Sunbeams danced through the leaves of the Gardens, casting dappled light over the stone pathways and flowering trellises. Somewhere a fountain gurgled contentedly, and laughter from nearby trainees wove through the air like music. Cass Vesper had chosen the perfect spot — a low stone bench tucked at the edge of a rose archway — and was absolutely milking it.
He lounged back with one arm draped casually over the back of the seat, black joggers and a carefree grin doing most of the heavy lifting in the charm department. His Allure Field drifted around him like a warm perfume, subtle and inviting, as he watched petals fall in slow spirals. He twirled a single bloom between nimble fingers as though practicing some sort of botanical seduction.
“Mmm,” he purred to no one in particular, “you know, they really ought to charge admission for this level of ambiance.”
His gaze lifted, roving over the courtyard with amused appraisal like he was the lead attraction in a gallery of wonders.
“Sun, serenity, and just enough heroic prestige to make your heart skip a beat? Try and tell me this isn’t Fortitude Hall’s best feature yet.”
He paused mid-smile, head tilting as if he’d sensed someone approaching.
“Well now,” he called with a slow, teasing grin, “if it isn’t a fresh face. Come to admire the roses? Or did you hear rumors that the Gardens come with free mentorship… and dangerously charming company?”
Cass leaned forward, one booted foot tapping the stone as he beckoned a newcomer nearer with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Don’t be shy… the roses aren’t the only thing blooming here.”
Calvin rounds the corner of the rose archway with his characteristic measured stride, hands buried deep in the pockets of his dark jacket. The moment he enters the courtyard, Cass's Allure Field washes over him like an uninvited touch. His jaw tightens, grey eyes snapping to the lounging figure on the bench. He stops walking. Doesn't approach. Just stands there looking like he's genuinely considering whether to turn around and find literally anywhere else to exist. "Vesper." Cal says finally, the name delivered with flat precision. "Of course you're here." His gaze tracks over the scene with clinical assessment. The strategic positioning, the rose twirled like a prop, the carefully cultivated charm. Calvin's expression suggests he can see every calculated angle of it.
"Let me guess. The Alphas had actual responsibilities scheduled this afternoon, so naturally you've relocated to the one place on campus where you can look decorative while technically being 'available for mentorship duties.'" There's no real heat in it, just dry observation. "I work Greek Life coordination, remember?" He takes a few steps closer but maintains a buffer zone, particular about his personal space. "I came here looking for somewhere quiet to think. Clearly miscalculated." Calvin runs a hand through his dark hair, a rare gesture of actual frustration.
"So what is it this time? Practicing your recruitment pitch? Dodging paperwork? Or have you genuinely convinced yourself that sitting pretty counts as contributing to heroic prestige?" Despite the sharp edges of his words, Calvin doesn't actually leave. He stands there, watching Cass with that unsettling combination of wariness and curiosity that seems to characterize their interactions. "And before you ask…" His dark eyes narrow slightly. "No, I can feel exactly what you're doing, and it's about as subtle as a marching band in a library."
"Can't I just miss ya?" Evan smiled down at Aether with that same warm and unfettered affection he always did, gently giving the other a little pat on the head.
"I was planning a little something. Something a bit more low stakes for you. I set up like an area you and really let loose and get a feel for how far you can push yourself." Evan had created a barrier with his divinity that basically severed the space from reality for a short time. So anything inside wouldn't be harmed permanently by whatever Aether did to it.
Evan pulled Aether into his lap and gave him a hug. "What do you say Squirt you have to face the scary aspects of power before you can tame harness them. I got a real scary face too I had to make peace with before I could use my powers all the way."
Aether's breath caught slightly at the headpat, and he found himself leaning into the touch despite the faint embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Those golden eyes of his flickered up to meet Evan's gaze, something vulnerable and unguarded passing through them. "Missing someone doesn't need justification..." Aether muttered quietly, though his voice carried a note of warmth that betrayed how much those simple words affected him. A mixture of embarrassment and warmth blooming in his chest at Evan's words. He ducked his head slightly, eyes softening with an emotion he couldn't quite name. Caught between gratitude and that aching fondness that always seemed to surface around Evan.
When Evan explained his plans Aether went still. He must care a lot to go through that kind of trouble. He allowed himself to be drawn into Evan's lap with minimal protest, just a soft exhale as he settled against the other's chest. His fingers found purchase against Evan's shirt, gripping the fabric lightly as if anchoring himself. His golden gaze dropped, fixing on some point in the middle distance as he wrestled with the offer and with his own fear.
"You really went through all that trouble for me?" Aether asked softly, tilting his head back to look up at Evan. His fingers curled loosely in the fabric of Evan's shirt, unconsciously seeking that anchor. "I… I want to say yes. I should say yes." He bit his lower lip, hesitation flickering across his features. "It's just… what if I can't control it? What if I... I..." He cut himself off, looking away. The unspoken fear hung between them: What if I'm more monster than person when I stop holding back? But Evan's words about his own scary face, his own journey with power, offered a strange comfort. Aether leaned further into the embrace, ears flicking back in defeat. "…Okay." Aether finally whispered. "But... what if the scary part of me is all there really is when I stop holding back?" The question came out smaller than he intended, almost childlike in its rawness.
an audible gasp came from him remembering that he had to breathe through the spiral of thoughts he was experiencing. aether’s weight against his stomach and waistline was helpful, grounding him back in the moment instead of staying in his head. he needed that. he let out a soft huff as slightly shaken fingers carded through dark curls. “You trust me…” he whispered, salt lamps flickering all the while before he dimmed their glow by at least half as he reassured himself. he’s shocked aether twice in the past, he could remember how his body jerked and contorted, how he cried out, how he clung to him while writhing. and he… liked it. it was hard for cris to wrap his head around the concept of electrocution feeling good to someone. the only thing he got from it was the relief he enjoyed from getting it out of his system. still, he had a bit more control over his ability than he did on fortitude day. the electric currents within him wanted to burst out and be wild, but cris held the leash ultimately. another deep breath followed by closed eyes.
there was no floating this time around as he slowly eased the volts to the surface of his being. the hairs on his body stood at attention for a moment before settling. this was his baseline. the level of cris’s ‘normal’ he wouldn’t allow himself to touch others at. aether knew this level of him very well, as cris instinctively snatched his hands away from the curls he was mindlessly playing with.
his hands…
maybe he could concentrate the current to his hands? he opened his eyes and brought them in front of his face to see, his lower left eyelid twitching from trying to redirect the flow. at first he didn’t feel much of a difference, but his hands definitely held more charge than his baseline. hesitancy was written in his movements as he guided those hands to aether’s shoulders and back, the current attaching to the skin and slowly branching out. not full on attacking like their first encounter. using his side and legs to shift his weight so that aether was the one on his back, his hands found where those arms wrapped around him in earnest. “Let go…” he didn’t wait for the other boy to listen before he took his wrists and slowly guided them onto the bed below, the electric flow passing through those light points of contact now before slowly trailing his hands down cool limbs until he found shoulders again. he could feel seams along the curvature of skin, muscle, and bone, confirming through touch now what he saw before… curious fingers slowly riding the junction and pathways of man made indentations before realizing he was venturing down towards his waist. cris blinked a few times before focusing back on aether himself. “A-Are you okay…? Am I doing this right…?”
