[ Peter isn't entirely sure how he keeps himself from begging the very second Sylar slips his fingers inside, pressing in painfully deeper. Though it's quite possibly because speaking is equally as much of a sudden impossibility as breathing; even the pained whimper that threatens to spill over gets jammed up in the depths of his throat until Peter's flushing darker from frustration, from submission, from the desperation that’s running rampant through his nerves. And all that's left is the obvious ache hardening between his legs, pressed against the other’s stomach. And Sylar. Because Sylar's always left, he's always been there and he always will be, skin pulsing hot against his own so that it's all Peter can think about, overwhelming his senses until he can't deny any of it. Not anymore.
If Peter could, if he'd let himself ask for it, he'd plead for Sylar to touch him. Anywhere, everywhere else. Until there was nothing left. Sylar's the only person who's ever known how to take him down so readily, has known him inside out in all the wrong ways, and now Peter wants proof of it. Laid out bare beneath him, they’ve always been the perfect enemies and with self-deprecation as his witness, he wants to be disassembled by hands that once tore into him in an entirely different way.
Not altogether surprised by the action in and of itself, Peter is fully aware he had been asked for it, in his own silent way and yet he's refusing to acknowledge his own need for as long as he can get away with. As long as he can't even speak, he can pretend, can pretend the heat digging into the pit of his stomach is defiance and pain and nothing more. Fingers working their way back up Sylar's back as the other man’s bury in deeper, Peter noses in against Sylar's racing pulse that more insistently, finding himself doing nothing but ending up lost in the beat, in the other man's insistent push, the feel of it seeping under his skin.
But it's with a choked huff of breath that he finally snaps, breathing hard against the dip of Sylar's collar just beyond his shirt and gritting out a hard groan through clenched teeth. It isn't fair and Peter wants to scream that it isn't, but it doesn't even matter anymore, how could it? All that matters is that he's abandoned himself in this moment, that Sylar's fingers are a tease, a prologue for something better, and something far more painful at that, and Peter can hardly bring himself to care about anything apart from just how badly he's willing to give it all up. Out of everything, it's purely his own body that's retaliating against the intrusion, muscles clenching and pushing back.
One hand finally pulls away from the path of Sylar's spine, but instantly presses against Sylar's chest, fingers sinking into shirt and digging into the flesh just beneath until Peter's convinced himself he's holding on to something solid. Onto something that could possibly ground him when he’s convinced he’s lost his mind. ]
Sylar, please. [ It sounds wrong even to his own ears, words twisted out of him and agonizingly pleading. Tipping his face toward Sylar’s warm mouth, he blinks his eyes back open, staring unseeing down the line of their bodies until the sight alone makes him writhe, anticipation caught in the space between. If there's anyone in the world he should be saying please to, it's not Sylar, never imagined it'd be Sylar. But there's no one else here except for them, except for the steady, hard press of the other man on top of him and Peter can’t take the time to think it through anymore. Not when he wants more than he can stand. ]
no subject
If Peter could, if he'd let himself ask for it, he'd plead for Sylar to touch him. Anywhere, everywhere else. Until there was nothing left. Sylar's the only person who's ever known how to take him down so readily, has known him inside out in all the wrong ways, and now Peter wants proof of it. Laid out bare beneath him, they’ve always been the perfect enemies and with self-deprecation as his witness, he wants to be disassembled by hands that once tore into him in an entirely different way.
Not altogether surprised by the action in and of itself, Peter is fully aware he had been asked for it, in his own silent way and yet he's refusing to acknowledge his own need for as long as he can get away with. As long as he can't even speak, he can pretend, can pretend the heat digging into the pit of his stomach is defiance and pain and nothing more. Fingers working their way back up Sylar's back as the other man’s bury in deeper, Peter noses in against Sylar's racing pulse that more insistently, finding himself doing nothing but ending up lost in the beat, in the other man's insistent push, the feel of it seeping under his skin.
But it's with a choked huff of breath that he finally snaps, breathing hard against the dip of Sylar's collar just beyond his shirt and gritting out a hard groan through clenched teeth. It isn't fair and Peter wants to scream that it isn't, but it doesn't even matter anymore, how could it? All that matters is that he's abandoned himself in this moment, that Sylar's fingers are a tease, a prologue for something better, and something far more painful at that, and Peter can hardly bring himself to care about anything apart from just how badly he's willing to give it all up. Out of everything, it's purely his own body that's retaliating against the intrusion, muscles clenching and pushing back.
One hand finally pulls away from the path of Sylar's spine, but instantly presses against Sylar's chest, fingers sinking into shirt and digging into the flesh just beneath until Peter's convinced himself he's holding on to something solid. Onto something that could possibly ground him when he’s convinced he’s lost his mind. ]
Sylar, please. [ It sounds wrong even to his own ears, words twisted out of him and agonizingly pleading. Tipping his face toward Sylar’s warm mouth, he blinks his eyes back open, staring unseeing down the line of their bodies until the sight alone makes him writhe, anticipation caught in the space between. If there's anyone in the world he should be saying please to, it's not Sylar, never imagined it'd be Sylar. But there's no one else here except for them, except for the steady, hard press of the other man on top of him and Peter can’t take the time to think it through anymore. Not when he wants more than he can stand. ]