to be pulled down and torn to pieces along with him.

He's unaffected by Peter's last frustrated attempt at a fight, only twists his fingers in Peter's hair and maintains his gaze as he's trembling and panting and slowly coming apart at the seams underneath him. With impatient, rough pulls of his single free hand, somewhat assisted by Peter seeking further contact and touch, he shifts on top of him to work Peter's jeans past his lifted hips and down his thighs.

The way his name is uttered this time is different entirely; there is nothing but that frustration and want to be heard in Peter's voice and something in Sylar's eyes changes for a heartbeat, darkens, before he catches the waistband of Peter's boxers and begins to pull them out of the way to get rid of them like he just did with the jeans, pull until all that's left is bare and exposed and forbidden. He leans forward on a heavy exhale as Peter's fingers find more heated skin, and finally, his hand slides free of Peter's hair to come down and unbuckle his own belt, help yank at the fastenings of his pants until they release and he can rid himself of his own clothing.

Sylar gets them almost down to his knees before he pushes close again, closer than ever before with the layers of fabric no longer separating them and protecting Peter from what Sylar knows that he wants, and when the deliberate roll of his hips this time causes them to slide together, lets him feel Peter, hard and hot and heavy and pressed up against the hollow of his hip, he can't help but groan through his teeth and grip one of Peter's thighs to somehow pull him up to meet him. ]

[askedtobe]

[ If Peter could spit out the other man's name again, he'd be doing so, despite the fact that Sylar's name feels wrong slipped from between his lips, even more wrong shouted through every part of his mind. He can't even breathe in the first place and it's caught in the back of his throat right along with the rest of the air he's so desperately trying to breathe. But who cares about breathing when he can't concentrate past the feel of Sylar's hands pulling him apart and Peter tries to snap his attention away as his boxers go down and his heart rate goes up because he doesn't want to be the one who wants this. Except defeat, submission, has as much of a hold on his as Sylar himself does and Peter’s given into it, making him want to cry as much as it makes him want to beg.

Feeling all the more frustratedly tangled with the restriction created by his pants being pushed halfway down, Peter makes an agonizingly strangled noise, squirming fervently beneath the bigger man. Throwing his head back now that he can, Peter grinds his teeth together, trying to work his pants lower without letting go of the handhold he’s found around the back of Sylar’s thighs, but moving's hard when he's being crushed beneath and the tangle of limbs makes everything stilted and painfully hard. It’s all too much to take in at once and it’s unbearably frustrating and at the end of it Peter still knows he should be pulling his pants back up and breaking free instead of holding tighter, when friction has frayed his already overwrought nerves.

But he’s slowly stopped caring, giving way to the dark infection of intoxication, seeping under his skin and making him crave the way Sylar’s hips are grinding down against his own. So when Peter finally closes his eyes tight, it’s unintentional; not a true means of escape from Sylar’s hard gaze, so much as an attempt to pull in on himself, to shut everything else out. If he can feel nothing else but this, it doesn’t have to be real, it doesn’t have to be anything but a sordid moment out of time, and Peter can pretend he’s not flushed and panting, a sick need overtaking all of his thoughts until there’s nothing left of the man he knows he once was.

There's no desire in the way Peter's hips jerk up to meet Sylar's, but there is desperation, cruel want that makes Peter feel as if he's been split open, divided and exposed and torn apart. Feeling Sylar hard and so real against himself opens Peter’s eyes again, true vision lost to arousal as his fingers dig into the back of Sylar’s leg. With a sound akin to a growl, Peter finally pulls a leg free from his jeans, immediately wrapping it around Sylar’s waist and hooking in tight around him. The action is far less about getting Sylar closer as it is about spreading himself wide open, making room for Sylar in a way Peter knows is deeply unsettling. The other man has already infiltrated the rest of his senses and Peter’s lost to it, hopelessly given in and as he grinds up against him, all he wants is for Sylar to take what’s left. ]

[evolved]

[ I win, Peter. The thought rings loud and clear in Sylar's mind, but he isn't sure of whether this really is a victory or as much of a defeat for him as it is for Peter. His hatred is nowhere near as deeply rooted as Peter's is -- it's grown along with the other man's; Peter despising him as much as he does has turned sparks into flames, but the twisted fascination with him that Sylar's always felt overcomes it and it bleeds into his anger until he wants to rip him apart for reasons entirely different. Peter might be the one submitting and giving in and writhing beneath a man who's supposed to repulse him, this might be Sylar forcefully claiming and taking all of Peter, but the outcome is the same for both of them.

