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. ]

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[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. ]