[ The sound of Sylar's voice is a stark contrast to everything flooding his mind, under his skin, and it snaps him out of himself at least for a brief second. Though it anything but grounds him -- instead it sends a hard shudder down his spine, canting his hips upward in a gesture that's anything but defiant. But it still sounds far too much like a command and Peter doesn't want to obey; he doesn't follow orders given by Sylar. Except Sylar's the one who has his shirt pressed nearly up to his throat and Peter feels far too vulnerable, exposed in all the ways he shouldn't be. Prey to the predator.
Besides, looking at Sylar would mean that Peter knows exactly what he's doing and Peter still wants to play pretend. Even with his hands making use of the skin that's been exposed, fingers working intently up along Sylar's side before curling at the back of his shoulder and very nearly holding on. And yet in equal measure, Peter's holding onto all the hatred that he keeps tucked so closely; Sylar isn't supposed to be anything but a monster, a killer, a thing that embodies all the parts of the world that Peter can't stand.
But right now, even closer than his anger, is Sylar himself. And it's tearing Peter up inside, fighting the hand in his hair in an attempt to duck his face down against Sylar's shoulder. If there's one thing that Peter can let his rage do, it's fuel the need to look anywhere but at the other man, to not give in to what he wants. At least not yet.
Heaving hard breaths, Peter finally lets a sound slip, something akin to a whimper as he lets his other hand make a grab for the waist of Sylar's jeans, holding so tight to the things he keeps telling himself he wants nothing of. Heels still pressing in before sliding along the ground, as if Peter's trying to dig his way out from underneath the other man, in reality he's only doing it because he can't keep still, because Peter's so disappointed in himself he wants to scream. It's too much to take to want something so inherently wrong but when there's nothing left but the fact that he hates himself more than he ever hated Sylar, all he can do is want this more than the rest. ]
no subject
Besides, looking at Sylar would mean that Peter knows exactly what he's doing and Peter still wants to play pretend. Even with his hands making use of the skin that's been exposed, fingers working intently up along Sylar's side before curling at the back of his shoulder and very nearly holding on. And yet in equal measure, Peter's holding onto all the hatred that he keeps tucked so closely; Sylar isn't supposed to be anything but a monster, a killer, a thing that embodies all the parts of the world that Peter can't stand.
But right now, even closer than his anger, is Sylar himself. And it's tearing Peter up inside, fighting the hand in his hair in an attempt to duck his face down against Sylar's shoulder. If there's one thing that Peter can let his rage do, it's fuel the need to look anywhere but at the other man, to not give in to what he wants. At least not yet.
Heaving hard breaths, Peter finally lets a sound slip, something akin to a whimper as he lets his other hand make a grab for the waist of Sylar's jeans, holding so tight to the things he keeps telling himself he wants nothing of. Heels still pressing in before sliding along the ground, as if Peter's trying to dig his way out from underneath the other man, in reality he's only doing it because he can't keep still, because Peter's so disappointed in himself he wants to scream. It's too much to take to want something so inherently wrong but when there's nothing left but the fact that he hates himself more than he ever hated Sylar, all he can do is want this more than the rest. ]