This is just another step towards their eventual and inevitable mutual destruction.

Sylar makes no move to assist Peter in his frustrated struggle to wriggle his way out of his jeans, only lets his hips still for a second to stare down at him and breathe, hotly and heavily, through lightly clenched teeth. The grip he keeps on the back of Sylar's thighs, the way he only helps to eliminate any space remaining between them doesn't make what he's trying to accomplish any easier -- the more Peter squirms, the more trapped he becomes by Sylar's body, it seems, but although the process is slow, each buck of Peter's hips causes his pants to slip a bit further down his legs.

His quickened heartbeat, ragged breathing, the way Peter's let his head drop back and exposed the long line of his throat - Sylar takes it all in while the grind of his hips against Peter's turns more urgent, and when Peter finally can give that last kick of his leg to rid himself of his jeans and boxers, Sylar is already shifting a thigh to situate himself between Peter's spread knees, pressing up close and pushing down harder. But he's unprepared for Peter wrapping a leg around his waist -- when he's pulled in and the other rocks up to meet him again, Sylar has to curl a hand around Peter's hip to steady them both, and only then does it occur to him that Peter is offering, wordlessly asking him to take everything, and he makes a breathless sound when the aching weight of his cock slides against Peter's inner thigh.

Like this, right now, he could push right into Peter and take him and fuck him, and Sylar shudders at the mere thought. What he does is lift himself just enough to bring a hand down between their bodies, and, with his eyes still on the other man's face and without a single hint of hesitation, he wraps sure fingers around the length of Peter's cock. ]

[askedtobe]

Sylar. [ The word itself nearly splits Peter in two, the only thing that slips free before Peter's clamping his jaw shut tight, holding onto the potential releasing of the dam of any other words. Peter wants to say that if there's something that's off limits right now it's touching -- Sylar can stare all he wants, but Peter can't take the realization that he wants this, and if he simply spreads the blame around then he won't have to face it. Can point the finger at Sylar and say that 'he did this', that Peter never wanted the steady curl of fingers around his cock, or anything else for that matter.

But he lost the opportunity to make up rules about touching or needing or wanting the second he wanted it just that much more.

Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, fingers scrambling to grab hold of Sylar's shirt as he curls up and forward and buries his face against the other’s neck. As if hiding could possibly change what's happening, what he's allowed to happen, what he can't try to stop. He already knows he's been overtaken, consumed by Sylar's overwhelming presence, and try as he might to pretend this is something else, he's the one lost beneath, losing his mind under the slow, heady grind of Sylar's hips, the other man's breathing a counter-balance to his own and disturbingly loud in his ears.

Peter's pushing his hips into Sylar's fist before he can stop himself, groaning thickly against the warm drumming of Sylar's pulse. He allows himself just one sudden push before he tries to put a stop to it, won't fuck himself in Sylar's fist just on sheer principle alone. Because he might have submitted, might have handed himself over fully, but fury is still pumping through his veins harder than need and he's weighing his desperation and coming up with far too much that Peter just doesn't want Sylar to see.

Except the slide of Sylar's own cock against his thigh sends fire straight to the pit of his stomach, every single time, making him shake, fingers digging into the other man’s spine in a fight with himself to keep buried against the slope of Sylar’s neck. It’s almost absurd, finding safety against someone he never thought he could stand, when the person he keeps trying to protect is himself. However, he knows just as well that trying to hold onto his dignity is a lost cause when Sylar’s steadying hold, the press of his body, is the only thing pushing him into a submission he keeps trying to deny.