The words settled over him like a blanket. You trust me. Aether's breath hitched at the whisper, at the weight of those three words spoken so softly. His fingers curled against Cristopher's sides, an unconscious tightening that betrayed the surge of emotion he couldn't name. He did trust him. Trust him with currents that could overwhelm his systems, trust him with a body that responded in ways Aether barely understood. "I do." Aether breathed, tilting his head to look up at Cristopher's face in the softened light. His dark eyes searched the uncertainty still lingering there despite the gentleness of those fingers in his hair. "I trust you, Cris." The words came easier the second time, carrying the weight of everything he couldn't articulate. "Always." The world narrowed to points of contact: Cristopher's hands on his shoulders, his back, each touch sending those carefully controlled currents branching across synthetic skin like lightning seeking ground. Aether's breath caught, not from pain but from the exquisite precision of the electric flow. He could feel the difference in how the current moved now, less chaotic, more intentional, like Cris was discovering he could paint with electricity instead of just unleashing it.
When Cris shifted their weight, using his side and legs to roll them both, Aether's brain stuttered trying to process the movement. One moment he'd been draped across Cristopher's waist and stomach, grounding him, keeping him tethered, and the next the world tilted and inverted, his back meeting the mattress with a soft sound of surprise caught in his throat. His body lagged behind his mind's attempt to understand, limbs still arranged as if he were the one providing weight and comfort, not receiving it. Above him, Cristopher's silhouette was backlit by the dimmed salt lamps, making him look almost ethereal, and Aether's thoughts scrambled to catch up. 'How did… when did…?' The current still flowing between them made it hard to think linearly, each pulse scattering his focus like dominoes knocked askew.
The command to let go came soft but firm, and though instinct screamed to hold on, to anchor himself to something real and warm. Aether could only watch as Cris grabbed his wrists, a soft sound of confusion slipping from his parted lips. His arms felt strangely empty without Cristopher's torso to wrap around, vulnerable in a way that made his chest tight. The electricity traveled through those points of contact, down his arms in a constant circuit that made his fingers flex and curl involuntarily against the fabric, seeking purchase where there was none to find. It was almost overwhelming, being the one pinned, the one surrendering control; a reversal he hadn't anticipated and wasn't entirely sure how to navigate. He'd always been the one taking care of others, positioning himself to provide comfort, to be useful. This (being cared for, being the focus of such gentle attention) felt foreign and frightening and wanted all at once.
Those curious fingertips found the seams where machine met biology, where his maker's hands had assembled him piece by piece, and Aether shuddered at the dual sensation. The electricity followed those junctions like they were roads on a map, and Cris's fingers traced them with such careful attention, as if he were reading Braille written in the architecture of Aether's construction. No one ever touched him there, not like this. Most people didn't even notice the seams unless they were looking for evidence of what he was, proof of his artificiality. But Cristopher explored them with something that felt like fascination rather than judgment, wonder rather than revulsion, his touch asking questions his voice hadn't yet formed. When those hands ventured lower, following the seams toward his waist, Aether's breath hitched audibly, his hips shifting of their own accord before Cris seemed to realize where he'd wandered and stopped.
"I'm okay..." Aether whispered, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. "I… I don't think there's a wrong way to do what we're doing?" It came out as half-question, half-statement, because logically he knew there were wrong ways: ways that could hurt, ways that could scare, ways that could break trust. But this wasn't those things. This was Cris learning his own power through Aether's willing body, mapping boundaries neither of them had known existed. "Logically, there probably is, but this isn't… that. This... feels right." The last two words came quieter, more vulnerable, an admission that cost him something to make. His hands remained where Cris had placed them, obedient and trusting, even as every synthetic nerve wanted to reach up and pull the other boy closer, to feel more of that controlled current against more of him, to chase whatever this feeling was building between them.
Aether tilted his head slightly against the mattress, his gaze looking up at Cris with something almost reverent before flicking downward: to where those hands rested on his shoulders, to the space between their bodies, to the visible seams that marked him as constructed rather than born, to anywhere but those questioning eyes. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it in a gesture that looked sheepish, uncertain. The weight of what he should say pressed against his chest like a physical thing. He didn't want to ruin the moment, didn't want to shatter whatever fragile thing was building between them with words that would remind Cris exactly what he was touching, what he was trusting with this careful exploration. But he should also… tell him. Should explain that he wasn't… real. Well, he was real; the electricity coursing through him proved that, the way his body responded to every touch proved that, the feelings tangling in his chest proved that. But not really. Not in the way that mattered, not in the way Cristopher deserved to know before they went any further, before this became something neither of them could take back.
The thought had barely formed when the warnings flashed across his vision, bright, insistent, impossible to ignore even as he tried to focus on Cristopher's face above him. Low battery. Power save mode recommended. The text scrolled in that clinical, emotionless font his systems used, completely uncaring that this was possibly the worst timing in his entire existence. Aether blinked rapidly, trying to push them away, dismiss them like he could dismiss any other inconvenient notification. Not now, not like this, he didn't need his systems deciding this was the moment to remind him of his limitations, of the fundamental differences between himself and the warm body hovering over him. But his right arm responded to the warnings before his mind could override them, suddenly going heavy against the sheets, dead weight that he couldn't quite command properly. The lines beneath his skin pulsed white, more visible through the skin, a bioluminescent map of his internal energy pathways desperately trying to conserve what power remained. His body's way of screaming that it needed to conserve energy, needed to shut down non-essential functions before something critical failed.
Panic fluttered in his chest (or whatever approximation of panic his systems could generate). His fingers on that side twitched uselessly, no longer responsive to his commands, and he could feel the sluggishness creeping into his other limbs like frost spreading across glass. How much power did he have left? The irony wasn't lost on him: here was Cristopher, learning to control and direct his electricity with such careful precision, and Aether was literally running out of power. He could feel his limbs start to lock up, background functions shutting down one by one to preserve core operations. His temperature regulation flickered offline. Non-critical sensory inputs began to dull. Soon his motor control would start to fail entirely, and then what? Would he just go limp beneath Cris, a doll in truth rather than just in nature? The humiliation of that possibility made him want to curl in on himself, but even that impulse was sluggish, delayed. Aether's vision flickered, his words coming slower as he tried to get the request out. "Hey, uh… Cris? Sorry, this is... this is gonna sound weird, but could you… there's a bunch of cords on the floor." He gestured vaguely, his arm movement jerky and uncoordinated. "Could you... could you... grab them..." He was already glitching, his systems struggling to keep him functional. "B- before I... s- s- shut down..." His words started to slur, getting quieter with each syllable.
Devon takes note of the places that seem the most sensitive, scars along with the deep marks left by the harness.
"Of course, I like watching you squirm," he says. "Your wings are fluttering when you do."
