[For a brief moment, there’s nothing but the echo of the slap, the way it resonates in the silence between them, vibrating in the air.
He blinks, momentarily stunned by the sharp crack of Ross’s hand against his cheek. The sting blooms hot and unexpected, spreading through his skin like a wildfire.
But then he sees Ross’ expression—the wide eyes, the sudden stillness, the hesitation that follows the act. It’s almost endearing, the way he seems caught between his instinct to assert himself and the fear of having overstepped.
Sylus’s mind flickers back to words from not so long ago, an old technician’s reticent observation: “She may just be, uh, disgusted by you.” Ah, that sting, that ever-present reminder that still lingers somewhere deep in his chest. Even if this is someone new, someone who has no memories of him to forget, the echo of that rejection never quite fades. But this? This is different. Ross isn’t rejecting him—not really. He’s fighting, pushing back, and that’s something Sylus can work with.
He relaxes into the moment, letting the tension bleed away as he regards Ross with a mixture of amusement and something more complicated. He looks at his hand, the one that struck him, now hovering in the air as if unsure what to do next. Sylus slowly raises his own, misty black and red tendrils curling around Ross’ wrist, guiding his fingers open. He presses their palms together, intertwining their fingers, his grip firm but not oppressive.
His other hand doesn’t leave Ross’s thigh, the thumb brushing back and forth in a soothing, almost tender motion against the inside of Ross’s leg. Sylus can feel the tension in Ross’s body, the way fear and desire coil together in a confusing knot, and he can’t help but find it… intriguing.
Who disrespected you and threw status at you?]
Ah, there it is, [voice low and soft, almost a purr.] Good. That’s good.
[There’s no anger in his tone, no reprimand—only an acknowledgment, an understanding of the raw emotion that drove Ross to strike him, the anger at the border of disrespect. Sylus tilts his head. He’s seen the way Ross’s arousal remains stark and insistent, even through the storm of emotions, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, soft and inviting.]
no subject
He blinks, momentarily stunned by the sharp crack of Ross’s hand against his cheek. The sting blooms hot and unexpected, spreading through his skin like a wildfire.
But then he sees Ross’ expression—the wide eyes, the sudden stillness, the hesitation that follows the act. It’s almost endearing, the way he seems caught between his instinct to assert himself and the fear of having overstepped.
Sylus’s mind flickers back to words from not so long ago, an old technician’s reticent observation: “She may just be, uh, disgusted by you.” Ah, that sting, that ever-present reminder that still lingers somewhere deep in his chest. Even if this is someone new, someone who has no memories of him to forget, the echo of that rejection never quite fades. But this? This is different. Ross isn’t rejecting him—not really. He’s fighting, pushing back, and that’s something Sylus can work with.
He relaxes into the moment, letting the tension bleed away as he regards Ross with a mixture of amusement and something more complicated. He looks at his hand, the one that struck him, now hovering in the air as if unsure what to do next. Sylus slowly raises his own, misty black and red tendrils curling around Ross’ wrist, guiding his fingers open. He presses their palms together, intertwining their fingers, his grip firm but not oppressive.
His other hand doesn’t leave Ross’s thigh, the thumb brushing back and forth in a soothing, almost tender motion against the inside of Ross’s leg. Sylus can feel the tension in Ross’s body, the way fear and desire coil together in a confusing knot, and he can’t help but find it… intriguing.
Who disrespected you and threw status at you?]
Ah, there it is, [voice low and soft, almost a purr.] Good. That’s good.
[There’s no anger in his tone, no reprimand—only an acknowledgment, an understanding of the raw emotion that drove Ross to strike him, the anger at the border of disrespect. Sylus tilts his head. He’s seen the way Ross’s arousal remains stark and insistent, even through the storm of emotions, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, soft and inviting.]
Come on. You can take it.