Which is exactly when he realizes he’d beg for it if Sylar wanted him to. If the other man asked, demanded, he’d spill himself over between breaths before Sylar could even finish. He already is, wordlessly, spreading himself wider to make room for the other’s grip and waiting with the breath caught in the back of his throat for him to do something. Anything. Anything at all that’s not just slight slip of Sylar’s fingers around his cock because it’s sheer agony, the solid ache making him squirm, muscles twitching and pulling tight, though he’s trying to do anything but. It isn’t enough and he can feel the words just there, riding underneath his skin, but his ego’s too bruised from Sylar’s win to let himself slip up just yet.

And yet he still does, in an entirely different way, free hand making a sharp but almost petulant grab for Sylar's ass. He might not be willing to let words free but he can't keep from touching any better than Sylar can, using his grip to pull Sylar close any way he can. ]

[evolved]

[ Sylar wants to hear it all, every hitch of breath and every word meant for him that Peter doesn't want to speak, and perhaps in hopes of being able to coax more of them from Peter's mouth, he tightens the grip of his fingers and strokes, slowly and firmly and determinedly. Lets Peter know that no limits exist here despite the don't that's embedded in his tone, hesitation and encouragement all the same. When he grabs onto what of Sylar his hands can find, seeking escape from his gaze and his own need against his shoulder in response to his touch, Sylar makes a noise, low in his throat, and rocks his hips forward again. He welcomes the single thrust against his hand, and the groan that escapes Peter's lips, muffled slightly into Sylar's neck has him digging his nails into the skin of Peter's hip where his hand still has a steady hold.

The difference between breaking and submitting is small. He wonders which it'll be for Peter - he can tell that he's cracking, and tearing apart is only Sylar's nature; he's pushing, slipping into those cracks and pulling until Peter's in pieces in his hands. Folded over him, the sudden rough dig of Peter's fingers, being pulled forward and against Peter and almost, almost as close as he'll get pulls a gasp of breath and a growl from Sylar, and he wants this as badly as Peter does, isn't sure how much he'd actually care or if he'd pay any mind to it if Peter didn't. His hand uncurls and slips away from Peter's cock, over the bare thigh hooked against him, and there's a pause, brief, where Sylar brushes a knuckle over the back of Peter's leg before his fingers are touching, right there.

There really is no warning before Sylar is pushing with two dry fingers, forcing them inside and opening him, too quick and too deep.

With Peter's face pressed into the crook of his neck, all he has to do is turn his head and pull back just the slightest bit to bring his mouth close to Peter's ear, and he stays there, still for a breath or two, then dips his head lower, far enough to let his teeth press into the edge of Peter's jaw. There's a shivering threat of a bite before he pulls his mouth away. ]

Say it.

[ It's breathed against Peter's cheek, harshly, and it leaves no room for Peter to deny him anything; it's a demand for Peter to swallow the last of his pride. He knows that Peter will, he's giving all of himself, and it's insane and intoxicatingly addictive and he's so ridiculously hot and tight, clenching around Sylar's fingers when he keeps pushing, roughly slides them inside up to the first knuckle. ] I want to hear it.

[askedtobe]

[ Peter isn't entirely sure how he keeps himself from begging the very second Sylar slips his fingers inside, pressing in painfully deeper. Though it's quite possibly because speaking is equally as much of a sudden impossibility as breathing; even the pained whimper that threatens to spill over gets jammed up in the depths of his throat until Peter's flushing darker from frustration, from submission, from the desperation that’s running rampant through his nerves. And all that's left is the obvious ache hardening between his legs, pressed against the other’s stomach. And Sylar. Because Sylar's always left, he's always been there and he always will be, skin pulsing hot against his own so that it's all Peter can think about, overwhelming his senses until he can't deny any of it. Not anymore.