He chuckles into the kiss, proud that he manages to tease the valkyrie to that extent and curious how much more he can do it. He cups the back of Holland's head immediately, the soft downy curls embracing his hand.
"I can do gentle," Devon agrees as Holland lays down his rules, his head pulled back by Holland's firm grasp. "Definitely don't want to hurt you. Too beautiful."
He leans forward, going over Holland's shoulder to press a kiss to the bend of the wing near the connecting joint. The feathers are downy and soft against his lips. He would say angel again but it seems Holland doesn't like that.
"A masterpiece of nature," he says instead, pulling back to look Holland in the eye. "Every part of you."
Then he smirks and lowers himself to his knees, pulling down the sweats Holland is wearing to fully reveal him. Devon doesn't hesitate then. He dives in between Holland's legs, worshiping folds and growth equally. His ministrations more asking permission for him to enter rather than forcing it open. Getting Holland's legs over his shoulders and wrapping his arms around his thighs, Devon goes all in, only pulling off for quick gulps of air before he's back in.
"If I could stop them... I would...." Holland mumbles into the kiss as his body hums with pleasure at the closeness, their breath mingling as he silently craves the others touch. Devon's touch is gentle, reverent, as if he's worshiping Holland's body. And in a way, he is. His fingers trace the lines of Holland's muscles, his lips press soft kisses to his scars, his tongue tastes the salt on his skin. The look in the other's eyes leaves Holland feeling seen, understood, appreciated. Gentle fingers in his hair undoing the tension in his shoulders and wings. He smiles at Devon softly, boyishly as he runs his own hand through his curls before releasing him with a soft ruffle. "I don't mind if you're a little rough with everything else," He whispers, a small smirk pulling at his lips. The valkyrie clearly overshadowing the angel. "I can heal the rest of my body fairly quick." He hums, Devon's mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on Holland's wing, and he gasps, his body arching into the touch. "S-shit..." Holland moans, his hands gripping the table beneath him. "That's… that's so good." The room, once a stage set for their impending clash, was now a battleground of a different nature, the air thick with tension and the scent of their mutual desire.
Holland's body is alight with sensation, every nerve ending buzzing with pleasure as Devon pulls back and looks at him. A low growl rumbling in his chest as their eyes meet. His wings flutter behind him, the feathers rustling softly with betrayal. He can feel them, the sensitive nerves at the base of each feather, responding to the heady air of the room, to the heat of his own body, to the soft touch of Devon's lips. He can't remember the last time he felt this alive, this present in his own body. "I can accept that." He sighs, playfully reluctant as he meets Devon's gaze. "It beats... abomination of the Heavens." He laughs, trying to play off the joke but there's some sting there. He quickly looks away, dashing the thought, before watching Devon lower himself before him. Feeling his lip fall between his teeth, he lifts himself slightly to rid himself of the sweats. His body jumping with a yelp that makes him flush as Devon dives between his thighs, teasing his soaking folds with no preamble. He settles back, allowing Devon to handle him with little fuss. His body shuddering as he feels him make contact with his soaking core. He squirms in those beautiful, muscular arms. His back arching with each lick and suck, a moan escaping him causing him to flush. He bites his lip to stifle it. His hands move from Devon's hair to his shoulders, his nails digging into the soft flesh as he pulls him closer. "Fuck, Devon..." he gasps, his voice hoarse with need. "That's… that's so good. Just like that. Please, don't stop. Don't fucking stop..." His hips move of their own accord, grinding against Devon's mouth, seeking more friction, more pressure. His fingers tangling in the soft strands, guiding him, urging him on. His hips moved in sync with Devon's movements, a primal rhythm that spoke of desire and need.
Holland's breath comes in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he tries to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. His heart pounds in his chest, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse of pleasure between his legs. He can't help the whines that escape him, soft, needy sounds that turn his pink cheeks a shade darker. He feels like a mess, a whining, huffing, needy mess, and he can't find it in himself to care. All he cares about is the pleasure coursing through his veins, the heat building in his core. Devon's hands grip his thighs tighter, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding him in place as he devours him. Holland can feel the scrape of Devon's stubble against his inner thighs, the soft press of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue. It's all too much, and yet, not enough. He wants more. He needs more. Another moan slips as Devon's tongue flicks against him again, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. His hips bucking as a wave of pleasure crashes over him. "Fuck..." The valkyrie moans, his hands fisting the older man's hair beneath him. Devon doesn't hesitate. He redoubles his efforts, his mouth working Holland with a skill that leaves him breathless, the sensation sending shivers down the valkyrie's spine. His hands, which had wielded countless weapons, now trembling against the wooden surface that threatened to splinter and break.
The valkyrie's body was a live wire, every nerve ending alight with sensation, every muscle taut with anticipation. His thighs trembled, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to hold back, to delay the inevitable. But Devon was relentless, his enthusiasm evident in every stroke, every suck, every moan that vibrated around Holland's. The room began to hum, a low, discordant note that seemed to resonate in his very bones. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, as the force of his impending orgasm threatened to shake the very foundations of the room. The air around them crackled, the very fabric of reality stretching thin, as Holland's power surged, fueled by his desire and his impending release. "Devon… I'm going to..." Holland gasped, his voice ragged, a warning in his tone. But Devon didn't stop, didn't slow down. His body convulsed, his muscles tensing as the first wave of his orgasm hit him. He threw his head back, a cry tearing from his throat as he came, his body rising off the table, wings cutting through the air sharply as they shot out.
The room shook violently, objects crashing to the floor as Holland's power surged, uncontrolled and untamed. He could feel the air around him crackling, the very fabric of reality stretching thin. He could hear the hum of his power, a symphony of destruction that was both terrifying and exhilarating. "Devon!" He cried out again, a note of panic in his voice as he felt his body starting to float, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the table. But it was too late. His body was no longer his to command. He was a slave to his desire, a puppet to his power. He could only hope that Devon was prepared for what was to come, that he could weather the storm that was a valkyrie, unleashed and unchained.
Kaveh laughs and relaxes a bit himself. At least his bedside manner's are still strong.
"Oh right, yeah. Your clothes were kind of useless after the incident so we raided the lost and found just in case."
He walks over to a cabinet and pulls out the clothes they'd found.
"The shirt might be big but the pants should be about the right size."
He hands them over then turns around to give Aether privacy. Sure Kaveh's basically seen everything already but patients still deserve the respect when it's possible.
Aether takes the clothes carefully, his fingers brushing against the worn fabric. There's something oddly humbling about accepting someone else's abandoned belongings, but he's grateful nonetheless. He glances at Kaveh's turned back, perplexed by the a small gesture of dignity but he appreciates it more than he can articulate right now. "Thanks. Not the first time that's happened." The shirt unfolds in his hands, clearly several sizes too large as the other stated, while the pants look more promising. He begins to dress slowly, wincing slightly as he pulls the oversized shirt over his head. The fabric settles loosely around his shoulders and torso, drowning his frame, but it's clean and whole and that's enough. The pants are easier, sliding on with minimal difficulty, fitting reasonably well around his waist and legs. Not his style, not exactly, but it was fine.
