Work Text:
Society would deem him a “substandard omega.”
For one, Aventurine isn’t privy to every need and want of his subgender; education, in totality, was never a privilege readily accessible to him. The closest he had gotten was learning to speak, read, and write—lessons his parents imparted to him before their early departure. That, and being the blessing brought forth by Mother Gaiathra. His sister, on the other hand, managed to introduce the basics as to what he was: an omega… blessed by the goddess above, born the luckiest in their clan, so on and so forth. Then she died before telling him what heats even were.
Not fun to figure that out, by the way, when imprisoned with other slaves.
His body had felt feverish during that first heat, uncomfortable and laden with sweat. He remembers how it was, to curl into himself in a corner, shutting himself out to the world around him. Nothing worked; the marred claim staining his neck, his scent, his being was a permanent reminder of what had occurred afterwards. A code and a claim—to ensure obedience, to guarantee an owner to return to.
After transferring from one shackle to another, Aventurine was taken under the so-called “care” of a Stoneheart: Madame Bonajade. He had to give it to her; she had the most cohesive explanation of what being an omega entailed. Barely an achievement, however, when up against the running between early graves and a cold-blooded bastard. Strict, to the point, a recognition that her little investment didn’t know zilch about this second gender nonsense. Yet, her way of teaching was… odd. Odd in the sense that she was, indeed, a magnate first then an alpha. Thus, her teachings focused on the business aspect, hardly in biology.
Kudos to her though; she raised a damn good omega who climbed his way up to her ranking, a mere level below the P46 status. And this was during a time of infuriating stereotypes: that an omega had no place in a company, much less a reputable position. They were laughed at, catcalled, told to “go home” and “be an alpha’s broodmare” which, eugh. The degradation never truly affected him, considering that the Avgins had enough assumptions to their race as is. Now, as the sole survivor, he had to shoulder all of those insults alone. At the very least, he had grown to have thicker skin (and, well, a worse-off mindset).
Sweet talking as an omega was astonishingly easy, a low-risk game with bountiful rewards. Alphas, betas—the daft ones—buckled their knees at an act of submission. It was a delight to witness them fold, change their minds last minute, and ignore the extremely biased negotiations written in fine print. All after a pair of pleading eyes, a soft “please.” And if that didn’t suffice, he had better assets to use, so to speak. The real challenge came when the “meekness” failed; he liked those better, raising the stakes and, consequentially, creating a more interesting playing field.
Another reason why he’s a “substandard omega” came in the form of disconnect. Aventurine had always felt out of touch, whether as an Avgin or an omega. Neither of them came naturally to him, as if their significance was impenetrable to the person he had become. He didn’t feel much of anything, not anymore. Perhaps, it’s better off that way, that memories of sandy dunes and weaving knots for Kakava were becoming blurrier. He wasn’t worthy to preserve the culture of his people.
Being an omega felt similar in a sense. What fabled inner voice had whittled out, likely fallen alongside the rest of them. Albeit bearing what defines an omega—the traits, the benefits, the difficulties—it never felt personal. An occasional hindrance, surely, but it felt like a weight boring down his shoulders, a burden separate from his own self.
Admittedly, his insight on omega attributes were rather bare bones; the scenting, nests, heats, and other common knowledge weren’t exactly a priority to learn. He had more pressing issues to handle, ones that took over the forefront of his mind.
Hence, during the first-ever medical examination several years too late, Aventurine had managed to silence an entire room of professionals. And it wasn’t even intentional.
“After reading through your results, Mr. Aventurine, it’d be safe to assume that your heat cycles are irregular. As of now, that is the only diagnosis we can provide, since we cannot pinpoint the cycle’s beginning and end. With all due respect, you cannot simply put ‘sometime this Amber Era’ and expect us to chart it from there.”
“Duly noted, doc.”
“And do explain the traces of substance, particularly powdered suppressants that are supposed to be illegal planet-wide, found in your blood tests. Mr. Aventurine, you are aware that these aren’t heat suppressants, right? You’ve been taking the wrongs pills, the wrong dosages, the wrong–”
He’d tuned her out by the fifth wrong fact of the pills he swallowed. Aventurine wouldn’t explain why either. The forthcoming responses afterwards were less answers, more zigzags that led to confusing conceptions—he had never been the type to fold, why start now? Eventually, that frustrated doctor had sent him on his merry way, shoving an educational pamphlet for newly-presented omegas along with.
Maybe Aventurine caved.
Maybe he read through that pamphlet alone in his room that evening.
Maybe it prompted him to pop open a can of beer and a few easy-to-read websites (the initial three results on the web).
Maybe he didn’t know what the technical terminologies meant, shining too bright for his downlit screen, and called it a night thereafter.
No one can prove that he did. Anyone who asked could kindly piss off. What of it anyway? What he won’t know could hurt him but, hey, he’s survived this long. May Mother Gaiathra keep on fucking with him for an eternity more.
Obviously, “substandard omega” fit his description quite well. Aventurine does not particularly care for it, not in the way that Ratio apparently does.
“What do you mean ‘substandard omega,’ there’s no such thing,” Ratio tells him, in that voice that he knows will give way for a winded lecture.
