Archive of Our Own

Three years. That’s how long it has been since their first successful assignment together—suicidal gamble aside—and for Aventurine to properly discern what makes up the esteemed Dr. Veritas Ratio’s character. 

During the days where Ratio had spared him not one glance and cast him aside as a reckless fool who would, quote unquote, “kill him one day,” he assumed he bore the characteristics of a stereotypical genius: cold, analytical, cruel. It was certainly difficult not to think as such when he received a verbal tongue lashing whenever they argued over the simplest points or rather outrageous plans. Semantics truly, it didn’t matter whether he got back unharmed, what they needed were favorable results. 

Then the facade cracked, metaphorical pieces of alabaster falling to the metaphorical ground. But was it really a facade or was Aventurine not reading him in the right way, preoccupied by awful blunt phrasing and thinking nothing of the true meaning behind his words, which he now understands as “please don’t kill yourself” in Ratio-speak. He had only noticed seven months in, when he had increased his times he probably should have died counter with the seventy-seventh tally on their missions together. A truly auspicious number for a day he grazed a bullet to a major organ. 

“That marksman was inexperienced; you, very fortunately, evaded the bullet from hitting the major blood vessels near your center. Except they managed to inflict injury to your liver.”

“Doc, why are you shaking?”

And that was that. Because Ratio had personally saved his sorry ass that day, hauling him by strong arms into a safe space courtesy of a stolen curio, and attended to the bleeding both inside then outside his torso. After performing surgical repair in that makeshift room, he also patched him up meticulously, left him in an unnegotiable bedrest for several hours, and finished the job for them. Between bouts of lucidity, he acknowledged that he had the most dependable partner he could ever ask for. 

Meanwhile, he also reeled from a fact laid bare: the doctor did not want him to die. In hindsight, Aventurine should have noticed that from the get-go, with how he pulled back the gun facing his chest, but he digressed. There were many reasons for his patching him up, like the severity of their objective, preservation of the last barely living Avgin, ungodly amount of paperwork should he have actually died, etc. Yet, when probed, Ratio thoughtfully answered: “I don’t want you to die” and… that was it. 

Another layer to his character then: cold, analytical, and perhaps not cruel but—kind. Granted, it was bare minimum for a doctor to do his job and prolong a patient’s life; but Aventurine tested the hypothesis in these three years and only found that Ratio’s care went way past being a medical practitioner, maybe even past comradery. 

Despite this, he could not shake off the pile of bile lodged in his throat: that this kindness was undeserving for a so-called reckless fool, a criminal with hands stained in red and rust, a man who had no family to name nor a friend to call. He was deadset on this kind nature dissipating over the course of time but, with each healed scar and constant nagging over his poor lifestyle, he’s now just a little unsure. 

About two years in, Aventurine tacks on a short post-it note on the character introspection: beautiful. It was no secret that Ratio is an objectively handsome man, to the point of having to keep a frankly ridiculous headpiece on whenever he has to focus on something in particular, mostly because people could not stop staring at him. For a person who had thinly-veiled pectorals and bulging biceps, the graceful features on his face was a wondrous juxtaposition; well-kept hair, long eyelashes, high-bridged nose, defined jawline… a true blessing to the eyes gifted by Idrila HERSELF. Not even a wrinkle betraying how old he was, surprising him greatly once he skimmed his file.

There was also a subjective beauty Aventurine kept to himself. Between lingering stares on the veins running down his wrists and the memorable lipbite when Ratio had called him “good” for driving them safely to headquarters, he ought to bury these secrets in his grave. The ones he can admit to finding beautiful, however, is the competence the good doctor prides himself in or the learned principles shaping his life—even a life marked by failure is still worth living, for one. That, and how he believes that each individual is capable of finding their own success, should they improve their capacity to think for it. It’s all a basis as to why Ratio is the way he is and it is alluring. 

Unfortunately, the intricate study would have to be backseated, because Aventurine is so fucking horny. 

His downfall starts with a tease. 

Surely a stoic man like Ratio would never have done anything indecent in his whole thirty-three years of living, Aventurine joked but, well… now he’s genuinely curious. What was that saying again? Curiosity killed something? Yeah, yeah, this might get him absolutely devastated one way or another. 

“On what scale would you deem an act indecent, gambler?” Ratio doesn’t even look up from the book spread open on his fingers, entertaining him with a question he had to ponder on. 

Indecency is a little like the word ‘inappropriate,’ which is barely entangled with someone as honored as Ratio. So, it’s difficult to scale indecency when he can’t even fathom the man being it, aside from the occasional illegal curio smuggling. What’s an action that wasn’t too proper but not abhorrently obscene? Aventurine leans back on the sofa, staring up at books alphabetically arranged on the shelf, then to his doctor.

“Ever joined a frat when you were younger?”

“I spent years trying to join an ostentatious kind of fraternity, if that counts.” He flips a page, the corner of his lip twitching up. Aventurine can’t help but crack a grin, a silent fine, good one, doc teetering at the tip of his tongue. 

“Cheated on an exam?”

“You’re asking me if I cheated.” This mere notion of suggesting cheating is so disappointing that the tiniest hint of a smile is replaced with a clear frown. He can’t decide if he should mourn or celebrate the disappearance because Ratio is attractive regardless of facial expression. “Try again.”

Because it’s hilarious to imagine, he tries: “Beat someone up? Bullied anyone?”

“Through the method of debate.” Ah, figures. Aventurine can’t believe he’s actually friends and slightly heavily attracted to such a killjoy. He removes the sunglasses perched atop his nose and transfers it atop his head while Ratio gives the query a little more thought, “Maybe with my stylus on necessary occasions, such as ‘beating up our shared enemies’ or ‘whenever a gambling fool has overstayed his welcome in front of a slot machine.’” Okay, low blow. 

