[ 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. ]
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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. ]