If Peter could, if he'd let himself ask for it, he'd plead for Sylar to touch him. Anywhere, everywhere else. Until there was nothing left. Sylar's the only person who's ever known how to take him down so readily, has known him inside out in all the wrong ways, and now Peter wants proof of it. Laid out bare beneath him, they’ve always been the perfect enemies and with self-deprecation as his witness, he wants to be disassembled by hands that once tore into him in an entirely different way.

Not altogether surprised by the action in and of itself, Peter is fully aware he had been asked for it, in his own silent way and yet he's refusing to acknowledge his own need for as long as he can get away with. As long as he can't even speak, he can pretend, can pretend the heat digging into the pit of his stomach is defiance and pain and nothing more. Fingers working their way back up Sylar's back as the other man’s bury in deeper, Peter noses in against Sylar's racing pulse that more insistently, finding himself doing nothing but ending up lost in the beat, in the other man's insistent push, the feel of it seeping under his skin.

But it's with a choked huff of breath that he finally snaps, breathing hard against the dip of Sylar's collar just beyond his shirt and gritting out a hard groan through clenched teeth. It isn't fair and Peter wants to scream that it isn't, but it doesn't even matter anymore, how could it? All that matters is that he's abandoned himself in this moment, that Sylar's fingers are a tease, a prologue for something better, and something far more painful at that, and Peter can hardly bring himself to care about anything apart from just how badly he's willing to give it all up. Out of everything, it's purely his own body that's retaliating against the intrusion, muscles clenching and pushing back.

One hand finally pulls away from the path of Sylar's spine, but instantly presses against Sylar's chest, fingers sinking into shirt and digging into the flesh just beneath until Peter's convinced himself he's holding on to something solid. Onto something that could possibly ground him when he’s convinced he’s lost his mind. ]

Sylar, please. [ It sounds wrong even to his own ears, words twisted out of him and agonizingly pleading. Tipping his face toward Sylar’s warm mouth, he blinks his eyes back open, staring unseeing down the line of their bodies until the sight alone makes him writhe, anticipation caught in the space between. If there's anyone in the world he should be saying please to, it's not Sylar, never imagined it'd be Sylar. But there's no one else here except for them, except for the steady, hard press of the other man on top of him and Peter can’t take the time to think it through anymore. Not when he wants more than he can stand. ]

[evolved]

[ What they are is something much more complicated than can be divided into good and evil, more so than it even makes sense to try to figure out. He knows Peter so well it's frightening, far better than he should be allowed to - he can get under his skin like no other, in ways no one else could ever hope to understand. Perhaps this is what it all comes down to, what's been building just beneath the surface of their skin and minds ever since Sylar's jealousy of Peter's potential and Peter's jealousy of Sylar's control was what drove them to reckless bloodshed that ended in death but never actually ended them. Peter gives and Sylar takes, wants everything that he can't have -- they're so very different, polar opposites yet the same in so many ways, and in the end, even if all Sylar does is burn him and rip into him, even if they tear each other apart, he's the one who'll still be there. Still standing, still breathing, still staying and something so constant and real that it hurts.

Sylar allows the desperate clutch of fingers, lets Peter find his handhold, and the way he says his name, the way he pleads -- words that should never leave Peter's mouth spoken in that tone for him, it's enough. He exhales, clenches and unclenches his jaw and twists his fingers, and with Peter's lips that close to his own, he barely has to turn his head further to claim his slightly open mouth between one ragged breath and another in a wet, forceful kiss. He breaks it after merely a couple of seconds, but stays close enough that their lips still brush each time either of them as much as pulls air into their lungs.

He hasn't stretched Peter nearly enough when he withdraws his fingers and leaves him empty, shifts his weight and pushes him down into the floor, flat on his back. The feeling of wrong is chased through Sylar like a shiver, but nothing is too wrong or too dark or broken, not for him, and he stays pressed flush against Peter still, heavy and dangerous, his spine one long curve and his hands warm over the too hot skin of Peter's sides. They slide up along his waist and past his ribs only to pull away a moment later; a palm is pressed to the ground to support his weight while the fingers of his other hand fold around the back of Peter's thigh, pulling the leg he doesn't have hooked around him already against his side, and he doesn't have the patience to waste time. Not even a short second's pause, thick with tension, for either of them to think a single thought.