“It hurts when you do that, by the way.” A mild ache at best, like a four out of ten if he had to scale the pain. Aventurine is just petty. Ratio, who’s keenly aware of his bluff and that he doesn’t throw desk-based weaponry that hard at him, gives a noncommittal hum. “How about a tattoo?”

“I would hardly call having a tattoo indecent,” Now that piques his interest—because it isn’t a no. Aventurine’s eyebrow quirks when he proceeds to provide a thorough explanation, which is unnecessary but whatever. He would rather hear an affirmation of the polite doctor having a tattoo, thank you very much. “It’s a painting inked on your person, creating a canvas out of your body. While the more conservative people have a problem with the art, I find myself particularly enjoying the artistic benefits reaped.”

“What I’m hearing is you do have a tattoo.” What could the tattoo possibly be? Did he get it done when he was younger? Is it an embarrassing one like a heart with Nous’ name struck with an arrow? That would be a dream. Aventurine briefly wonders what other options there were when he stumbles upon the idea of it being a past lover’s initials, and that’s not a disastrous door he wants to open today. “Where?”

“Must I tell you?”

“You can’t just drop the fact that you have a tattoo and not tell me where,” He whines dramatically, “You have to tell me, doc.” 

“I do not have to.”

“Fine, can you show me?” Fucking grammatical loopholes. Aventurine bats his eyelashes, unfairly shorter than Ratio’s own, and hopes this demeanor is sufficient to sway him. “Pretty please?” 

Ratio mutters something along the lines of since you asked so nicely and stands up from the master’s desk. Then, from the stuff of wet dreams that occur inside his office and usually bent against that same desk, he begins stripping. Aventurine’s jaw almost slacks at the sight, but he’s not so out of it that he actually does, and immediately he leans over to ogle better. He removes the owl shoulder guard, gently placing it on the wooden surface, then follows the tugging of his left sleeve downwards until it’s hanging from the belt alone and—

Oh.

That’s… That’s a tattoo, for sure. 

Golden laurels wrap around his whole arm, trailing from shoulder to bicep to the gleaming edges of his wrist guard. Except there seems to be more than what meets the eye, like the leaves don’t start nor end at merely his arm, like there’s more that connects and twines along the rigid muscles of Ratio’s back. 

“Is that–” Aventurine’s throat feels parched, “–is that all of it?”

Ratio picks up on the dryness, smirking, doing the most impure things to both stone heart (ha!) and suddenly stirred-awake dick. 

Who taught this professor how to act coy? Certainly not him. He’s unsure when they were last assigned to a honeypot mission, or if ever, so he was definitely not taking inspiration from his playbook… “Would you like to see more?”

Yes, yes, goddess, a thousand times yes, million times yes is what a lesser man who had no self-restraint would say. That man is not what he is, in spite of him priorly thinking the most debauched glories to Ratio’s forearms (that he could, with extensive prep, take it up the ass) and now, apparently, the tattoo around it. Aventurine holds his arms a bit too tightly, careful not to show all his cards yet. “If you want me to.”

“Feel free to spectate then.”

He’s a fucking tease, that’s what he is. His foot has begun tapping impatiently on the carpet, loud enough to bounce around the walls of their enclosed space, because Ratio insists on dragging this odd tension out. 

The next sleeve goes down, much slower than the other, and leaves him in two biceped glory while his upper robes hang. How has he never seen this before? No, a better question: why is he in such a provocative state of dress as a doctor, a professor? 

More importantly, Aventurine wants to rip off the remaining buttons on his vest and, if the goddess took an ounce of pity on him, be able to ride those pectorals on the floor of his own office. He’s on the edge of his seat, hunched over in an attempt to hide the growing hard-on beneath his slacks. Ratio fiddles with the ends of the shirt, eyebrows furrowing in focus as he undoes the last button. With a satisfied smile, he finally takes it off, ceremoniously folding it alongside the laid shoulder guard. 

Aventurine gulps, feeling the heat flare from his darkened cheeks to the insistent boner in his slacks. He gives him a sweeping once-over, painstakingly etching each detail into his memory until he can memorize the smooth expanse of big pecs and the bulging ridges of his abs while asleep. The urge to squeeze rises with each passing second. Ratio coughs, knocking him out of the mesmerized stupor. 

“Do tell me what you think,” He rumbles, a tad uncertain, lifting plum hair into a ponytail dependent on his grip as he turns around. “It’s been a long while since anyone has seen this part of the tattoo. I believe the last person to properly give their opinions on it was Miss Herta, back when I was rudely forced as a guinea pig in one of her inhumane…”

The anecdote drones on in the background, Aventurine unable to comprehend any of it. Instead, his jaw finally slacks stupidly open, beginnings of saliva pooling at the hung mouth. He quickly shuts it because he has some decency, believe it or not, and swallows. 

It’s a large tattoo—encompassing the whole of Ratio’s broad back, a part of the nape, and the arm he often has covered up. The leaves, still goldened laurel, hang off long branches, spread apart to give anyone the impression of being stuck inside a bay laurel tree. Each of them are also stitched in intricate detail, an aura glowing from the art fragments, and it is admittedly the best work he’s ever seen. 

“When did you get this, doc?” His tone is terribly unfocused and dripping in obvious emotion, a feat that not many are able to do. Unfortunately, Ratio is a high achiever, stealing all the smooth-talking charm out of him like a bee would suck out pollen from a flower. Even his practiced poker face doesn’t seem to function in front of this well-read man. It’s mostly uneasy and a quarter arousing. 