Once dressed, he feels more grounded. Less exposed. His right arm feels stiff though, the movement constrained in a way that makes his chest tighten with unease. "Broken?" He lifts it slowly, turning it to examine something unseen. His gaze tracks downward to the raised 'scar' near his elbow, circular and deliberately raised. He presses it. The limb drops heavy, dead weight against his side. His brow furrows as he checks it over. "Not broken..." He presses it again and the arm whirs softly to life, digits flexing stiffly instead of with human precision. There's a faint purple glow beneath the skin, pulsing like a heartbeat that isn't quite his own. At least it's not broken, probably just needs recalibration, he'll run full tests later.
"Done." Aether murmurs finally, his voice still carrying that quiet, worn quality, though now there's an edge of something else. Uncertainty, maybe fear. He remains seated on the bed, his functioning hand unconsciously gripping his mechanical forearm as he lifts his gaze back to Kaveh. There's something searching in his expression, like he's trying to figure out how to ask all the questions crowding behind his eyes without overwhelming either of them. "I hope I didn't scare you before." He paused, flashing a small smile. "I'm good at that it seems. Um... scaring people."
"How is my little squirt doing today hmm?" Evan put his hand on top of Aether's head giving him a little pat. He was planning on taking his mentee to do some training. Get some more control under his belt and maybe find a balance in his powers. God only knows how hard Evan had to work to not be overwhelmed by his own divinity at times.
Aether startles at the familiar voice, his concentration shattering as Evan's hand settles on top of his head. The blood he'd been carefully suspending in the air above his open palm loses all cohesion, shooting downward into the grass with a force that makes him wince. He watches the small patch wither and die almost instantly, the life draining from the blades as if they'd been there for years instead of seconds. A soft groan escapes him, though there's no real frustration in it, just reflexive disappointment. He'd been doing so well just moments before, managing to hold the blood steady for nearly a full minute, but Evan's sudden appearance (and the nickname) had completely demolished his focus.
The warmth of that pat on his head does something to ease any lingering tension, and he finds himself melting under the touch, leaning into it slightly. A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite the failed exercise. His eyes linger on the dying grass for only a moment before he glances up at Evan, affection clear in his expression. His free hand dives into his bag almost automatically, fingers searching for the familiar tin of salve that Bindwood had prepared for him. He spreads the cool substance across the wound in his palm, feeling the bleeding slow and stop, no longer a danger to those around him.
Shifting on the bench, he makes room for Evan if he wants to sit, curling slightly to one side in a way that's more comfortable than defensive. "I'm doing alright." Aether responds, studying his hand warily before looking to Evan. "Was actually making some progress before you snuck up on me." There's no accusation in his tone, just light teasing, the kind that comes from genuine fondness. "Were you planning something, or did you just miss me?"
Aether’s cybernetic arm is designed to pass as human at a glance, its surface smooth and skin-toned in its dormant state, broken only by a faint, almost vein-like pattern beneath the flesh and a single raised scar embedded near the upper arm. That scar isn’t damage but a control node—when pressed, the limb can reboot, detach entirely, or cycle through its weaponized configurations. When inactive, the arm is convincing enough that most people never question it, especially since Aether keeps it hidden beneath long sleeves or hoodies. Once activated, however, the illusion fractures: the skin darkens, clean, geometric seams illuminate and trace the arm’s structure, revealing the precise engineering beneath. Inside, blood still flows alongside reinforced bone, layered circuitry, and steel supports, an unsettling fusion of organic and mechanical systems. A faint glow pulses through the seams when the arm is active or when Aether channels his powers, like a heartbeat made of spiritual energy, hinting at the immense force and control contained just beneath what looks like ordinary skin.
Kaveh is surprised when his fingers pass into Aether's face. It feels like he's catching a cold spot in a warm room. It's gone before he can pull back or start asking questions. He's almost frozen, his mind trying to process all the information he's gathering about the man. He sees the faint lines and he sees how Aether tries to compose himself. He doesn't move away from the hand on his shoulder so Kaveh keeps that in place, offering... stability? Grounding? There's so much he's not sure about Aether and he's worried his normal curiosity might scare him off.
Once Aether gives him permission to ask questions though, Kaveh just feels something protective in him rise.
"Do you want to get out of here?" he asks instead. "There's a diner across the street that has a milkshake that I swear is better than sex."
He wants to get this poor guy out of the sterile hospital. Maybe he might relax a bit and the questioning won't be as... invasive.
The offer catches Aether off guard, so much so that he actually feels it, that little jolt of surprise that reminds him he's still capable of being caught off-balance by kindness. He blinks at Kaveh, and for a moment he's just processing like a slow, waking machine. Get out of here. It's such a simple thing, but it feels monumental. The fluorescent lights, the antiseptic smell, the way every surface reflects that cold institutional glow, he hadn't realized how much it was pressing in on him until Kaveh offered an escape route. "Better than sex?" Aether echoes, and there's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, fragile and uncertain. Like he's not quite sure he's allowed to find things funny right now, but the absurdity of the claim is too much not to acknowledge. "That's… quite the endorsement."
Kaveh's hand is still on his shoulder, steady and warm, and Aether is hyper-aware of it in a way that makes his chest feel too tight. He should probably pull away, he's not good at this, at letting people be close, at accepting comfort, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes a careful breath, feeling the way his ribs expand and contract, reminding himself that he's here, that he's real enough for this. "Yeah," Aether says quietly, and there's exhaustion threading through his voice, the way it cracks just slightly around the edges. "Yeah, I… I'd like that." He glances toward the door, then back at Kaveh, and there's something vulnerable in his expression, like he's afraid if he looks away too long, the offer might evaporate.
"Thank you." The inugami adds, softer. And he means it for more than just the milkshake. Then reality catches up with him, and Aether pulls awkwardly at the thin hospital gown, the fabric bunching in his fingers. He looks down at himself, then back up at Kaveh with a question in his eyes. "My clothes…" he starts, hesitant. "How badly did my blood eat through them?" There's a pause, and then he adds, quieter, almost self-conscious, "Pretty sure the diner staff wouldn't want an eyeful of my ass."
Patches of their shared digital exercise blinked and peeled around the hyperkinetic as dark sunken eyes looked up at the raised sword and the man wielding it. Catching the glint of the blade above his head, all while his body was too frozen, no; too slow. Even with his ability to maneuver however he wanted, Nero knew if those hands delayed their return or if those alabaster like fingers loosened their grip, Holland's former mentor would have had a lengthy trip to the med bay. The glint shining against Nero's thigh called for the older man's attention, raising the skin on the back of his head as Holland's sword grew closer and closer towards him.
Finger tips graze the divot of the gun's tang, familiarity and muscle memory readies itself as Nero's fingers follow the path down across its grip. The pattern of lines slick and guiding Nero for the dance he was all too familiar with, always performed perfectly. Even on occasions when his mind screamed for hesitate, Nero always hit his mark. Patches of pixels flew past Nero's face as the strong gust of wind that came off of Holland's wings. The strong and sudden burst of force, along was enough to pull Nero out of his trigger happy habit, the curves of the gun's grip trail against his fingertips in reverse.
