[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]