“Around my early twenties, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four,” He hums, remembering a memory Aventurine would not be privy to, mainly because he was an upstart in the IPC at that age, smoking a box of cigarettes in a day and doubling his salaries amid casino roundtables. “A friend of mine had propositioned me, back on my home planet, and I had no particular reason to decline.”

“Oh, doc, you’re telling me I’m not your only friend?”

“Ever the charmer, aren’t you?”

They exchange small grins—or, at least, he thinks Ratio is grinning at him like he is. He could be plotting a betrayal while he had his back turned at him for all he knows. Aventurine trusts he’s not doing that while leaving himself partly naked and vulnerable. 

Although he likes (a lot more than he probably should) watching the tatted up and toned back of his favorite colleague, Aventurine misses his unfairly handsome face a bit more, explaining the rush of giddiness when he finally turns around. Ratio looks inquisitive, eyeing him for any critiques on his tatted back.

And it’s not as if he can say it’s a very sexy cocktease, ten over ten, now would you please fuck me into the couch, so he settles on a tamer choice of words. “What can I say, Ratio, the tattoos obviously complement you well. Give my compliments to that not at all imagined friend of yours.”

“Perhaps when a vacation comes around.” Satisfied, Ratio crosses his arms, unintentionally accentuating the size of his chest. He can physically ascertain how much of a perverted mess he’s becoming in front of him. And that’s Ratio’s fault, of course, not his. 

A tension lingers in moments of reprieve, where neither of them talk to indulge in the silence. It’s not a regular occurrence, after all, when two contrasting men often bicker and banter for fun, for an ounce of stimulation among dimwitted colleagues. He had joked to himself that this was foreplay lasting for years—but recently, it’s starting to feel less and less like a joke and more of a wind-up of something about to happen. 

He observes the tattoo, the miniscule details: leaves’ undulating margins with thicker midrib than the other lines, branches that form the whole piece of artwork. There’s a juxtaposition here. Ratio is seen as a prim and proper man among many, serving an appearance befitting of a model or a deity; he takes his good looks in pride to the point of having awfully second-hand embarrassing statues of himself during their first few assignments together. Aventurine still turns his head to the side whenever he sees the Imaginary form.

To think that someone so clean and untouchable had a few secrets up his sleeve… which aren’t particularly indecent but jarring, for Aventurine especially, who didn’t even think Ratio could have a tattoo. Jarring but, somehow, undoubtedly attractive. He’s not sure what to do with this newfound information of his tattoos and the way they make him feel. How it makes him want to reach out, mess him up, see him in ways he’s never considered before—just for him. 

With how Ratio looks at him now, pensive but anticipating, Aventurine is sure the tension isn’t one-sided. 

But… 

A harsh ringtone slices their tension in half. Aventurine internally curses at his hesitation. Fucking cockblock!

At the very least, Ratio is no less annoyed than he is, sighing deeply under his breath as he goes to pick up the ringing phone he left on a pile of papers. Aventurine’s mask droops bit by bit at every word spoken, eventually falling to reveal a miserable frown when he hears the inevitable grumble of i’ll be right there. 

“Apologies,” Ratio is evidently displeased. Good, Aventurine sneers, the sentiment of being cockblocked by a phone call is shared. If they were going to destroy their workplace relationship with a quickie in the office, he could have the decency to put the damned thing on ‘do not disturb.’ “I… I have to leave for an emergency meeting; there’s an issue at hand, a student blew up the centrifuge. I’m not sure why nor how she managed such a thing.” 

“Alright.”  

The tension comes and goes once more. With the brand new knowledge circulating his brain, Aventurine slumps into the couch, frustratingly stuck on flashing images of a sculpted and apparently decorated body. 

—

On the rare occasion that he and the good doctor are free on weekends, Aventurine abuses the habit of inviting him out for a few drinks, just to loosen their weary limbs. He was rejected the first time around, about three months into their partnership, but eventually wore him down enough to accept the bottle of luxurious merlot he was currently holding. They’ve gone a long way from stiff colleagues, so it seems, and he can’t help but gawk at the notion that they have formed habits revolving around each other.

With his legs outstretched on Ratio’s lap, he jostles the liquid inside the bottle, pouring it in his fourth glass afterwards. He supposed he can’t complain about the habit of being drinking buddies; it’s a wonder to catch a glimpse of Ratio buzzed and delirious with dry plum. He’s blabbering some keynote on quantum physics, which he tuned out only because he didn’t grasp a single damn thing, and has since been observing the lapses in behavior.

Ratio does not hold his liquor well. He’s only two glasses in—but not full, as per request—and is already swaying in his cushioned seat, sniffing the air oddly. But that’s not questionable; he has weird tendencies like that, or drones on and on about whatever captured his attention when drinking, but it mostly consists of subjects Aventurine does not have the proper education for. 

Most of the time, he can do nothing else but watch, listening to the low treble of his voice, tracking the way his hands move animatedly in his rambling. It’s a very cute wont that further deepens the cracks to the wall of his heart.

There’s deja vu in the brief lull of the conversation when Ratio tilts his head up to ease his loosening grasp on focus, gripping crystallized glass in one hand and the lithe meat of his leg in the other. Thankfully, their phones are charging inside his bedroom, meaning no ringtone to interrupt them now. Aventurine, who’s mildly tipsy but definitely not sober, decides to lead the chatter to something that better suits his interests. 

“So, you were saying you enjoyed the artistic benefits of tattoos the other day.”

“Yes,” is Ratio’s immediate reply. He looks at him, a little dazed, a lot adorable. “Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking…” Aventurine trails off. He’s been thinking quite a number of fantasies, like gently tracing each branch on his back to gaze at how it reacts under his touch, pouring oil to let it glisten while he massages the buried knots, and several other ideas that could get him multiple workplace violations. “Do you have any more?”

