[ If Peter could spit out the other man's name again, he'd be doing so, despite the fact that Sylar's name feels wrong slipped from between his lips, even more wrong shouted through every part of his mind. He can't even breathe in the first place and it's caught in the back of his throat right along with the rest of the air he's so desperately trying to breathe. But who cares about breathing when he can't concentrate past the feel of Sylar's hands pulling him apart and Peter tries to snap his attention away as his boxers go down and his heart rate goes up because he doesn't want to be the one who wants this. Except defeat, submission, has as much of a hold on his as Sylar himself does and Peter’s given into it, making him want to cry as much as it makes him want to beg.
Feeling all the more frustratedly tangled with the restriction created by his pants being pushed halfway down, Peter makes an agonizingly strangled noise, squirming fervently beneath the bigger man. Throwing his head back now that he can, Peter grinds his teeth together, trying to work his pants lower without letting go of the handhold he’s found around the back of Sylar’s thighs, but moving's hard when he's being crushed beneath and the tangle of limbs makes everything stilted and painfully hard. It’s all too much to take in at once and it’s unbearably frustrating and at the end of it Peter still knows he should be pulling his pants back up and breaking free instead of holding tighter, when friction has frayed his already overwrought nerves.
But he’s slowly stopped caring, giving way to the dark infection of intoxication, seeping under his skin and making him crave the way Sylar’s hips are grinding down against his own. So when Peter finally closes his eyes tight, it’s unintentional; not a true means of escape from Sylar’s hard gaze, so much as an attempt to pull in on himself, to shut everything else out. If he can feel nothing else but this, it doesn’t have to be real, it doesn’t have to be anything but a sordid moment out of time, and Peter can pretend he’s not flushed and panting, a sick need overtaking all of his thoughts until there’s nothing left of the man he knows he once was.
There's no desire in the way Peter's hips jerk up to meet Sylar's, but there is desperation, cruel want that makes Peter feel as if he's been split open, divided and exposed and torn apart. Feeling Sylar hard and so real against himself opens Peter’s eyes again, true vision lost to arousal as his fingers dig into the back of Sylar’s leg. With a sound akin to a growl, Peter finally pulls a leg free from his jeans, immediately wrapping it around Sylar’s waist and hooking in tight around him. The action is far less about getting Sylar closer as it is about spreading himself wide open, making room for Sylar in a way Peter knows is deeply unsettling. The other man has already infiltrated the rest of his senses and Peter’s lost to it, hopelessly given in and as he grinds up against him, all he wants is for Sylar to take what’s left. ]
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Feeling all the more frustratedly tangled with the restriction created by his pants being pushed halfway down, Peter makes an agonizingly strangled noise, squirming fervently beneath the bigger man. Throwing his head back now that he can, Peter grinds his teeth together, trying to work his pants lower without letting go of the handhold he’s found around the back of Sylar’s thighs, but moving's hard when he's being crushed beneath and the tangle of limbs makes everything stilted and painfully hard. It’s all too much to take in at once and it’s unbearably frustrating and at the end of it Peter still knows he should be pulling his pants back up and breaking free instead of holding tighter, when friction has frayed his already overwrought nerves.
But he’s slowly stopped caring, giving way to the dark infection of intoxication, seeping under his skin and making him crave the way Sylar’s hips are grinding down against his own. So when Peter finally closes his eyes tight, it’s unintentional; not a true means of escape from Sylar’s hard gaze, so much as an attempt to pull in on himself, to shut everything else out. If he can feel nothing else but this, it doesn’t have to be real, it doesn’t have to be anything but a sordid moment out of time, and Peter can pretend he’s not flushed and panting, a sick need overtaking all of his thoughts until there’s nothing left of the man he knows he once was.
There's no desire in the way Peter's hips jerk up to meet Sylar's, but there is desperation, cruel want that makes Peter feel as if he's been split open, divided and exposed and torn apart. Feeling Sylar hard and so real against himself opens Peter’s eyes again, true vision lost to arousal as his fingers dig into the back of Sylar’s leg. With a sound akin to a growl, Peter finally pulls a leg free from his jeans, immediately wrapping it around Sylar’s waist and hooking in tight around him. The action is far less about getting Sylar closer as it is about spreading himself wide open, making room for Sylar in a way Peter knows is deeply unsettling. The other man has already infiltrated the rest of his senses and Peter’s lost to it, hopelessly given in and as he grinds up against him, all he wants is for Sylar to take what’s left. ]