#shepherd.interactions

"…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."

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's breath caught in his throat as Virgil's mouth enveloped him, the warmth and wetness sending a jolt of pleasure through him. His eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back against the pillow as Virgil's tongue explored, his lips teased, his mouth taking him in, inch by slow, torturous inch. Virgil's hands gripped Shep's hips, steadying him, holding him in place. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving indents that Shep knew would be visible later, a physical reminder of this moment. The thought sent a thrill through him, making him buck his hips, whining softly through a bitten lip. He could feel Virgil's tongue, soft and slick, exploring every inch of him. He could feel the way Virgil's mouth stretched around him, could feel the way Virgil's lips pressed against his skin, could feel the way Virgil's throat relaxed, taking him deeper than he thought possible.

His clawed hands fisted the sheets, his knuckles turning white as he tried to anchor himself, tried to keep from losing control. His body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with sensation. He could feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in his belly, but he wasn't close yet. Not nearly. Virgil seemed to sense this, slowing down his pace, taking his time, drawing out the pleasure. He swirled his tongue around the head of Shep's cock, teasing the sensitive underside, before taking him deep again, his nose pressing against Shep's abdomen.

The apartment was a disaster zone. Shep's studio looked like the aftermath of a particularly enthusiastic party of two—empty whiskey tumblers on the nightstand, their clothes creating a breadcrumb trail from door to bed, books from his bookshelf face-down on the floor like they had given up on life. The curtains blocked out most of the late morning light, leaving everything in a soft, comfortable dimness that made the idea of actually getting up laughable.

Shep was still dead to the world, face-down in his pillow, his dark hair a complete mess. He'd shifted to human form sometime in the early hours, but his body hadn't gotten the memo entirely. His tail still emerged from the base of his spine, wagging slow and content even in sleep. His boxers had migrated down his hips at some point, hanging halfway off his ass in a way that would've made him self-conscious if he were awake. He wasn't awake, though. Not really. He was caught in that perfect in-between state, warm and comfortable and completely relaxed, when he felt movement behind him. An arm slid around his waist, tugging him backward into solid warmth, and Shep let out a sleepy grunt of protest that held absolutely no conviction. Nick's chest pressed against his back, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, and despite his half-hearted complaint, Shep's tail gave an extra little wag.