It catches Ratio off-guard, eyes widening the slightest fraction. He sips for another taste, lips pursing around the round rim. “Dear gambler, I showed you an entire back’s worth and yet you still ask for more?” 

Gamblers are known for their endless excessive greed. Aventurine is one of them, if only because he greedily wishes to have more reasons to view Ratio’s perfectly sculpted, tatted body. But, sadly, he supposed there aren’t any more tattoos hidden from him. Maybe the wine is a tad stronger than he originally thought too. What to say… “I mean, do you have anything more than tattoos to really understand the beauty of body art?” 

“I suppose I have,” Ratio pauses, then astounds, “a piercing.”

“A piercing.” 

“If this conversation is much like our last one, I assume you will ask where. Let me give you a reply to maximize efficiency,” Ratio, nerd, states with a palm facing him. “It’s in a delicate area.”

Maximize efficiency his ass. Aventurine is anything but efficient from the way he spits out the wine back into the cup, letting remnants drip from lip to chin. “A delicate area?”

Ratio squints at him in unbidden disgust; the audacity of this man knows no bounds, but saying that would be hypocritical, so he doesn’t bite back. “Must you keep repeating what I’ve said?” He sighs, pinching his woeful and tender knee, “Yes, it cannot be easily displayed, so it tends to be underappreciated. Nonetheless, I have no regrets.”

“Then let me appreciate it properly, doctor,” Aventurine urges, perhaps too desperately for his liking. But who can blame him when he now learned that Ratio, the Veritas Ratio, M.D., Ph.D., had a piercing in a delicate area. A delicate area! “I can only sing my highest praises for your unneeded bodily woes.” 

“Aventurine,” Ratio says, gravely, “The piercing is on my penis.”

And purely because he wouldn’t have risen to the heights of luxury without being utterly shameless, he has the gall to request, “...Show me anyway?”

It is, indeed, a very shameless request to ask of someone. Luckily for him, as it always is, Ratio doesn’t quite mind; whether that was because it didn’t matter where piercings were done, art is art and all that, or that he just drank enough glasses of wine to give him liquid courage. Both possibilities are entirely debatable. He hesitates for a second though, yet ultimately decides the best course of action was to begin tugging down the gray sweatpants, letting it pool around his knees.

Even the sight of Ratio in underwear ought to be beheld. Aventurine can only swallow the saliva gathering in his mouth when a sizable bulge indented at the fabric, teasing a certain length and width that he had long imagined in his most depraved fantasies. Then, without a spare second for him to contemplate the exact metrics, the underwear follows the sweatpants, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

Fuck it, he might as well drool. 

“Shut your mouth, gambler.” The demand carries an embarrassed lilt, Ratio glaring at him with the tips of his ears a bright red. 

It’s, objectively, subjectively, and overall a gorgeous cock. Aventurine is mesmerized by the appearance of it alone, never mind that he hasn’t even touched it (not yet, because he’s aware of how this evening will play out, so it’s a wholly redeemable not yet). He lets his enraptured stare linger at how huge it is, bobbing into the breeze with a smooth hand holding it at its base and thick veins protruding at the sides. 

Now the matter of the hour. Golden piercings to match the color of his tattoos jut out of the head’s ridges, two curved barbells forming a pair together, spheres on each rod. It’s a modest but eye-catching piercing, as it is on his dick, befitting Ratio’s character to a T. Ridiculously, he had almost expected laurels here too.

Goddess, Aventurine wants to taste the metal on his tongue, play with the cold sensations with every curled lick. It would be a disservice not to do so, not when it’s this enticing. He wets his lip at the notion of that obscene cock and piercings inside him; how would that feel? None of his past lays have had a piercing on their genitalia before, nor have they had any as beautiful as Ratio’s. 

“Was this enough for you?” registers, finally, at the forefront of his mind. Ratio must have inquired minutes ago, laced in tinges of insecurity and impatience. But sight alone being enough is impossible when he wants to shove his whole mouth in there. “Speak, Aventurine.”

That gets him to answer. “Full marks. A hundred points. You’ve done it again, doctor.”

Ratio laughs, eyes half-lidded as he strokes his cock, pad of thumb nudging at the metallic jewelry. His attention tracks each movement carefully as if to memorize it for his next, undoubtedly soon, jacking off session. The glass of wine in his other grip sloshes at the lazy action, pulling a brief grunt of displeasure as some droplets splash on his black long-sleeve. 

He could weigh his options. He could backtrack before they made a mess of the habits that have culminated for three years. He could ask him what the meaning of all this is while simultaneously misleading the conversation so he would never have to utter a single truth. He could make several saner choices right now but… well, Ratio’s looking at him a little funny and Aventurine decides to throw everything into an insane gamble.

“Can I touch you?”

“Ask nicely.” 

Aventurine bends, leaves the strain of his back as an afterthought, and kisses him much more than nicely. 

He reaches over to cup those high cheekbones, noting how delightfully warm they are, and brushes his lips against his to taste the complex wine smearing it. The wine itself is already excellent for its price, of course, but the headiness doubles when he can lap it up directly from Ratio’s mouth, tongue exploring the tainted bursts of flavor. 

After drinking in a long groan, he can say with utmost confidence that this is his new favorite addiction. Addiction as it is, he hopes to abuse it much like the others he has in his arsenal, although arguably healthier than the rest. 

Unlike him, who managed to leave the mostly-drank glass on the ground in his haste, Ratio still has his own in a tight clutch, trickles of spent credit splashing on the couch and both their shirts. It’s quite a treat to see the erudite doctor this inebriated and insatiable, so he can’t mind the cleaning fees that will come tomorrow. Besides, he can’t exactly form basic thoughts when there is also a larger tongue stuck down his throat, mingling and studying every crevice. 