With a long shift of his hips, he's pushing, all blunt pressure of his cock until the resistance of those tight muscles gives and he can force his way past them, inside, into Peter, and he's too tight, so tight that it hurts Sylar and it pulls a low, breathless groan from him, pushed from his lungs and past gritted teeth. He's panting against Peter's mouth and it's obscene, too rough, there's too much friction, but he thrusts nonetheless, further erasing and blurring the edges where he ends and Peter begins until neither of them will know anymore, a reckless shove that gets him too deep, buried inside Peter to the hilt. ]

[askedtobe]

[ Why Sylar has to be Peter's constant is something he wishes he could understand. Wishes he could tear apart until he could find the explanation just lying in wait, as if it even existed in the first place. But he knows it doesn't, just like he knows there's no explanation for destiny or the future, or how he always has to change the way things are supposed to be. But this, this he's never been able to change, though he's tried harder than he even knows how to. Tried to change Sylar, tried to change himself, tried to fix the world as it crumbled under their feet. He's tried to make this be something else than feeling the pounding of Sylar's heart underneath his palm and the combined twisting of their beings until they've succumbed to this moment. And it's as simple as that. He's succumbed to the one thing he knows he shouldn't, but Peter already knew he was broken, he just didn't think he could make it any worse.

For a fleeting moment, when it hurts too much, Peter starts to shove at Sylar. Press back to try to take some of the edge off, but after another second his tactic shifts and he's scrambling to get himself closer. To do something to make it stop hurting, the heat raging underneath his skin, holding his breath hostage and pulling his muscles too tight a perfect explanation of everything wrong with this. But being crammed up against the floor, there's nowhere to go, and so he's shaking, twitching as the wrong kind of heat rips through him and he cries out just because there's nothing else he can do, head tipped back and turned away in an escapists final act of desperation.

He can feel it, all of his anger splitting under the wire, until there's nothing left of it, replaced by things that Peter can't put a name to. Or simply won't. Because the only thing he can call it is Sylar, filling him to core, bringing him to disassembly. No matter what else he wants to call it though, it hurts, aches in a wholly different way from the ache reminding him of his own arousal pulsing agonizingly hard between his legs. Which he can't even spare much of a second thought to at the moment, not when Sylar's thrusting and Peter's catching his own words under his breath that don't make any sense past groans and obscenities and twisted sounds of a need for it to be something other than pain.

Peter thinks that even if he told Sylar to take it slow, it wouldn't do a single thing to offer himself a reprieve, and might simply make it worse. Might drag the pain out until he'd truly lose his mind and all Peter wants is to get through this part, to get to the next chapter where it isn't supposed to hurt nearly as much. Forcing hard breaths through lungs that are still uninterested in cooperating, Peter's nearly choking on the moment, trying to curl in tighter around Sylar with legs locked at his sides, pressed against muscle that shifts with every thrust, drawing a hard shudder up through Peter's spine until his shoulders are quaking with it. Every sound of Sylar's hits him that much harder until Peter isn't sure who's making what, and who's breathing whose strangled air, and who's skin is burning just that much hotter.

Trying to get a grip on the moment is a lost cause and Peter knows he's lost all sense of control, nosing up under the line of Sylar's jaw when the other buries into him all over again. Pained noises ground out from between clenched teeth, Peter's hand is at Sylar's hip, fingers seemingly invested on working their way in between their bodies, though there's not even room for a whisper. It's obvious the direction they're going and yet Peter's still somehow captivated by the shift of muscle under Sylar's skin, the ache only spreading beneath his own. He's spent so long telling himself that Sylar's nothing but a monster, nothing but a lost cause, that this is is infinitely more real than it should be now that he knows so different. And yet Peter's folding to it, sacrificing himself to one of the only things he has and slipping another darkened whimper against Sylar's throat, trying to keep from touching when it's Sylar who's taken him whole. ]