[ Peter has half a mind to shove Sylar's hand away, his own fingers twitching with temptation as he imagines grabbing hold of the other man's wrist and throwing him off because he doesn't want this. How could he? This is still destruction, simply by another name, and Peter's lost to it. Sylar's not supposed to be getting under his skin, at least not literally, not intimately, going where he isn't meant to tread without a single moments worth of hesitation. But no matter how many times he repeats it in the depths of his mind, Peter can't make himself react the way he knows he should be.
Instead he's somehow warming to it, an impossible reaction to an impossible moment. Peter can feel every one of his muscles pulling tighter under Sylar's fingers, retracting, making a pitiful attempt at escape from a touch that shouldn't even be there in the first place. But Peter's just too overwhelmed, too overtaken to get a grip on this and for a man who's astonishingly good at remaining mute when he'd like to be, he can't keep himself from making overly frustrated sounds, hating himself even more than he ever thought he could.
It certainly doesn't help matters that Sylar's pressed as close as he can get and Peter's still smaller, desperate and somehow needy without even meaning to be. There's no room for lies between them anymore, not that there ever was to begin with, and it makes Peter feel vulnerable, control slipping through his fingers in ounces. But he isn't needy for Sylar, not for any of him. He doesn't know what he needs to begin with, but it's definitely not this, and biting harder into the kiss isn't going to answer the questions he didn't want to ask in the first place, nor is letting his hand curl against Sylar's jaw.
Losing whatever focus he might have had, Peter can feel his chest going unbearably tight and with a finalizing huff of breath, he tears himself back from, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to remember how to breathe without stealing air from Sylar's lungs. Tries to remember who he is amongst the mess of limbs and the warm body that he's still pressing up against. Twisting Sylar's shirt in his fingers, Peter fights back against the hand in his hair, doing anything in his power to keep from making eye contact; there's no way he can let Sylar see inside his head when his hand has dropped to the other man's waist, taking hold only so he can struggle to grind upward. Peter wants to throw up walls and keep Sylar shoved as far back as he can but he's knows he's letting him in, inch by terrifying inch, and Peter thinks he might be losing his mind. ]
no subject
Instead he's somehow warming to it, an impossible reaction to an impossible moment. Peter can feel every one of his muscles pulling tighter under Sylar's fingers, retracting, making a pitiful attempt at escape from a touch that shouldn't even be there in the first place. But Peter's just too overwhelmed, too overtaken to get a grip on this and for a man who's astonishingly good at remaining mute when he'd like to be, he can't keep himself from making overly frustrated sounds, hating himself even more than he ever thought he could.
It certainly doesn't help matters that Sylar's pressed as close as he can get and Peter's still smaller, desperate and somehow needy without even meaning to be. There's no room for lies between them anymore, not that there ever was to begin with, and it makes Peter feel vulnerable, control slipping through his fingers in ounces. But he isn't needy for Sylar, not for any of him. He doesn't know what he needs to begin with, but it's definitely not this, and biting harder into the kiss isn't going to answer the questions he didn't want to ask in the first place, nor is letting his hand curl against Sylar's jaw.
Losing whatever focus he might have had, Peter can feel his chest going unbearably tight and with a finalizing huff of breath, he tears himself back from, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to remember how to breathe without stealing air from Sylar's lungs. Tries to remember who he is amongst the mess of limbs and the warm body that he's still pressing up against. Twisting Sylar's shirt in his fingers, Peter fights back against the hand in his hair, doing anything in his power to keep from making eye contact; there's no way he can let Sylar see inside his head when his hand has dropped to the other man's waist, taking hold only so he can struggle to grind upward. Peter wants to throw up walls and keep Sylar shoved as far back as he can but he's knows he's letting him in, inch by terrifying inch, and Peter thinks he might be losing his mind. ]