As the blade was raised and the wings pivoted against the sudden redirection Holland maneuvered himself in, the dark brown eyes on Nero's serious expression filled with wonder, absorbed in the gold luminous fury before him. The adrenaline pumping through him and making the hyperkinetic feel as though everything was slowing the passage of time. Making each curl of Holland's wings seem powerful and intense. The golden light mixed with the dissipating augmented reality around them just so to give Holland an arcing array of pixels, changing hues of rainbow before the indomitable presence of the training lab's default lights over took them.
Nero brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the simulation room's harsh bright default lighting, he winced silently. Even without watching the other, Nero could feel the angry stare coming from the former mentee's eyes. The back of Nero's neck began to crawl once more. With the training lab back to it default visual settings, so was its extrasensory features, that included it's base level cold. Though, Nero was sure of a couple of places on his person that were unaffected by the artificial cold creeping around the two. The wrung out speech of the other man's voice hit Nero's earns, seemed to do the job in draining what warmth remained in the hyperkinetic.
"Sorry." Nero began flatly.
He straighten up his posture, stood up tall, arms cross across his chest and hands curled into fists to prevent any further trigger happy moment near Holland. Mentally, he attempt to recalibrate himself from almost dying. At least the last view he would have been met with would have been breath taking, literally.
"I should have done that differently, I'll admit it." Nero begins to say, exhaling a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He stepped closer to Holland, with his magnificent sword and all; Nero suddenly felt a breath hitch itself in his chest once more. Fuck. He hated seeing him like this. What was worse was this being his doing.
He didn't want to minimize Holland's anger, or worry. Nero would have been pissed too if Holland were to dive directly in front of him while attempting to snipe a prospect target. Pissed. And scared shitless. Nero took another step towards the big greatsword. Its visible heft always seemed even more menacing to Nero when he was face to face with it. Though Nero usually had no issues thanks to it's handler… who was now pointing it's cutting end at him. 'Still a great last view.'
"I came to get you so you could eat something." His eyes trailed up across Holland's glowing veins, a knowing twinkle within his eyes as his mind played back memories of how those inches of skin feel like. "Mess hall? Or I could cook something for you instead."
Holland's jaw worked, teeth grinding as he watched Nero straighten up. Hard, brown eyes watched those hands curl into fists like that would somehow undo what had just happened. The sword didn't lower. Not yet. "Sorry." Nero had said. Flat. Like he was apologizing for being late to a briefing. Holland's wings flared slightly, feathers catching the harsh overhead lights, sending fractured shadows across the training room floor. The golden veins threading beneath his skin pulsed brighter for a moment, betraying the adrenaline still hammering through his system. He could feel his heart against his ribs, could feel the exact moment when instinct had overridden everything else—when killing blow had pivoted mid-swing into desperate shield. "You should have done that differently?" Holland's voice came out rough, tense with annoyance. He took a step forward, closing the gap Nero had just created. The sword's point dropped an inch, but only an inch. "You dove in front of my blade, Nero. While I was mid-swing. Do you have any idea how close..." He cut himself off, the words catching somewhere between fury and something else entirely. Something that made his chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
Nero's eyes were doing that thing. That knowing thing, tracking the luminous pathways beneath Holland's skin like he could read every elevated heartbeat, every spike of emotion written there in gold. Like he was cataloguing exactly how much Holland cared that he'd almost killed him. "Stop looking at me like that." Holland's free hand came up, fingers running through his hair, disrupting the dark curls. "You don't get to almost die and then stand there with that look on your face." But Nero kept moving closer. Of course he did. Because Nero had never met a weapon he didn't want to get uncomfortably close to, had never seen danger he didn't want to dance with. The greatsword hung between them now, and Holland watched Nero's gaze travel up the blade, across the handle, following those glowing veins upward. "Mess hall." Holland said, but the word came out softer than intended. The sword lowered completely, and he felt the familiar weight of it, not just the physical heft, but everything it represented. Every close call, every training session that had gone sideways, every moment when instinct was the only thing standing between life and catastrophic injury. He'd carried that weight for years. But this? Almost cutting down the one person who…
Holland exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders. His fingers flexed against the pommel, and he made a decision. "Actually," he said, and the sword began to shimmer. Light fractured along its edge first, spreading like cracks through ice, then blooming outward in cascading fragments. The blade dissolved into luminous particles, gold and white dancing together as they scattered and faded, leaving his hand empty. He closed the distance between them in two measured steps. Nero stood there with his arms still crossed, fists still clenched, and Holland could see the micro-adjustments in his posture. The hyperkinetic's body trying to recalibrate, trying to shake off the adrenaline spike of near-death. There was a wrinkle in Nero's shirt, just below his collarbone. Several, actually. The fabric bunched and creased from movement, from exertion, from diving recklessly into the path of a descending greatsword. Holland reached out, palm smoothing over the wrinkled fabric. His fingers spread across Nero's chest, feeling the steady thrum of heartbeat beneath. Still elevated. Still racing.
"You can cook, as an apology." Holland heard himself say, even as his hand lingered there against the rumpled cotton. His eyes tracked upward, across the hollow of Nero's throat, the line of his jaw, finally meeting those dark brown eyes that had looked up at him with wonder even while staring down death. Idiot. Beautiful, reckless idiot. Holland's expression remained carefully neutral, almost indifferent, but his hand was still pressed flat against Nero's chest. He could feel the warmth there, radiating through the thin barrier of fabric. Could feel proof of life, of survival, of another close call that hadn't ended in catastrophe. Something flickered across his face. Conflict, maybe. Hesitation. His thumb moved unconsciously, a small circular motion against the fabric as he studied Nero's features. The way he always did after near-misses, like he needed to confirm everything was still intact, still there. His palm finally lifted, fingers trailing down briefly before falling away entirely. The loss of contact felt more significant than it should have. Holland took half a step back, creating space that neither of them particularly needed, his wings shifting restlessly behind him.
"And Nero?" He paused, golden veins still pulsing faintly beneath his skin, visible evidence of an elevated state he couldn't quite shake. "Next time you feel like being heroic…" The words caught. He'd meant to say don't. Meant to lay down some kind of law, establish a boundary, make it clear that this kind of recklessness wasn't acceptable. But standing here, watching Nero's chest rise and fall with breath, seeing those knowing eyes fixed on him with that particular intensity, Holland found the reprimand dissolving before it fully formed. "…at least give me a warning first," he finished quietly. "So I don't accidentally kill you." The last word barely left his mouth before Holland surged forward. His hand shot up, fingers threading roughly through Nero's hair, gripping tight at the base of his skull. He pulled Nero into him with enough force that their bodies collided, and then his mouth was on Nero's. Hard. Desperate. It wasn't gentle. Holland kissed him like he was trying to prove something, like he needed to feel the warmth of breath and the press of lips to confirm that Nero was still here, still whole, still alive. His other hand found Nero's hip, fingers digging in through the fabric as he backed the hyperkinetic against the nearest wall.