The accompanying glare would have been off-putting, if it weren’t for how he’s stumbling words, glass of wine swishing on his expensive leather sofa. Ah, if he could buy him the entire alcohol-brewing industry, he would. Just to see him this defenseless.
A couple of years down the line—past frequent requests to switch partners, past judgement that followed each other’s every move, past the discovery that they worked best together—their relationship had become amicable. Quite close, one could say. The closest he’s ever been with anyone for a long, long time. With a sort of unspoken tension unbefitting of a supposedly close friendship.
“I’m just saying I’m not a typical omega,” Aventurine scoffs. He’s a bit tipsy himself. That wine was worth a pretty penny after all. “No need to be offended on my behalf.”
Ratio, who is most definitely offended on his behalf, is acting like he isn’t. For how proficient of an actor he is, this type of behavior was an easy, borderline explicit, tell. No wonder he has to don that handsome bust.
“Your self-depreciation is distasteful,” He says with a soft shake to his head, “You are not the ‘substandard’ you claim to be. Have you considered that the cards dealt to you do not define you as a person nor your secondary gender?”
Aventurine sets down his glass on the coffee table, beside a few blueprints strown about. Weren’t they supposed to be finalizing an escape route? That’s going to bite them in the ass tomorrow, along with the hangover. Moreso Ratio than him. Ah, whatever; he probably wasn’t listening from the start anyway, not with the tight shirt Ratio had on. His chest moves with every breath. He feels like a pervert just seeing them clothed.
“Card analogy. Good one. Ten points.”
“Thank you,” then, almost instantly, Ratio grimaces. Aventurine laughs. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?"
“Distracting me.”
Their gazes lock for a moment. Aventurine loses himself in the amber, the bit of light beneath that colored sheen. When he realizes he’s staring still, he has to salvage some dignity: “You make bold claims, learned professor,” He teases, adores the downturn of his eyebrows. Really, how could someone so stoic unravel into this bumbling creature, “And what evidence do you have to prove it?”
It’s a delight to witness Ratio think. He’s usually pensive, quiet and racking up conclusions in seconds flat, before ordering the other grunts around. Sometimes, it will be him on the opposing end of his commands, which does not have the right to be so attractive.
The casual display of his strong suits, strongest even, is being fumbled into a laughable mockery. If he’s under the influence, Ratio is slow, unbelievably so. He thinks like it takes him an astronomical amount of energy to, handling two nerves like live wires, hoping to spark any thoughts. Seeing this brilliant mind struggle to form an idea makes Aventurine want to chew him aggressively.
“You keep segueing the conversation.”
“You’re the one getting yourself distracted,” he points at him, dramatic, “willingly, consensually.”
“Because you’re making distracting remarks on purpose.”
“Here I thought you liked being praised.”
Devastatingly, Ratio tenses. It’s utter, shameful destruction for Aventurine’s unsavory thoughts. Alongside his unsavory libido. He blinks, awaits a reply; when a fun argument like that settles into dust, it’s usually with a comfortable silence to share. But this is just awkward. Was that tease too much? What’s a little harm in flirting with a hot man? Perhaps if said hot man was his colleague, close friend, long-time crush.
Just as Aventurine is about to retcon the situation, he’s thrown back immediately.
“How could you possibly have discovered that I have that–that—?”
There is only so much Aventurine can take before he inevitably pounces on the good doctor. For four years, he held on for that long with patience unexpected of him. Never did he take a gamble on their relationship; it’s fragile, something he cared for far too much to play with. No amount of luck could repair the certainty of him screwing everything up. He, wise alpha that he is, ought to be with someone more level-headed and less of a fuck-up.
But Ratio indirectly admitting to a praise kink, in that low and slurred timbre, had tackled him over that precipice. It’s so stupid. Aventurine feels stupid and lightheaded and foolish. It might be the wine. He’ll blame it on that instead.
With a frenzy uncharacteristic of him, Aventurine lunges at a very bewildered Ratio.
Bewildered is the wrong term. Astonished seems more like it. Ratio’s plum locks are splayed in disarray against the armrest, golden laurel lost in the mess. His lips are propped open the slightest bit, breath unsteady, as if the space made was begging to be filled. It takes a single glance downward to realize that the wine glass Ratio held is now on the floor, rolled to the leg of the coffee table with a soft clink.
And Ratio’s chest—it is soaked in expensive merlot.
What else is there to do but to kiss him silly? Aventurine presses himself against those moistened lips, licking into the mouth that once belonged to a saner man. It’s messy, sloppy, translucent strings of saliva connecting them when they part for air. It doesn’t take any more than three seconds for Ratio to push his head back down, close his lips around the wet flesh of his tongue and suck, desperate for another taste of smooth liquor.
There are warm hands urgently snaking underneath his pajamas. Ratio slides them inside his briefs, squeezes the swell of his ass like he’d done it a thousand times before. He explores with a kind of franticness, as if he’s aware of how this reconstructs the bond they have grown. A poor attempt at hiding the carnal sin tainting clear conscience.
