[ 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. ]
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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. ]