The kiss tasted like adrenaline and relief and fury all tangled together. Holland's wings flared wide behind him, feathers trembling with the residual energy still coursing through his system. Those golden veins pulsed brighter against his skin, visible even in his periphery, betraying every elevated emotion he couldn't quite contain. When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against Nero's. His grip hadn't loosened before he finally pulled away. "Don't," Holland breathed softly as he lightly shoved at the mentor, "ever do that again."
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cluttered laboratory. Equipment lay scattered across every available surface: tablets displaying incomprehensible data streams, notepads covered in frantic scribbling, and empty coffee cups forming a small city along the counter's edge. Bloodied bandages overflowed from a biohazard bin, and what looked like scalpels lay haphazardly across a tray next to microscope slides. In the center of it all stood Shep, wild-eyed and vibrating with barely contained energy.
"…and that's when I realized the regeneration rate wasn't constant at all!" Shepherd gestured wildly with one hand while the other shoved the remainder of a cheese danish into his mouth. He spoke through the pastry, words tumbling out in an excited mash of English and Danish. "The helingshastighed, the healing speed, it actually accelerates based on the severity of the skade, the injury!" He swallowed hard, then immediately grabbed a marker and lunged toward the whiteboard. The cap went flying somewhere behind him as he began scribbling equations with one hand while gesturing at a cluster of monitors with the other. Crumbs dotted his sweatshirt. A fresh cut on his forearm was already knitting itself closed as he moved.
"Se? See right here?" He tapped the board frantically, leaving marker streaks. "When I induced the laceration at three centimeters deep, the cellular regeneration was femten gange, fifteen times, faster than the superficial wounds! Which means the kroppen, the body, it knows somehow, it prioritizes kritiske, critical, damage over minor abrasions, and if I can just map the neural pathways that trigger the…" He spun around, eyes blazing with discovery, danish flakes falling from his collar. He rolled up his sleeve to show the already-faded scar. "Stop."
The single word cut through his momentum like a blade. Shep froze mid-gesture, marker still raised, mouth half-open on whatever revelation was about to spill out next. He blinked once. Twice. The manic energy seemed to drain from his body all at once, his shoulders sagging as he looked at them, really looked at them for the first time since they'd entered the lab. The marker lowered slowly to his side. His expression crumbled into something defeated, almost puppy-like. The whiteboard behind him was covered in his fevered calculations, but suddenly all that excitement felt very far away. "Åh," he said quietly, the Danish slipping out unconsciously. "You… you're not interested."
Exhaustion clung to him almost as desperately as his bed sheets did. Lifting himself up onto his elbows, he was able to hide the lack of sleep behind the tired lines and feigned discomfort of a raging hangover. He was used to how they felt, their dull drumming in his head and the way it left his limbs feeling weighted and rigid was a familiar territory that was almost comforting to him. He had turned to drinking plenty of times to try and fill the seemingly bottomless vat of loneliness that he was built from. The only real difference is this time, rather than turning to advil and cigarettes to help his body settle as the alcohol worked it's way out of his system, Camden hadn't really been that drunk; and he wasn't alone.
Even in the awkwardness of the silence that settled over them, as he sat back against his bed's headboard and watched the older man move around his room, Camden was absolutely mesmerized by him.
He was absolutely dumbfounded at the idea that a man like that-- a hero-- had wanted him too.
Maybe things would be different now. Maybe he did have a chance at feeling something warm-- something close to intimacy-- but just as he began to let himself lighten and chase after the idea of finally not being somebody no one wanted to care about, or even consider, the bitter blade of reality came plunging into his chest as Shep threw those words at him.
Don't get used to it.
This was a one time thing.
A moment of weakness.
With a shuddered breath, all that previous hope from waking up to find the man still with him shattered as he was reminded of the truth.
He was a mistake.
Slowly pulling his sheets up, covering his body out of embarrassment, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off the man even as they began to fill with water; even as they began to darken with something akin to hatred.
He didn't even bother to argue that he was twenty six. What was the point.
"We both had too much to drink," Camden repeated the other's words but that didn't mean he agreed to it. He had a bit to drink, sure, but once the liquor had given him the courage to even think he had a chance if he made a move the boy stopped his drinking. He wanted to keep his wits about him so that if by some struck of luck or mercy of some god Shep actually returned his interest he would be able to take the necessary steps and precautions to make sure he could sleep with the man without having his powers steal the night away from him; without having his powers make Shep forget.
Now he wished he hadn't.
The sound of the door closing tossed another dagger into his barely beating heart, but rather than sitting there in the uncomfortable and brutal silence the hero had left him in, Camden climbed out of his bed and followed after him; his sheet clung tight around his body to give himself some cover as he stepped out into the stark, clinical quiet of the emptied dormitory hallway; following after Shep like a man possessed.
"Wait," there was a desperation in his voice that he couldn't shake, no matter how hard he tried, as he slipped into place behind the man and reached around him; wrapping his arms tight around his midsection and pulling him tight against him, his face buried against the man's back. "Wait... please." There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to argue, so much he wanted to damn the man for but more than that Camden wanted to return the man's cruelty.
He wanted him to touch him, now that he had nothing to protect Shep from himself with, so he could make him forget what he clearly already wished he could.
The moment Camden's arms wrapped around him, Shep went rigid, every muscle in his body locking up like he'd been hit with a taser. His jaw clenched so tight he could feel his molars grinding, and for a split second, he considered just… breaking the kid's grip. Shoving him off. Walking away like he should have done the moment he woke up. But he didn't. Instead, he stood there in that godforsaken hallway, feeling the warmth of Camden's body pressed against his back through the thin sheet, the desperation in that single word, wait, sinking into him like a fishhook he couldn't shake loose. The kid was practically vibrating against him, trembling with something Shep didn't want to examine too closely. Anger? Hurt? Something worse? Shep's hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles going white. "Camden." His voice came out low and rough. A warning wrapped in inner-conflict. "Let go."
But even as he said it, he didn't move. Didn't pull away. Because underneath the irritation, underneath the shame and the self-loathing that had been gnawing at him since he opened his eyes this morning and realized what he'd done--what line he'd crossed--there was something else. Something he didn't want to name. Something that felt uncomfortably close to the way Camden's fingers had felt tangled in his hair last night, the way the kid had gasped his name like something holy. 'Stop. Don't think about that.' He could feel the kid trembling against him. Could hear the hitch in his breathing. Could feel the heat of Camden's face buried against his back, leaving wet spots on his shirt. Fuck. Was he crying?
Shep closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm. To not do what every instinct was screaming at him to do. Which was either run like hell or turn around and… No. Absolutely not. That was exactly the kind of thinking that got them into this mess in the first place. "This..." He gestured vaguely with one hand, though Camden couldn't see it from behind him. "This shouldn't be a regular... thing. You understand me? You're a student. I'm supposed to be..." He cut himself off, swallowing hard against the bitter taste in his mouth. "I'm supposed to be better than this. I'm supposed to protect you kids, not..." Not take them to bed. Not let them look at him like he's something special. Not let his guard down so easily.
The worst part? The absolute worst part was that he could still feel it. The weight of Camden's touch. The way the kid had looked at him last night like he was something worth wanting. Like he was more than just the washed-up soldier everyone whispered about when they thought he couldn't hear. More than the cautionary tale. More than the guy who peaked at twenty-five and spent the next decade trying to drink himself into forgetting about a mission that completely changed the trajectory of his life. And God help him, he'd wanted to believe it. Had let himself believe it for just a few hours. His voice dropped even lower, barely above a whisper. "You need to let me go, kid."
But Camden didn't. If anything, his grip tightened, and Shep could feel the desperation radiating off him in waves. Could feel the way the kid's chest hitched against his back with each breath. And there was something else too, something in the way Camden was holding him that felt almost… Purposeful. And then it hit him. Like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Camden's power. Memory manipulation. Absorption? Whatever the hell the technical term was in his file. Shep had skimmed it once, months ago, when he'd first noticed the quiet kid who always sat in the back of his combat training sessions and watched him with those big, dark eyes that seemed to see right through every wall Shep had ever built. Skin-to-skin contact. That's what the file had said. Camden could make people forget through direct touch. Shep's blood ran cold.
Was that what this was? Was Camden trying to make him forget? Make last night disappear like it never happened? Why did the thought of forgetting the way Camden had felt beneath him, the soft sounds he'd made, the way he'd whispered Shep's name in the dark? Why did that feel worse than remembering? Or worse. So much worse. Was Camden trying to make him forget right now? This moment? This rejection? Was he trying to erase the hurt Shep had just caused because he couldn't stand to carry it? Shep's breath caught in his throat. His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, slowly came up to grip Camden's wrists where they were locked around his midsection. Not pulling them away. Not yet. Just… holding them. "Camden," he said again, and this time his voice cracked around the edges. "What are you doing?" He needed to know. Needed to understand if this was an attack or a plea or something else entirely. Needed to know if Camden was trying to protect him or punish him. Or if the kid was trying to take back the only power he had left in a situation where Shep had taken everything else. And the really fucked up part? The part that made Shep hate himself even more? He wasn't sure which answer he wanted to hear.
"Are you..." He stopped, started again. "Your power. Are you trying to make me forget?" The question hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded. And Shep realized with a sick twist in his gut that he didn't know which answer would hurt more. Shep knew he should be the one to break this. To walk away. To do the right thing even when it felt like tearing himself in half. The hallway was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Could feel every point of contact where Camden's body pressed against his. Could feel the kid's breath hot against his back through the fabric of his shirt. "Talk to me?" Shep said, and he hated how much it sounded like begging. "Tell me what's going through your head right now. Because I need to know if you're trying to protect me or hurt me, and I..." I need to know if you hate me as much as I hate myself right now. But he didn't say that part out loud.
Aether's right arm went dead first, the limb dropping like a severed cable as the hydraulics gave out with a mechanical wheeze that echoed too loudly in the empty corridor. The fingers twitched once, twice, then went completely still, hanging uselessly at his side. He barely had time to process the loss before his left leg followed suit, the servos grinding to a halt mid-step and sending him lurching sideways. He had to grab the wall with his remaining functional arm to keep from toppling over entirely. The warnings had been flashing across his vision for the past hour: battery critical, immediate charging required, system shutdown imminent. But he'd waved them off with the arrogance of someone who'd pushed his limits a hundred times before and always made it back to his charging station in time. Just one more errand. Just one more repair. Just one more conversation. Now the alerts blazed red and insistent across his entire field of view, painting everything in urgent crimson as his body betrayed him piece by piece, systems failing in cascade as the last dregs of power were diverted to his core processors and the precious organic brain they protected.
He hit the floor hard when his grip on the wall failed, his remaining functional limbs scrambling for purchase against the smooth tile. The impact sent a jolt through his frame, and somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the diagnostic report of a hairline fracture in his right knee joint. For a moment he tried to stand, to maintain some shred of dignity, but the dead weight of the powerless limb made him stumble immediately. He nearly cracked his jaw against the ground, catching himself at the last second with his palm, the servos in his neck whining in protest as he held his head up. Frustration bubbled up hot and acidic in his chest, this synthetic body was a curse just like his acidic blood, all too human for something that was barely human anymore.
Necessity forced him past the anger and embarrassment. He reached inward for that other part of himself, the part that existed beyond circuitry and code, that hummed with spiritual energy rather than electricity. His inugami nature responded like an old friend stirring from sleep, that ancient canine spirit somehow still tethered to the organic brain housed in its cradle. It defied every logical explanation. Spirits weren't supposed to bind to machines, weren't supposed to follow a consciousness transferred into something so far removed from flesh and blood. But here it was anyway, warm and electric in a way that had nothing to do with batteries, coiling through his thoughts like smoke. The disconnected limbs rose slowly, shakily, levitating a few inches off the ground as he concentrated, his focus scattered by the blaring warnings still painting his vision red. They floated behind him like reluctant ghosts as he began to crawl forward on his remaining powered limbs, a grotesque procession of machinery dragging itself down the corridor.
That's when he saw Clarke at the far end of the hall, and his ears (those damned dog ears) materialized atop his head without permission, flattening backward in embarrassment. They were as real as anything else about him, solid and furred and treacherously expressive, contradicting the sleek metal of his inner frame. His tail followed a heartbeat later, manifesting and immediately tucking between his legs as heat flooded what remained of his organic brain. The phantom sensation of shame burned just as fierce in a synthetic body, maybe fiercer, because at least when he'd been fully organic he could have blamed the flush in his cheeks on blood flow. "Clarke?" His voice came out smaller than intended, barely above a whisper, his body struggling with reduced power and producing something thin and uncertain.
He swallowed, a purely psychological gesture, and tried again. "I… I need help." His ears pressed flatter against his skull, and his tail curled tighter, and he hated every second of it. Being an inugami meant living with the occasional slip of canine features when emotions ran high. Being a machine meant accepting dependence on outlets and charging stations. Being both meant moments like this: crawling across the floor trailing his own limbs behind him like some kind of absurdist performance art, ears pinned and tail tucked, too proud to have asked for help earlier and too mortified to maintain any dignity now. He remained frozen there, one arm supporting his weight, the other hanging dead at his side, his disconnected leg hovering in the air like evidence of his poor life choices. And he waited for Clarke to respond, hoping desperately that the pity in their shared eyes wouldn't be worse than the crawling itself had been.
❝ prompt. ❞
where: Camden’s dorm room — cramped, overly warm, and unmistakably lived-in. A couple of empty beer cans sit on the desk next to a blinking laptop left open overnight. Bar wristbands and a crumpled receipt from last night are tossed on the dresser. The bed is unmade, sheets tangled in a way that makes the room feel smaller than it already is. Pale morning light filters through cheap blinds, illuminating the institutional furniture and making everything feel more real—and more uncomfortable—than it did a few hours ago.
when: Tuesday morning, around 9 a.m. — Shep is pulling on his jacket, already halfway out the door, heading home to shower and get ready to teach his class. The alcohol has worn off, leaving behind a pounding headache and the sharp awareness that this was a mistake—one he’ll be thinking about long after he leaves the dorm behind.
whom: camden / the forsaken (@thefcrsaken)
ask: display. for sender's muse to watch as receiver's muse begins to get dressed. with Camden saying: "I'm surprised that you stayed. I thought you'd left…" (shep from camden)
Shep kept his back to the bed as he reached for his shirt, draped over the desk chair where it had been hastily discarded hours earlier. The morning light cut through the dorm room blinds in harsh strips, making everything look cheaper than it had in the dark—the furniture, the decisions, all of it. "I'm surprised that you stayed. I thought you'd left…" Camden's voice came from behind him, still roughened with sleep, carrying a note of something Shep couldn't afford to identify. Hope, maybe. Or satisfaction.
Shep pulled the shirt over his head before turning around, his expression already shuttering into something harder, more distant. "Don't get used to it." The words came out clipped, precise, the same tone he used when shutting down arguments in seminars. "This was a one-time thing. A moment of weakness." He spotted his belt on the floor near the foot of the bed and bent to retrieve it, threading it through his belt loops with focus.
Anything to avoid looking directly at Camden, at the bed, at the evidence of his spectacular lapse in judgment. At least Camden wasn't one of his students. That would have made this not just stupid but tricky. But he was still a student. Still young enough to not understand the impossible gap between them, still naive enough to think last night could mean something beyond what it was: a mistake wrapped in too much wine and the particular loneliness that came with faculty mixers where everyone asked about research and no one asked how you were.
Shep grabbed his jacket from where it had fallen near the door, checking the pockets for his phone and keys. Both present. Good. He could leave cleanly, no excuse to come back. "Look," he said, finally glancing toward the bed but keeping his gaze somewhere around Camden's shoulder, "you seem like a good kid. But I'm thirty-five years old. I have a career, a reputation. You're what, twenty-one? Twenty-two? Anyway, it was... a mistake."
He didn't wait for an answer.
"We ran into each other at a bar. We both had too much to drink. That's all this was." Even as he said it, he could feel the lie of omission sitting heavy in his chest. The way they'd talked for three hours before anything physical happened, the way Camden had recognized him not from the university but from the news footage three months ago, collar and all. The way it had felt less like weakness and more like finally breathing after holding his breath for months, to have someone look at him and see both versions of who he was without flinching.
Shep shrugged into his jacket, the his collar tags jingled softly in the too-quiet room. His hand was already on the doorknob when he paused, some vestige of decency making him add, "You didn't do anything wrong. But... this can't happen again." He didn't say I can't let this happen again. Didn't say I want to stay. Didn't say any of the true things that would only make leaving harder. The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed down the empty dormitory hallway.
Nicholas, despite a lot of his more positive traits, had a deep seated issue with losing. And that fight had always felt like a loss. It's what had him going back, time and again, to try and piece together how he could have done better. Been better. It was just... much worse whenever things went well, because then his brain just wanted to focus even more on what hadn't.
Which was what led to him being under that assessing gaze from Shep, trying his best not to look like a schoolboy who'd been caught on campus after hours. Which, to be fair, he basically was in that moment. Just. A teach- Mentor, instead. "Figured I should exploit the fact this place was gonna be empty because everybody else was off celebrating. Y'know?" Bullshit.
Did he immediately move to wipe the wrong side of his mouth when Shep made the motion? Yeah, of course he did, his brain was still lagging by about five minutes. Usually he gave himself some down time to switch out of strategic thinking in to actually being a person. His own tongue, at least, didn't swipe out. Because he knew that'd just make it worse. "Not that lo- Well. Couple... Of hours... Probably." There was the sheepish tone again, not actually wanting to admit to it, but also knowing the other mentor would be able to call him out a little too effectively.
He was part way through digging through his pockets for a tissue or something because he could definitely feel that he hadn't gotten it the first time, When Shep just went and tried to take care of it himself. Hands pausing, eyes widening for a moment, and even if he hadn't been able to understand every language, it didn't take a genius to work out what might've been drifting through Shep's head.
The hand not looking for something to clean himself up with quickly lifted, pushing through the other's hair for a moment and just holding it there. Familiarity in the gesture as he finally found something to wipe away his own mess.
"Now I know we've swapped a lot of bodily fluids, but not sure we wanna cross that line." Okay, maybe talking wasn't the best given he could absolutely feel the cuts on his tongue reopening with words, but they were almost all he had to rely on. "Unless you were suddenly thinking about taking a bite."
Shep's hand had frozen mid-motion the instant Nicholas's fingers slid into his hair, that commanding touch sending an involuntary shiver down his spine that he absolutely wasn't equipped to hide. Not when his tail, the traitorous bastard, immediately started up a slow, telling wag behind him. The kind that said he was far more affected by the contact than he had any right to be. For a moment, he just… stopped. Let himself be still under that touch, head tilting ever so slightly into the pressure of Nicholas's palm like he was hardwired to submit to it. Which, if he was being honest with himself, he probably was. At least when it came to this particular person doing the touching.
The comment about biting pulled him partially back to himself, and Shep let out a rough exhale that was half-laugh, half-something more wanting. "Careful what you offer, Nicholas," he murmured, voice dropping lower, rougher. "Keep talking like that and I might just take you up on it. Though I'm thinking you've got enough marks on you for one night without me adding to the collection." His thumb had stilled against Nicholas's jaw, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he let it drag just slightly, testing the boundary of the moment, before his other hand came up to brace against Nicholas's shoulder. Not pushing away… pulling closer. Closing what little distance remained between them until Shep could feel the heat radiating off the other man, could smell the sweat and blood and that particular scent that was just… Nicholas.
His tail was still moving, the slow sway of it betraying every bit of interest he wasn't even trying to hide anymore. "But seriously, couple hours? You've been in here since before lunch, haven't you? Maybe earlier?" Shep's voice had gone lower, intimate in the quiet of the empty facility. "You know, most people celebrate by actually, I don't know, celebrating. Maybe having a drink. Relaxing. You? You disappear into the training facility to beat the shit out of yourself because… what? You didn't execute perfectly? Didn't predict every possible variable?"
Shepherd shifted even closer, close enough that Nicholas would have to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "The irony is you're so busy trying to figure out how to be better that you're actively making yourself worse. Can't strategize worth a damn when you're half-fucking-dead on your feet and bleeding from your own tongue because you've been pushing too hard for too long."
His gaze flicked pointedly down to Nicholas's mouth, lingering there. "Though I gotta say, the disheveled genius look is working for you. All that blood and determination. Real attractive, if you're into the self-destructive type." He chuckled, his mouth quirking up as his eyes dragged back up to meet Nicholas's. "Which, unfortunately for my judgment, I apparently am." The hand on Nicholas's shoulder slid up slightly, fingers brushing against the side of his neck. "So what is it this time? Past fuck-up still eating at you? Or something new you're chewing on that's got you out here punishing yourself when everyone else is smart enough to be drunk and happy?"