Panting under each other’s breath, Aventurine gleefully absorbs the debauchery he made of him; he looks, in every sense of the word, well-kissed. “You’ve spilled some wine on me, doctor,” he purrs into his ear, a bit giddy at how Ratio flushes deeper, the beginnings of pink creeping onto the column of his throat. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I find it difficult to believe it’s entirely my fault.” Ratio argues, strained and hot and bothered, exactly the way he likes it. A single big hand wraps possessively around his waist, manhandling him until he’s perched on top of thick thighs, nearly meeting the blatant cock that’s swiftly hardening under the electric atmosphere. Gods, he has to feel the piercing inside him, he has to.

One thing to note: Aventurine’s shorts are shamelessly tight-fitting. That doesn’t mean he wears such provocative clothing every day, however, but he tends to gravitate towards them whenever the good doctor comes over. He’s not ashamed for wanting Ratio to bust a nut over his shaped form, so he wears the damn booty shorts like a knowing temptation, that someday he may be able to catch a glimpse of him losing that overflowing sanity of his. 

Today’s the day. 

His breath hitches at the first brush of contact, pierced cock meeting the one straining beneath his shorts. Ratio’s breath hitches at the flimsy fabric grazing the piercing, bucking his hips up at the same time Aventurine grinds down. He sucks in a breath as the hand clenches harsher against his waist, but not hard enough for it to bruise. It’s an oddly gentle gesture to note, if it weren’t for the fact that he was way too distracted to care and that he actually wants it to leave a lasting mark. 

Ratio’s other hand—still holding the glass of wine—spills a little on his chest. Aventurine shrugs the oversized shirt off, hoping that doing so would encourage his partner to do the same, but alas. The long-sleeve stays on. Not for long though, if he has anything to do about it. 

Then, infuriatingly, Ratio spills wine on him again. 

What the hell?

It lands on his sternum, dripping downward in its muted maroon, and the temperature is just right so that it delivers a pleasant shiver down his spine. Aventurine looks at the liquid, then at Ratio’s lustful daze, and catches on. This was entirely premeditated. He grins, grazing over the spilled wine and circling it over his nipples. “Dirty, dirty doctor, you got me all wet. It’s only right that you clean it up.” 

“Allow me,” Ratio’s voice is sinful this low, “to lick it off.” 

Not one to waste precious time, Ratio licks the trail of wine, heady gaze drawn up to him as he tasted the flavor on his skin. He hums, delighted, and drips a bit more until the glass is finished and rolled onto the ground. After which, he finally sets his mouth on one nipple, twisting and tugging the perk bud with his mouth, sending vibrating sensations as he sucks with a groan. 

Now that both his hands are free, he uses them to grip him by the hips, locking him in place like Aventurine wasn’t exactly where he wanted to be. “You’re good at this,” He exhales, nails digging down his clothed shoulders, “Why are you so–hnn…”

“Not good if I haven’t rendered you speechless yet.” As if he knows exactly what it does to him, Ratio pulls away and shoves his shirt off clumsily, throwing it somewhere around the room. He thinks he hears something topple over, but knowing what it is is pushed back to the back of his mind now that he can see more of the cockteasing tattoo. It truly is beautiful. “Pay attention, gambler.” 

That he definitely does. Aventurine is not a devout worshipper by any means, not to Qlipoth, not to Gaiathra Triclops—but for Ratio? He could be down on his knees for hours a day, petitioning for this god-like body to take him in every way humanly possible or more. The golden laurels on his arm flex from how tightly he’s grabbing him, the starting signs of perspiration showing. Ratio’s tongue is sucking on the nipple left abandoned a few seconds ago, lavishing it in saliva and a bruise that’s intent on staying for a week or two. 

Not that Ratio is doing a bad job at playing with his chest—which is a weird concept to grasp considering how often that only stayed in daydreams until now—but the tattoos are stealing the show. Aventurine whines, struggling in his hold, craning his neck to see how the back muscles and the larger part of the tattoo react to his touch. 

He does feel sort of bad that Ratio immediately relents, however; with the whine he slipped out, he must have assumed he hurt him. It’s the opposite, obviously, but Aventurine has difficulty expressing how his brain is melting at a rapid pace because of that big, smart tongue. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I...” Thinking about it now, it’s humiliating to ask Ratio if he can have a front row seat to his wide back. Aventurine clamps his mouth shut, feeling uncharacteristically bashful, when he receives a questioning leer. He gestures at him, tilting his head, but to no avail. 

“If you want something, you must tell me.” Ratio cocks his head to the side, slightly confused but more so amused at his own expense. Aventurine grumbles under his breath, a plea, but it goes unacknowledged. Crap. “Speak up, Aventurine. I need your verbal consent if you wish to go any further than this.”

“I, um,” Ughhhh. Ratio sits, waits, soothes his waist patiently for his next words. His cock is clearly yearning for attention from either of them but, evidently, the doctor is set on establishing boundaries. It’s reassuring to know that he still has a level head on his shoulders, despite being drunk and horny. “I want… to see your… back.” He finishes the request in a mumble. 

Ratio, evil incarnate, smiles smugly. If he had thought things through with better clarity, Aventurine would have long deduced that the bastard already found out what he desired, simply not acquiescing because he wanted the privilege of hearing him ask. Why? It might be to stroke his ego, or that he has a kink that was called too early into the game. But those are mere secondary probabilities when the answer is glaringly obvious: he wanted to hear his honesty. 

He should get up and abandon Ratio’s aching hard-on, fuck himself in his bedroom with a dildo until he gets the hint and disappears. It would be deserved, considering what he had to go through alone in his office weeks prior. Unfortunately for him, Aventurine is nursing an erection of his own that can’t be shooed away with sheer willpower, so he can only slam a hand on his face, muffling the surprised yelp that sooner turns into a chuckle. 

“Shut up, doc,” Aventurine seethes, “Just–Just do whatever you want, okay?”

‘Do whatever you want’ in Ratio’s extensive vocabulary translates to him dropping to his knees on the carpeted floor, tucking his hair behind his ears before spreading his legs widely to accommodate his person. He pulls at his shorts’ waistband, squeezing lightly at his ass, then at his whole undergarments until they’re down to his ankles and off of him. Aventurine promptly shuts up—they’re both butt naked in his damn living room—as the cool air conditioner breezes through him. 

“If you wish for me to stop at any point,” Ratio demonstrates by twirling a finger along some of his messy violet strands then pulling it. “Tug at my hair. Also, I do not have qualms against being pushed down but, unlike someone I know, I have a gag reflex. Do take note of that.” Why is this sexy, Aventurine thinks as he nods, why do I like this one out of everyone else? This one!

How Ratio is giving him head instead of the other way around is beyond him. Next time, he affirms to himself, I’ll taste the metal. Next time, I’m gonna make him cum in my mouth.

But it’s not like he should complain, not when he wraps a palm around the base of his cock, eyes darting from the slight girth to his face every second he strokes it in lazy motions, as if he were studying how he reacted to him. He wipes a bead of pre-cum on the slit, tasting a sliver of what’s to come, and decides he doesn’t need his thumb when he can simply lick it from the source. 

“Nngh–Not gonna do it pro–properly?” 

“Give me a moment.” Ratio laps up another, adjusts himself while kissing the tip as it smears white on his lips. Aventurine wholeheartedly regrets not bringing his phone with him now; he would love to snap a photo of this immodesty. He suckles on the head of his cock, swirling his tongue around the twitching mess he’s made, and presses down. 

Knowingly, Ratio searches for his hand clutching onto the couch, surprising him with the sudden warmth, and guides it forward. He leads it, dropping it onto his shoulder. Oh, oh, okay. Aventurine can see it now: the width of his back from this position with how he’s sticking his ass out, making the downward slope even more prominent. 

“Aeons, Ratio,” Aventurine moans, fisting a bunch of his hair, exhilarated at the view he’s been so graciously given. He settles into the cushions, teeth digging into his lower lip, as he stares. Sweat rolls down the tattoo as if it were rain beginning to pour on the laurels, accentuating the definition of his muscles. His wide upper back hunches while he sucks on his cock, unraveling into a lean waist that he plans to wrap his legs around later. “You’re–unnh–exquisite.” 

Ratio glances up at him, mirth glazing his eyes, as if to ask exquisite? what delightful vocabulary you have there; did i teach you that one?

Aventurine flushes, unable to comprehend the near-taunt when Ratio is fondling his balls, smiling with the shape of his cock in his mouth. The things he would do to keep him here forever are endless, an infinity beyond the cosmos’ reach. He hisses when the touch moves past his testicles, a pressure forming on his rim. It’s far too sudden; his hips buck unbidden when the pressure—a dubious thick forefinger—circles around him, asking for permission. 

“I could smell the lube off of you,” He admits once he pops off his cock to regain composure, resting a cheek against it. Aventurine can’t rebut that, mainly because he had gotten himself off before Ratio arrived… and a day before that, then another day. If he was annoyed at having to open the door before he could properly finish, that was no one’s business but his own. And, apparently, Ratio’s now. 

“How would you know if it was lube?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

“Why else would I ask.”

“Recently,” Ratio wets his lip, finger lazing around his hole, tracing the edges of it distractedly. “I have had… ruminations—of you, specifically. It just so happens that we use the same brand of lubrication. Floral-scented, Aventurine?” 

“You–!” Aventurine squeaks due to three truths: that Ratio had touched himself because of him specifically, that Ratio had smelled and recognized his lewdness at any point tonight, and that Ratio had finally slipped that teasing finger inside of him. It was only floral-scented because he wanted a reminder of the laurels on him, damn it. “We use the same lube, are you really go–innngh to judge me right now?”

“Not judgement,” He wriggles that finger in hunt, “I’m acknowledging. It is quite fulfilling to know I, too, am on your mind.” This guy, Aventurine clamps his mouth shut in an attempt to obscure a moan, fuck this guy. 

This short reprieve concludes once Ratio’s slick mouth is on him again, instantly lowering his head deeper unlike the first time. Seems even a good doctor can run out of patience because, simultaneously, he shoves two smooth fingers inside him, curling them in a spot that has Aventurine arching his back off the cushions. “Ratio!” 

The warning of having a gag reflex is forgotten in his haste. Aventurine slams his hips up, hearing a choke that both concerns and gets him going. Ratio relaxes his jaw from the sudden rude intrusion, glaring at him as he does so, and pinches his outer thigh with his free hand. 

“Sorry about that, doc,” He pats his head, breathing a heavy sigh as he tries to find his bearings. Ratio hums, shooting sparks down his cock and up his spine. In a split second, he proceeds further with his current objective of opening him up. More in control of himself, Aventurine clenches his fist around the locks he previously grabbed, slowly thrusting to gain a rhythm that’s better prepared for his doctor. 

He lets out little noises that test Ratio’s restraint, from the way he’s digging his nails into his thigh and aiming roughly at his prostate. The next finger is hastily included after the two, mimicking how devastating he’ll be fucked later. It’s only at the beginning of tears welling up his eyes that the restraint snaps, jostling the thigh that now has nail indents marring it. Aventurine gets Ratio off him, lightheaded and waiting.

“Can’t–anymore.” His voice is raw, hoarse from being impaled, and it’s so—fuck—it’s so fucking hot. Aventurine may not ever be able to pleasure a client again without hearing the gravelly sound in the forefront of his mind. “May I?” 

“Not–hah–like I’ll say no to that,” Aventurine practically shakes from anticipation, not waiting for Ratio to move him as he adjusts himself on the couch. His back lays on the seating, head propped up by the armrest, and naturally spreads his legs wider for him. Ratio eyes him all the while, spitting on his palm prior to stroking himself, bringing his focus back onto the barbells tucked out of the ridges. 

In his previous excitement for the tattoo, he now just remembered that the piercings will be inside him. Aventurine has never been so hard in his life. He grabs Ratio’s wrist—belonging to the tatted up one—daring him to do something right now please. Boldly, he licks at the protruding veins running along it, ending with a kiss on the inside of his palm. 

“You de–deviant,” Ratio shudders, kneeling in the space he made for him, lifting his leg to be holstered on his shoulder. In some sort of vengeance, he bites at the meat of his now-accessible thigh, draping his tongue over the indents of teeth. “Is this–”

“Ratio, come on, you know better than to make me wait,” interrupts him midway, “so please.” 

“Of course.” 

The prep and saliva and remnants of masturbation are somehow not sufficient for Ratio’s huge cock thrusting in, driving into tight walls that truly struggle to accommodate the sheer size. Aventurine’s eyes close, sight unable to comprehend that the fit is troubling, that the cold metal is currently dragging into him. He hears a groan when he clamps tight, a stammered stop that! following behind. It’s not like he can help it. 

“Doctor, you’re huge,” Aventurine says instead, feeling a sense of deja vu, “You–goddess–you have to make it fit. I’m not ending the night without you fucking me into the couch.”

Ratio isn’t faring any better, face fuming in angry red hues. “I’m trying, you fool.” 

It takes an eternity for him to sit completely inside, balls slapping against his ass. The stretch burns, lines blurring between pain and pleasure, but that’s exactly what Aventurine wants—the gamble of which will overcome him first. And, as lucky as can be, he’s winning. Another minute of settling down sways before he leans over, pulling Ratio down in his arms.

“How do I feel?” He whispers against his lips, placing a short kiss after. 

“This is, it feels so much thicker, so good,” The grip on his hips are quaking, leaving handprints that will remind him of this evening until, hopefully, their next tryst. Ratio chases another kiss, this time panting into it. “I–I don’t—can I move?” 

With a yes, Ratio pulls out halfway, slowly pushing back inside with a soft moan. In every breach, he registers the piercing pressing around his rim, plunging into him. Aventurine would like to see this himself, perhaps later tonight if he gets the chance to ride him, but that’s if he could even keep himself upright from how his legs already feel numb. 

The expression on his face is another discovery entirely, far better than any tattoo or piercing. Aventurine gawks, in awe, at each twitch of his face: the hazy, dilated pupils refusing to stray from the cock pulsing inside him, the small moans building up into groans bouncing around the room, the desperation he had never seen nay a glimpse of ever. This side of Ratio is his, for him alone. He lets the possessive twinge escape for a second, grunting, “Mine.” 

“Yours.” Ratio agrees, plants a kiss on his temple, “Aventurine, yours.” 

To have someone like Ratio as his is difficult to get behind, not when he has so little to call his own, but it does not mean he can’t accept it. It will take time to accept it wholly, however, but this moment of intimacy—where they’re entwined together with nothing else but ecstacy in mind—is his entirely. Theirs. Aventurine feels the affection hover over him, kisses fluttering from his eyelids, to his cheeks, to his jaw.

“Mea vita,” he punctuates with a thrust, pushing his hips forward in an angle that favors his prostate greatly. Ratio huffs at the reward of a squeeze, cock entrapped into an addicting, all too pleasurable sensation. “Meus dimidium,” this one he says with less restraint of himself, a genuine slip of the tongue from the way his eyes widen, grip trembling as he thrusts erratically, uncontrollably once, twice, thrice. Aventurine whimpers every time, each embarrassingly louder than the last. 

He can’t possibly understand a language he hasn’t learned, but the sentiments flatter him anyway. Aventurine grinds into cock throbbing inside him, his own caught in Ratio’s abs, and chases the nearing orgasm with each dip of the toned torso. “Close,” he tears up, crying aloud while Ratio slams in harder, intent on helping him cum. “Please, please, please, pleaaase—!”

“Show me, give it to me,” The demands are beginning to sound nonsensical in his fogged brain, but Aventurine tries his hardest to be follow through. He lets the pre-cum aid him in his race, dips and ridges of Ratio’s muscles covered in messy streaks. “Be good for me and cum, Aventurine.” 

The crazed, commanding tone tips him over the edge. Aventurine can’t hide how he shrieks, back arching as he unconsciously wraps his arms around his neck. Ratio bites his shoulder when he does, muffling what could have been the loudest noise yet, cumming shortly after him in a loud squish.

Once Aventurine calms from the high, he notices: Ratio isn’t stopping. 

“Wha—?!”

He cries so loudly it may haunt him forever, wriggling from the bruising grasp as painful pleasure shoots ecstasy through his body, building up a new orgasm he wasn’t aware he could have a second time in one round of sex. How can he even start again if he just finished? Is successive cumming possible? 

This is different from the rest of his past trysts, who were more one-and-done kind of guys, but he should have figured that Ratio would be the one to teach him something new. He just didn’t know he could be so greedy with it. 

“One–One more, Aventurine.” Ratio slurs, pushing his cock back into the velvety squeeze. He can feel cum dripping from his hole, leaking onto the sheets with every perverted squelch that reaches his ears. Aventurine is wholly embarrassed by this turn of events, cursing a dead language under his breath, as he averts his gaze. But the sounds, the fucking sounds, leave him more flustered than ever. 

He’s never felt so thoroughly pleasured in his life. Aventurine lets Ratio proceed, only because he can’t stop feeling the good in the bad, the throes of euphoria that slips between the sting. He chokes, muffling the loud noise that dares to escape with a bite to his lip, when he thrusts over and over and over. As if he wanted to stake a claim on his insides, staining cum that won’t ever be washed out. 

“I, I can’t stop, you feel s–so–good—” What an incredible sight it was to reduce Ratio to such degenerate praises, simple and stammering with each push of his hips. “I–nnh–please give me another.” 

Who was he to deny such a giving hand? Aventurine makes an attempt to stroke his cock to cum faster than the last, but Ratio stupidly swats it away, huffing in offense as he does so. “Just me,” he whines, “me alone.” 

He sounds drunk, be it from the abandoned alcohol or the heat that Aventurine is so willingly providing him. Ratio is, by Qlipoth, he’s drooling, a wet streak falling to his chin. “You’re good, my–my good, hnnngh, so good for me, my g–gambler.”

“Ratio,” Aventurine drinks the drool, tongue sliding from the end and into his mouth. He kisses sloppily, shaking from the pure overstimulation sweeping over his bones, and whimpers a name he had only tested in the privacy of his bedroom, “My–My Veritas—” 

“Oh, oh!” Unable to muffle his moan in time, Ratio displays a neediness that he had not anticipated from him. He thrusts recklessly, slipping out of him accidentally when he cums, staining his stomach in translucent liquid. Aventurine draws his widened eyes to it; the physical manifestation of Ratio’s pleasure dripping on him and inside him. 

“Veritas,” He tries again, doing whatever he can to catch his unfocused attention, “Back inside.” 

“Yes, yes, inside,” Ratio says deliriously, guiding his spent cock back into his white-stained heat, and keeps woozily thrusting, saliva fully dripping into the cum on his chest. 

He touches his sensitive cock, gripping the length and squeezing. Aventurine mewls, something he had not done ever, and wriggles from the grasp. Ratio plays with the tip, sucking in uneven breaths, urging him to cum faster for him. And it works—because he squirts, ejaculate landing everywhere. 

“Beautiful,” Rubbing a hand over the cum on his abs, Ratio laps it up, “You’re ethereal, Aventurine.” 

“Stop–hah–talking.” He’s learning a lot about himself tonight—the fact that he could squirt had never been explored before, nor found out in the first place. Aventurine wasn’t aware he could cum again either, or that being stuffed full was immensely congenial. Ratio is a professor through and through, albeit one that rivaled a gambler’s greed. 

“Rest, gambler, I’ll take care of the aftermath,” of you goes unspoken. Ratio huffs, breathing now recovered. Aventurine slumps on top of him, panting, probably on the way to meet his family from the way he’s exhausted himself. He doesn’t know how to explain the cause for their reunion or that he’s about to tell them that he might seek unearthly revenge on a certain doctor. “And we can transfer to your bed in a while. No need to stand, I am more than able to carry your light weight.”

“My bed?”

“If it’s alright with you,” Ratio blushes like his cock wasn’t inside him a minute ago. Aventurine has questionable taste in men, in a man. “I would like to sleep with you in, well, more ways than one.”

—

Aventurine is a little less than qualified to answer a video conference among the stonehearts this early in the morning—but he’s a little less than qualified for many things in life and he has a job he can’t shake off just because he can’t feel his legs at all, thus the exhausted groan when he finally answers the blaring tune of his tablet. 

He picks it up half-awake, checking the chatbox for notes he had to register in a slumber-addled mind, squinting at the bright light of the screen. There’s a data slide on a planet they got their clutches on a few months ago, showcasing a receding line that would make their highest government officials quiver. 

“Aventurine,” Pearl coughs, momentarily pausing her presentation on a pitiful planet’s long overdue debt to their department, “Your camera is on.” 

My cam is on…? Aventurine startles, immediately turning the option to show the following scenes in this exact order: his grueling eyebags, the hickeys of varying sizes riddled around his neck, one sleeping Veritas Ratio under the covers. He pushes himself up on the bed, earning an annoyed grunt from the roused doctor who will be mortified in an hour after a good mug of coffee, now awake and alert. 

“Why…?” Ratio whines sleepily, grabbing at what he can reach: his waist. He flops an arm around the tender skin, groping the tiniest hint of chubbiness on his sides, and honest-to-goddess cuddles him. Relenting to the affection with a flush he doesn’t want to acknowledge, he hears a pleased rumble that fogs his head enough to begin thinking of abandoning the conference overall. Unfortunately, he can’t jump ship to jump some bones, but when this damn meeting is over, he’s throwing the tablet away to pounce on him post-haste. 

Ah, but he can indulge a bit, right? Aventurine supposed he could be plenty greedy; it won’t be necessary for him to offer his opinions because no one would take him seriously after finding out he was still in bed with last night’s dinner. He grins loopily, delirious and wicked, then tugs at Ratio’s messy locks until he hears a surprised moan. 

“Aventurine, again?” Goddess, no one else but him should be allowed to hear that pleasant pleading tune. Ratio looks up at him, still slightly languid from his slumber but no less aroused. If he could stretch his leg further, he might be able to cop a feel of that delicious morning wood. 

“Again, doctor.”

In the conference’s chatbox, Topaz begins to type.

…

Aventurine, your mic is on too.

Please mute. 

Please mute

Please m

Aventurine!!!!