[ There's only pieces of it left, his conviction, and even those are starting to fall away, leaving Peter with a broken sense of what he wants versus what he thinks he needs. He almost wants to plead, though for what he no longer has any idea, and the last thing he wants is to sound pitiful, on the edge of desperate, as if he’s actually ever wanted this before now. But each additional touch of Sylar’s fingers has his skin warming, darkening, a hard ache settling into nerves that Peter would do near anything to be able to ignore.
Giving into it with an angry snarl of a breath, Peter finally has no other choice but to stare up at Sylar, despite how desperate he is for the confines of the other man's neck, putting up a seconds-long fight against the fingers tangled tight in his hair. There's something far safer about not having to look, not having to know exactly what it is he's doing shot back at him in Sylar’s eyes, but maybe he can get by if he holds onto the last dissipating curls of his anger, wanting for all the world to shove Sylar away just as hard as he's holding on. But Sylar’s making quick work of jeans and Peter knows there isn't much left of himself to hold on to; this was never the way that Peter thought the other would be tearing him open and he has to look away for a split second, shame obviously stricken across his features as his hips cant upward towards searching fingers. Swallowing back his own self hatred is quickly becoming an addiction all the more difficult as his arousal becomes a pressing, obvious issue, coating his anger and making it drop away at the edges.
Peter isn't sure he could be breathing any harder, shaking under the hands of someone he's convinced himself is a monster. But the anticipation has him near bursting, heat buried beneath his skin making everything feel uncomfortable and too tight and raw in places he doesn't want to think about. There's too many clothes, too many layers left, but Peter wants them there for protection, no matter how irritating they're quickly becoming. And yet that doesn't stop him from digging his fingers into Sylar's waist, fingers skidding over a hipbone that leaves Peter wanting more. ]
Sylar. [ And there it is, all he sounds is pathetic and heady to his own ears and somehow spread too far open, far too offering of everything he is. Pulling his knee up against Sylar’s side, as if he can curl into himself off in the process, Peter’s fingers slip past the waistband of his jeans, barely making it very far underneath but that’s not the point. The point is that Peter wants, wants to be torn apart just as badly as he wants to rip into Sylar, but in an altogether different kind of way. Fingers just barely nudging against the curve of Sylar’s backside, they’re digging in all over again, all that’s left of his defenses in stark contrast to the shaky, almost enouraging roll of his hips. ]
no subject
Giving into it with an angry snarl of a breath, Peter finally has no other choice but to stare up at Sylar, despite how desperate he is for the confines of the other man's neck, putting up a seconds-long fight against the fingers tangled tight in his hair. There's something far safer about not having to look, not having to know exactly what it is he's doing shot back at him in Sylar’s eyes, but maybe he can get by if he holds onto the last dissipating curls of his anger, wanting for all the world to shove Sylar away just as hard as he's holding on. But Sylar’s making quick work of jeans and Peter knows there isn't much left of himself to hold on to; this was never the way that Peter thought the other would be tearing him open and he has to look away for a split second, shame obviously stricken across his features as his hips cant upward towards searching fingers. Swallowing back his own self hatred is quickly becoming an addiction all the more difficult as his arousal becomes a pressing, obvious issue, coating his anger and making it drop away at the edges.
Peter isn't sure he could be breathing any harder, shaking under the hands of someone he's convinced himself is a monster. But the anticipation has him near bursting, heat buried beneath his skin making everything feel uncomfortable and too tight and raw in places he doesn't want to think about. There's too many clothes, too many layers left, but Peter wants them there for protection, no matter how irritating they're quickly becoming. And yet that doesn't stop him from digging his fingers into Sylar's waist, fingers skidding over a hipbone that leaves Peter wanting more. ]
Sylar. [ And there it is, all he sounds is pathetic and heady to his own ears and somehow spread too far open, far too offering of everything he is. Pulling his knee up against Sylar’s side, as if he can curl into himself off in the process, Peter’s fingers slip past the waistband of his jeans, barely making it very far underneath but that’s not the point. The point is that Peter wants, wants to be torn apart just as badly as he wants to rip into Sylar, but in an altogether different kind of way. Fingers just barely nudging against the curve of Sylar’s backside, they’re digging in all over again, all that’s left of his defenses in stark contrast to the shaky, almost enouraging roll of his hips. ]