Yet that grip, tight and unrelenting, showcases how much he wanted this to happen, how he wants to further it. Not even the panicked yelp from his ass meeting the room’s cold breeze deterred how quickly they were devolving into a tangled mess. Ratio shimmies the garments as far down as possible, until Aventurine can quickly remove it without much fanfare.
Now he may have made the first move—but Ratio had sufficiently beaten him in desperation. Aeons, the neediness permeates through the air, wades into his hindbrain like gasoline would a flicked match. His body is lit aflame in seconds, the lustful scent entirely too hot to think of meagre reason; perhaps it’s why he grinds his cunt at wool slacks, honeyed slick pooling rapidly at the tented temptation.
Ratio inhales the fragrance, sucks in a breath like doing so could brand itself in his mind. Unbiddenly, his hips buck upward, thrusting the indent directly onto him. Albeit hardly enough, this friction is mind-numbingly addicting.
“Easy, doctor,” Aventurine huffs, bending down to lave his tongue around an erect nipple. It must be chaffing around the wettened fabric, constricted. He’ll take it off in due time. Now, he has to take advantage of the slight mishap—sucking the merlot straight out of his clothed chest. It tastes so, so heavenly; nothing else would ever compare. He glances up, takes in the brazen blush spread on Ratio’s cheeks. “Wouldn’t want you ruining our fun. Be a good boy, yeah?”
“You are so”—maybe it’s too soon to be calling Ratio that, when the covered and presumably large cock twitches beneath him—”insufferable.”
Not to the point of hating him for it then, if Aventurine is allowed to hear the small noises Ratio is letting out. He pinches the other nipple between his middle and pointer finger, traces the tip with a pad of his thumb. “You like it.”
This copious amount of slick is new. It drips down stickily as Aventurine leans back from relishing that soaked chest. Two of his digits spread the drenched lips apart. Undoubtedly a cause for concern. It’s not every time that he produces so much of it with barely any actions prior.
Yet Ratio is distracting him from the worry, gaping dumbly at his unintentional display. He’s sure sight is not the only sense he has stolen from him. His scent—honeyed, sweet, also lingering longer than it ever has—is filling the whole room.
“Not–Not going to last if you keep smelling so–” Ratio warns, cutting himself off with a deep inhale. He holds his breath for a few seconds, dizzying himself on purpose. Besides, a warning that pathetic would never stop Aventurine. In fact, he’s dubiously encouraged by it, webbing slick between his fingers so he can pop it into the good doctor’s still-agape mouth.
Obedient. Ratio is terribly, no-good-for-his-heart obedient, wrapping the slim finger in that tiny, warm tavern. Is that how he’ll be, when he sucks Aventurine’s little clit? Would he be putty in his hands, lapping up anything that he can offer? Oh, that is… “Gambler, stop, please, I need to–inside you.”
It is then that Aventurine hears it—a voice alike his own yet completely unrecognizable—and it’s begging for this man’s, this alpha’s cock to impale him. No prep needed, just an innate urge to fulfill himself, to have Ratio’s attention all his. He can’t tell which it is: horniness, avarice, or the omega instinct he had forgotten was ever there. Be good, it tells him, be good and take what you want from this alpha. Make him yours. Breed yourself on his cock so he can be yours forever.
—What the fuck?
Aventurine halts himself, stunned by what had rudely interrupted the string of eating out imagery. He stares wide-eyed at Ratio, whose canines nearly jut out onto his bottom lip.
These thoughts, although not entirely unpleasant, have thrown him off his game. Aventurine retracts his finger, blood running cold as he is overtaken by the constant stream of breed me, breed me, breed me. And it’s not like he isn’t into that, into Ratio specifically doing that to him, but the need for it is shockingly unbearable tonight, right at this moment. He’s not–He’s never been like this.
Ratio rakes his gaze over him, calculating, processing. There must be something wrong if he immediately relents, foregoes touching him completely. But that’s not what he wants. What Aventurine wants is for him to keep going, to touch him with a madness that could only be derived from unadulterated need. He wants to shove that big knot so deep inside him until his belly bulges from the sheer volume of cum alone, so much that he’ll be full of pups to bear soon.Woah.
With wobbly legs, Aventurine shifts himself off of him, sits beside Ratio’s torso with a sliver of space between that and the small of his back.
It must have been that previously assumed dead omega in him, who now howls at the notion of being empty for a second longer. Aventurine breathes in deeply, rubbing a palm over his face. Nothing hinders the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, hints of rot topping the comforting scent. He dares a glance at Ratio, who is staring at the ceiling in a daze.
Trailing downward, he can still see the sheer size his erection pitches, standing valiantly. Huge. Mouthwatering. Goddess, it would be perfect to—no, no. He swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth ashamedly.
Catching that locked gaze, Ratio grabs the nearest throwpillow, practically slams it on the distinct slope. The effort to hide it is commendable, although a futile endeavor.
“Ignore that.”
“But, doctor, you’re a bit too huge to ignore, no?”
That gets a long-winded sigh from him, not that Aventurine blames him for that. Ratio must be disappointed, not able to use a whore who had slobbered all over him. He didn’t even take the initiative either, but had ferociously reciprocated despite it. And now he can’t even push through. What is wrong with him?
“When I said that I,” Ratio pushes himself up, so that his lower back is leaning against the armrest. Looking closer, there’s still a wetness formed around a particular spot on his shirt. And two tinier erections that are definitely chaffing amid the dampness. Aventurine decides to stare at the ground instead. “Did I do anything to make you uncomfortable?”
He almost blurts out an appalled no??? Whatever happened prior to this excruciating conversation had the opposite effect of “uncomfortable.” Actually, Aventurine may have gotten too comfortable, to the point of concepts like breeding and pregnancy. If he was better equipped at handling those raw emotions, of the surprising commands of his secondary gender, they wouldn’t be speaking this coherently.
“No, it’s just,” there are rampant ideas of you fucking a baby into me and i’m not mentally-equipped to handle all that. Aventurine does not choose to say those words, however, because it would freak both of them out. “Not tonight.”
The tension is palpable. Ratio places a palm on his shoulder, consoling with smooth circles.
“Would you feel better if I left?”
No. He really wouldn’t. Aventurine does not say that either.
—
Families are a sensitive topic.
On the contrary, Aventurine has fantasized a family for the far, far future. He’s unaware of when exactly those started—perhaps it had been the first few months with his catcakes, a triad that has imprinted permanently on a cushier part of his life. Yes, pets do not equate to children, but it’s the farthest he could imagine himself actually having. But he wants, just indefinitely, more.
A family, to make up for what he had lost; something he is currently undeserving of, now, tomorrow, and on the days afterward.
But that dream is too far-fetched. Even he isn’t so wretched to start a family, when there is a higher possibility of him not returning to them by the end of the day. Aventurine still worries whether or not he can keep the catcakes safe. So, a husband and a child? Out of the question.
He has lost so much already, standing at the peak as the rest of the Avgin clan died by his feet. Aventurine wouldn’t count on them being outliers to this damned blessing, when no one in his bloodline had survived the extinction. In the end, he is destined to live alone, to continue alone, and finally die alone. But a typical man could dream of riches unattainable, why couldn’t he?
That doesn’t exactly explain why Aventurine is staring.
If Ratio notices the outright intensity of his stare, he mercifully doesn’t comment. Instead, he revisits the plans that eventually did bite them in the ass, blueprints between them that are sprinkled with bits of wine. A cursed memento of last night’s activities. Aventurine lingers where he points—not at where he’s pointing exactly, but at the finger he’s using. A long forefinger, dainty and uncalloused, with a neatly trimmed nail.
He’s nodding along to whatever Ratio is saying, something about the time frame between Point A to Point B. Aventurine has already reviewed these plans a week ago, but it’s important that he receives the doctor’s opinions. They usually end at the same conclusion, albeit with contrasting and equally convoluting methods. It’s why these meetings can’t stay as emails; they would spend hours, thread-after-thread, arguing over the best strategy.
Also, Aventurine wouldn’t be able to hear Ratio. An abhorrent displeasure. There’s nothing like riling his patience up to the breaking point, until he’s whipping out the stylus and performing on-the-spot calculations on air.
Yet it’s also in how Ratio elucidates, speaking waves of information in gentler timbre.
Since Aventurine had professed a lack of formal education, a snarked comment in the aftermath of an argument, Ratio has learned to be slower. Not slow in intelligence nor capability, but for him to understand what he’s saying with easier clarity. He asks pointed questions better, follows up with subjects that are typically difficult to grasp.
Would Ratio do the same for his children?
Aventurine blinks. Where did that come from? Worse, why can’t he stop thinking about it, now that he’s creaked the gates open?
Presently, Ratio isn’t the best with kids. He made a little girl cry once by accident, but that was mostly because of his resting face. Aventurine had laughed while the poor doctor attempted to cease her crying, inevitably letting her play with his alabaster head in the process.
In the future, would Ratio be a good father? Surely not the pinnacle of all fathers, but a successful one that could let his kid live a fulfilling life. Parenthood would likely be another doctorate to earn, his final one. The degree he’ll be proudest to have, with honors etched onto a “#1 Dad” mug or colorful drawings placed under a refrigerator magnet.
The aforementioned man coughs into a fist, grabbing his eye. “That will be all of it, gambler, given we move quickly enough to not trigger their personnel.”
“You make it sound like we’re on a heist.”
“We are. We’re retrieving illegal contraband before they’re distributed further among the masses. That’s, quite literally, the objective of our assignment.” Ratio deadpans, unimpressed. Oops. Dumb question. Negative points for Aventurine.
There’s a familiar stiffness in the office, as Ratio packs up. Reminiscent of their first few months as partners, a jaded silence that stated they were nothing more than colleagues. It was a pain to get through those meetings, even with the doctor’s handsome face to ogle.
What broke them down, eventually, was a terse bandaging away from the field, a hushed “I don’t know how lowly you think of yourself… but, take it from me, a life like yours still deserves to live.”
(And a drink or three. Aventurine doesn’t count those.)
Ratio’s pace is hurried, twisting the blueprint and tucking it inside the tube. He hangs the sling by his shoulder, accentuating the rolled-up sleeve and his bulky forearms. Aventurine may have fucked up their trust but he’s still allowed to stare, right?
“Don’t trip on your way out, doctor.” is acknowledged with a grunt. In record time, Ratio is out of the office. Soon enough, these quick meetings will revert back into emails, then into an official confirmed transfer request. Aventurine will only see him in the hallway after that, with their offices out of each other’s way. Brief nods. Short glances. “Out of the office” is the start of Ratio’s exit from his life.
He locks the door behind him, a hand cocked on his hip while the other massages his temples. Ratio’s pungence is impossible to clear out while the windows are shut, muted as they are compared to other alphas. And the rot is still present, heavier than yesterday. He must have thoroughly offended him, if the disgust tops the baser scents.
When he sulks over to the desk, ready to clock out after this last meeting, Aventurine spots something peculiar.
A blazer is draped on the backrest where Ratio sat.
The size of it swamps the cushy chair, sleeves hanging by the start of its legs. It’s the same one from their first-ever meeting, golden details spiraled along the shoulders. Aventurine has the gall to snort. What a cruel coincidence.
Maybe the chance of this being their final meeting, the beginning of the end, is what pushes Aventurine to snatch it.
It unfurls, a long coat for a long man. He remembers the cologne he wore that day, the panic that swamped over that fragrance thereafter. Ratio’s disdain was indisputable, tensing as he shoved the gun back in its holster. Long after he left, the scent had stuck to his own clothing, clogging his nostrils for the rest of the day. Aventurine almost regrets playing that suicidal roulette.
The cologne is different recently. More distinct. Aventurine would know; he bought it, after all. An expensive gift from Epsilon’s finest, wrapped in a velvet box with a laurel threaded on the front. Ratio had smiled at him, a small upturn that kept his heart thrumming for the rest of the week. Gave him a good reason to live for a while.
He thinks—very hard, mind you—before burying his nose in the large blazer.
Although they are on evidently awkward terms, the kind that Aventurine would give anything to turn back from, it’s still comforting. Same cologne he bought too, seems like the bottle doesn’t need to be refilled yet (or anytime soon).
With lips hung open, heaving long breaths like that would eternalize Ratio’s scent in his lungs, Aventurine begins to feel a bit—restless. He gulps down the air in the room, stealing another deep breath of this mouthwatering scent. As if his whole body is inhaling it, sweeping along caged ribs to the pits of his stomach to an aching core.
Everything clicks.
Is he in heat?
Aventurine inhales the scent in spite of that sudden realization, stuffing his nose deep into the soft fabric. It’s absurdly pungent, a domineering musk after a whole day of teaching lectures, traveling between stations, and heading to Pier Point for their meeting. It’s baffling how addicted he is to it, the jasmine and sandalwood that shoot straight to his brain.
For all his years finding alphas’ odor revolting, Ratio had him hooked over the course of their partnership, a constant comfort that felt grounding for his flighty tendencies.
If he shuts his eyes, he can envision the doctor’s presence ghosting over him. Aventurine would fit snug into those large arms, fester in that personal space until he’s sure they can be molded into one. Ratio would rub a palm over his back, a soothing contrast while he nags him to hell and back.
Ratio would squawk: “Why didn’t you listen to your doctor, gambler? Haven’t you heard of how dangerous induced heats are, gambler? What do you mean you don’t know what could induce a heat, gambler?” and it would go right over his head because a nagging Ratio is still an equally as attractive Ratio. Aventurine had learned to tune it out eventually, anyway. White noise.
What would happen next?
Maybe Ratio would lay him on the flat of this very desk, taking each obscuring garment piece by piece. He would grunt, a little annoyed and a lot turned on, as Aventurine dangles his leg atop his shoulder. A challenge, to hide how needy he is for Ratio to touch him, to pay attention to him alone. His hand strays beneath his slacks, startling at the wet patch that has begun to form at the front of cotton briefs.
Would Ratio touch him like this—he dips a finger between the folds, amid the slick—if he asked him to? Unless, he wouldn’t have to beg him, only receiving the pleasure out of his own accord. He rubs frantic, quick circles, rocking his hips alongside the motion. Ratio’s fingers would be thicker, hitting spots he hadn’t known were possible from a mere hand. Aventurine unzips his constricting slacks in a rush, tugging everything along with it down to the ankles.
He pants, rapid, angry. Why can’t he cum? It wasn’t a problem in the past. Aventurine fists the blazer, scrunching it so harshly that he worries it might rip from his currently elongated nails. The scent aids somewhat, but he needs…he needs…
Aventurine spots the corner of the table.
And that is an embarrassing, humiliating idea in of itself. But Aventurine is ready to risk it all—he’s already holding Ratio’s blazer, touching himself to the smell of it, so why shouldn’t he? Never mind that this is a nightmare to handle for either clean-up or the potential HR violation, he needs to get off. He might kill himself without a single successful orgasm, pussy throbbing with its demands.
He’ll figure everything out later. For now, Aventurine shrugs off the rest of his clothing, waddles over the angled edge, and shoves down the shame churning in his gut. Draping the blazer at the corner, he maneuvers himself so that his hips are angled directly at it. Slowly, with a punched-out breath, a finger spreads his puffy hood, pulling it apart to expose the clit. A second passes, a moment of contemplation, before he decides fuck it and drops his weight down on the table.
He imagines the table to be a wider, no less rigid body. Ratio, who he struggles to straddle, has to pry his thighs further apart just to nestle onto that torso. And, when he does, Ratio will slide those smooth palms along his sides, gentle against the protruding ribs. Maybe he’ll ask him his eating habits, scold him over how unhealthy he is, then tell him they’re going out to the diner they frequent often after. This alpha, smart and clever, will have memorized his order before he could say it. Aventurine whines; how easy it is to be loved by Ratio.
Ratio, he thinks, grinding his cunt on the silk innings. Ratio, he wonders as he bears his weight harder, leaning forward so that his clit slides up and down, back and forth. Ratio, he cries, when he mimics the way he had tangled fingers along his hair to bring him back into a kiss. “Ratio, Ratio,” he moans; the sensation isn’t enough, he wants him to come back.
There’s a knock on the door.
Aventurine whips his head so fast that it dizzies him. Thank gods, he had the foresight to lock, before his heat could swamp any semblance of decorum.
Five seconds pass before another knock, louder and indignant. Three precise raps.
A voice calls from beyond: “Locked me out already, gambler?”
“I–I’m,” Aventurine coughs, prays the whine doesn’t drip into the tone, “I’m busy!”
“Our meeting was your last agenda today, I checked in with your secretary before she left.” He can imagine the dramatic roll of his eyes. Now Aventurine is a better liar on most days, but excruciatingly less so today. One would be if they were in the throes of heat, in an enclosed office, with a handsome alpha he’s been pining over for years just out the door. “If you could let me in, I have dinner and, um, an apology waiting,” Ratio pauses, “only if you want me.”
That shouldn’t rip a loud moan out of him—except Aventurine’s jaw is already slacked open, high-pitched, whiny, and loud enough to hear if anybody is pressing their ear to the door. Which is exactly what Ratio is doing, if he could reply seamlessly to his sorry excuse.
Instantly, he clamps his mouth shut. Fuck. He peeks at the door in alarm, hears the quiet that comes after the sound, and curses under his breath. That was repulsing; there’s no way that didn’t drive Ratio away for good, along with the admittedly delicious takeout and his poor heart along with.
But, surprisingly, the doorknob jiggles.
“Tell me you didn't hurt yourself in there.” Albeit through the door, his concern is heavily evident in his words. As if he couldn’t get any wetter.
“You must–nn–think of me stupid—I haven’t!”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” But it’s true, isn’t it? He’s being honest. Unless Ratio meant he’d hurt his pride, then that would be a lie, because that had taken a fatal blow. It’s crippled now, along with his pants and rationality. Aventurine grumbles, a little garbled noise that sounds incredibly strange to himself. “...Do you detest me so badly?”
“I don’t.”
“Aventurine?”
Louder, this time, with a sharp intake of breath. Aventurine’s voice cracks miserably midway. “I-I don’t.”
A second, two, four, then—“I’m coming in.”
It’s almost predictable how Ratio appears with that damn curio in tow, engulfed in flames. How else would he have gotten in otherwise?
The cube floats above his palm, illuminated by shades of blue around the glass casing. That phase flame is a pain in the ass whenever the good doctor snatches it from that space station. How many times has this happened? Too many to count. Aventurine almost wants to show up and personally fund the ship’s security.
Bless him though, Ratio is carrying a big paper bag in his other arm. Takeout from their favorite, indeed. The kind act has his heart ready to jump out of his throat, thudding erratically at his ribcage. Seems his fantasy couldn’t be this distant, if it’s happening to him now. Except in those, Ratio does not look like Lan caught in headlights, stunned at the provocative pose he’s blatantly presenting.
“Are you ever going to return that?”
“Are you in heat?”
“Good question. What other assumptions could you possibly make here,” Aventurine drawls sarcastically, gesturing to the slick and to the entirety of his flushed body. Ratio drops the takeout on the ground, takes four wide strides forward, and arrives right before his half-naked form.
“I, ah, apologize, I didn’t think I was intruding on a private matter,” The apology would have an impact, if Ratio wasn’t frozen in his spot. But the fact that he was not spurred on by the heat’s potency, that he did care if he got hurt in his own office, is something worth pondering. “I’ll, if this is too–and–” Wow. Cute.
The last thing Aventurine wants is for him to flee. He couldn’t risk that happening again, and again, until they became nothing more than parallel lines who can’t seem to close their distance. What he wants most, immediately, is to bridge that gap and pull Ratio right into his orbit.
So, he rolls the dice.
“You caused this, you know,” Aventurine raises the stakes to the ceiling, baits the player with a card he wouldn’t have shown if it weren’t for how desperate he was. He’s a lucky man; Ratio is steeled in his spot, unable to look away. “Won’t you take responsibility of me, doctor?”
Ratio swallows. "I did this to you?”
“Nobody else,” He sighs, beckoning him with a single motion. Ratio is right where he wants him—hook, line, and sinker. “Aren’t you special, inducing an omega’s heat without lifting a finger.”
The restraints snap just like that. Ratio is on him, thumb tilting his chin up as he is fully devoured. Aventurine struggles to breathe with a mouth so unwilling to part, stealing breath for breath. He moans softly into each kiss, nails scratching at his slightly sweat-stained shirt.
It’s happening, Aventurine dazes, shudders at the hand that squeezes his waist tight, gods, it’s actually happening.
Ratio takes one look at the blazer, his blazer, and yanks it away. “You might want this for your nest later,” He murmurs, gripping the soiled thing before bringing it to his nose. Their scents together, his slick dripping from the inner linings, have the doctor baring his teeth. The canines are visibly growing. Aventurine blushes despite himself. “I wouldn’t complain if you used my entire wardrobe. I’d prefer it, if you did.”
Aventurine doesn’t have it in him to say that he barely has a nest at home. If you could call a blanket and three pillows a nest. Would the catcakes count as extra cushion? Probably not. Thus, his nest is practically just… a bed. What a sad excuse for an omega. He won’t tell Ratio that though, when it’s clear that he wants to provide for him. “Yeah, I could have, um, some. Including that one.”
“Mm, for now,” The blazer is unceremoniously thrown on the floor. Aventurine misses it, in some weird way, like he had grown attached to the object that he used to get off. It explains the soft cry that Ratio soothes with a kiss below his bottom lashes. “I would rather have my turn.”
“Jealous?”
“Yes,” Ratio kisses him again, like he can’t quite get enough of it. Aventurine doesn’t know where to focus: on being kissed stupid or that he’s coaxed the good doctor into the depths of irrationality. Maybe he should ponder why he likes both so much. Ratio breathes against his lips, staring at them as he says, “Who wouldn’t be, after finding out a mere coat got a taste of you before I could.”
“You’re funny,” His reactions are all mixed up. Aventurine should be laughing, not leaking like an irreparable faucet. Ratio’s stare goes past his lips, down to the cunt dripping slick onto wood, “They never believe me,” He manages to add a second before yelping, “Shit, Ratio!”
Aventurine whines as he’s pressed harder on the table, moved like he weighs nothing. His thighs rub on the blunt edges, no doubt leaving indents for the future him to discover later. Slick pools beneath, making the glide both easy and messy. Ratio tsks, nose flush near his nape.
“Unhygienic,” The hypocrite about to fuck him in his office scoffs, “Shouldn’t have let this touch you.”
He’s reminded of the blazer again. They’re going to have a field day trying to scrape the dried slick on the big carpet. Half of the desk too. He might have to elaborate a scheme so that no employee can access this space until he gets the pheromones cleared out. Aventurine giggles, delirious, and apparently that’s the sound that gets Ratio to move.
“What are you laughing at,” He huffs, lifting him from the desk. Aventurine is aware of how strong Ratio is, an unfair god of a man that carries both brain and brawn, but he’s always pleasantly surprised when he shows it off. It’s rare that it happens on purpose and it is, wow, unbearably hot. “Didn’t think heats would make you speak your mind.”
I said that out loud? "I was doing that for you,” Aventurine lies by the skin of his teeth, cheek pressed against wood as Ratio gently sets him down. A hand leads him, bends him over the table, while his ass sticks out in all its bouncy glory. His feet just barely touch the ground. “Since you have that praise kink and all.”
“Forget that ever happened."
“And lose something I could hold over your head,” The laugh that follows is hoarse. Aventurine’s breath might actually be stolen for good. Ratio has some due compensation to do after this round, preferably with the eating out he missed yesterday. “I would never waste something so opportune, good doctor.”
“Smart mouth.” Ratio chuckles though. He must like it more than he lets on.
Ratio leans over him, lips grazing his ear. He kisses the tip, then descends on a journey to take Aventurine apart piece by piece. A few fingers brush the hair on his neck away, creating space for a kiss just above the aged claim. His pulse stutters. Ratio’s brazenness does not waver one bit, sweeping kisses down the length of his spine, a silent assurance that nothing has bothered him thus far. That he wants Aventurine still. He’s having the time of his life anyway, nipping at soft skin until they paint his back pretty hues.
“Alpha,” It felt foreign forming around his mouth—but right. “Alpha, please.”
That does the trick. Ratio mumbles a broken string of words, “Apologies. Distracted. Scent,” and finally sinks a finger inside him. Perhaps because he’s been waiting so long for something inside him, that Aventurine thrashes, wiggles his backside towards the sensation. His tongue lolls out on the desk as the finger experiments, going back and forth, looking for a specific spot.
“I need you to be good for me,” The command is soft, murmured with a soft bite to the tip of his ear. Ratio slips another into the exposed flush of his pussy, shivering at the loud schlick that rebounds on the walls. Aventurine’s back arches into the touch, a stuttered breath escaping him. He can feel them spreading the plush walls apart, curling at an angle that’s almost–almost—
“There! Ratio, gods, there!”
With pinpoint accuracy, Ratio presses into that spot harder, lunging at it with each wet thrust that slams between them. There’s a huff before he adds two, four within him now, morphing it into a shape exclusively for him. The pressure is brutal and heavy, dragging in-and-out so deliberately that he can feel it reworking his hole.
“Can you feel how good you are,” Ratio stifles a groan at the same time that Aventurine can’t. He moves the big fingers even deeper, almost knuckle-deep, and vibrates his arm with an intensity that racks through his spine. He clenches tight around those smooth digits, earning a low moan for his efforts. “You’re so good, my gambler… so, so divine, ethereal.”
“I’m, mmgh, ready for you,” Aventurine tries, impatient, ready to burst with the onslaught of pleasure that had far exceeded any expectations. “Please.”
The first orgasm snaps like a taut spring, a force that shocks despite the anticipation. Aventurine wails, claws at the wood until scratches remain. Ratio says something along the line of “good” and other iterations, but he can hardly hear it. His mind is abuzz, scrambled from sheer impact.
When he finally comes to, he realizes—Ratio is still going. “Can’t, can’t.”
Ratio’s voice is animalistic. “You can do it, be good,” He orders, grits his teeth when Aventurine dares a glimpse at him. The wild look swirling around amber irises make him clench, trapping those lucky fingers inside the soaking flesh. No one has ever prepped him this good, fucked him with fingers that are almost equal to the cock straining in their pants. This overstimulation is unheard of, one that has him drooling on his own face, mouthing pleas that can’t decide between “stop” and “keep going.”
“You’re s-so lovely like this,” His stomach coils, bubbles with a heat that Aventurine gasps at. There’s a pain and pleasure alongside it, the former being a humiliating possibility that he can’t risk happening. He shakes his head at the same time Ratio punches hard at his g-spot, driving in with four reckless fingers. “Come on, another. You’re almost there.”
“Ratio, please, I don’t–I can’t, seriously,” The wet squelch is obscene in his ears. Each slap is loud, mortifying, eager to be heard by any employees still loitering around the hallway outside. Aventurine holds onto the table for dear life as Ratio lifts a thigh up, holds it up with a single strong grip. “Ratio!”
Suddenly, Ratio retracts his fingers. Along with it is another orgasm drained, sprayed on the floor underneath his desk. Aventurine does not cease trembling until the last drop has settled, panting heavily from the bizarre sensation.
“What,” He exhales sharply, “What the fuck was that?”
“That, my dear gambler”—Ratio says, a bit too smug for his liking, while the telltale sound of a zipper accompanies it—”was a proper way to stimulate your g-spot.”
“Never say that again.”
“No promises.”
His shadow is looming over him again, a towering stature that dominates each of his senses. The jasmines smell heavenly now, ripe for the picking, and he loses himself in its pungency.
“May I,” Ratio bites his lip shyly; how could consent be this sexy, “inside?”
“Like an hour ago.” Aventurine holds back a laugh. The happy, pleased citrus betrays him awfully. But it meets Ratio’s intense smell, kicks it down a notch; now they just both smell kind of high.
It is a definite distraction from Ratio plunging inside, slow and steady. The sheer size is a struggle to fit inside, no matter how much Aventurine relaxes himself. Clenches. Unclenches. Clenches for the fun of it. Ratio hisses at him for that, hold on his thigh squeezing in retaliation.
And, fuck, it’s so hot. There are clouds clogging his senses, foggy and blurry. He wants more. Aventurine has never wanted more, not in this context. Of course it had to be this erudite professor who taught him what pleasure actually felt like; a raw sentiment, neither performative nor an imitation, wrung out from beneath flesh and bones. Another voice, one he had never thought existed prior to an evening ago, howls once more—”breed me, alpha! knock me up!”—as an indicator of the omega’s greediness.
And, gods, children with Ratio, wouldn’t that be nice? To be cherished, taken care of, and surrounded by a family he knows will be loved? A hazy dream he had never thought to reach because it was too far, too undeserved for someone marred by gruel. It’s so near, he can almost grasp it.
And Ratio is here now. Ratio would be such a good father to his children. To theirs. Someone strict, grounding, a contrast to how messy Aventurine often is. He would teach them the most wondrous things, lessons and concepts he never learned.
“Ratio, Ratio,” He pleads, cheek smeared against the wooden surface, “P-Put a baby in me.”
As if a bucket of ice had been thrown straight at him, Ratio slows down, cock pulled out of his eager cunt. Aventurine dreads this sudden reaction; not only will he lose that hazy dream, he’ll even drive away the man who made him think it was still possible. “It’s the heat talking,” he hears, quiet, weary, “Don’t do this to me, don’t–don’t let me hope.”
“I want this,” Aventurine admits, finally, to himself and out in the open, “I want you.”
There are more suitable times for romantic declarations. In the middle of sex is hardly one of them. Yet Ratio does not care for it, flips him over so that he’s able to see his response swimming beneath amber. Then he slams back inside with a clear slip of control. Aventurine can’t do much else but take it, take these physical avowals and moan his name in return.
“Yours, