[ 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. ]
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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. ]