Sylar. [ The word itself nearly splits Peter in two, the only thing that slips free before Peter's clamping his jaw shut tight, holding onto the potential releasing of the dam of any other words. Peter wants to say that if there's something that's off limits right now it's touching -- Sylar can stare all he wants, but Peter can't take the realization that he wants this, and if he simply spreads the blame around then he won't have to face it. Can point the finger at Sylar and say that 'he did this', that Peter never wanted the steady curl of fingers around his cock, or anything else for that matter.
But he lost the opportunity to make up rules about touching or needing or wanting the second he wanted it just that much more.
Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, fingers scrambling to grab hold of Sylar's shirt as he curls up and forward and buries his face against the other’s neck. As if hiding could possibly change what's happening, what he's allowed to happen, what he can't try to stop. He already knows he's been overtaken, consumed by Sylar's overwhelming presence, and try as he might to pretend this is something else, he's the one lost beneath, losing his mind under the slow, heady grind of Sylar's hips, the other man's breathing a counter-balance to his own and disturbingly loud in his ears.
Peter's pushing his hips into Sylar's fist before he can stop himself, groaning thickly against the warm drumming of Sylar's pulse. He allows himself just one sudden push before he tries to put a stop to it, won't fuck himself in Sylar's fist just on sheer principle alone. Because he might have submitted, might have handed himself over fully, but fury is still pumping through his veins harder than need and he's weighing his desperation and coming up with far too much that Peter just doesn't want Sylar to see.
Except the slide of Sylar's own cock against his thigh sends fire straight to the pit of his stomach, every single time, making him shake, fingers digging into the other man’s spine in a fight with himself to keep buried against the slope of Sylar’s neck. It’s almost absurd, finding safety against someone he never thought he could stand, when the person he keeps trying to protect is himself. However, he knows just as well that trying to hold onto his dignity is a lost cause when Sylar’s steadying hold, the press of his body, is the only thing pushing him into a submission he keeps trying to deny.
Which is exactly when he realizes he’d beg for it if Sylar wanted him to. If the other man asked, demanded, he’d spill himself over between breaths before Sylar could even finish. He already is, wordlessly, spreading himself wider to make room for the other’s grip and waiting with the breath caught in the back of his throat for him to do something. Anything. Anything at all that’s not just slight slip of Sylar’s fingers around his cock because it’s sheer agony, the solid ache making him squirm, muscles twitching and pulling tight, though he’s trying to do anything but. It isn’t enough and he can feel the words just there, riding underneath his skin, but his ego’s too bruised from Sylar’s win to let himself slip up just yet.
And yet he still does, in an entirely different way, free hand making a sharp but almost petulant grab for Sylar's ass. He might not be willing to let words free but he can't keep from touching any better than Sylar can, using his grip to pull Sylar close any way he can. ]
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But he lost the opportunity to make up rules about touching or needing or wanting the second he wanted it just that much more.
Instead he squeezes his eyes shut, fingers scrambling to grab hold of Sylar's shirt as he curls up and forward and buries his face against the other’s neck. As if hiding could possibly change what's happening, what he's allowed to happen, what he can't try to stop. He already knows he's been overtaken, consumed by Sylar's overwhelming presence, and try as he might to pretend this is something else, he's the one lost beneath, losing his mind under the slow, heady grind of Sylar's hips, the other man's breathing a counter-balance to his own and disturbingly loud in his ears.
Peter's pushing his hips into Sylar's fist before he can stop himself, groaning thickly against the warm drumming of Sylar's pulse. He allows himself just one sudden push before he tries to put a stop to it, won't fuck himself in Sylar's fist just on sheer principle alone. Because he might have submitted, might have handed himself over fully, but fury is still pumping through his veins harder than need and he's weighing his desperation and coming up with far too much that Peter just doesn't want Sylar to see.
Except the slide of Sylar's own cock against his thigh sends fire straight to the pit of his stomach, every single time, making him shake, fingers digging into the other man’s spine in a fight with himself to keep buried against the slope of Sylar’s neck. It’s almost absurd, finding safety against someone he never thought he could stand, when the person he keeps trying to protect is himself. However, he knows just as well that trying to hold onto his dignity is a lost cause when Sylar’s steadying hold, the press of his body, is the only thing pushing him into a submission he keeps trying to deny.
Which is exactly when he realizes he’d beg for it if Sylar wanted him to. If the other man asked, demanded, he’d spill himself over between breaths before Sylar could even finish. He already is, wordlessly, spreading himself wider to make room for the other’s grip and waiting with the breath caught in the back of his throat for him to do something. Anything. Anything at all that’s not just slight slip of Sylar’s fingers around his cock because it’s sheer agony, the solid ache making him squirm, muscles twitching and pulling tight, though he’s trying to do anything but. It isn’t enough and he can feel the words just there, riding underneath his skin, but his ego’s too bruised from Sylar’s win to let himself slip up just yet.
And yet he still does, in an entirely different way, free hand making a sharp but almost petulant grab for Sylar's ass. He might not be willing to let words free but he can't keep from touching any better than Sylar can, using his grip to pull Sylar close any way he can. ]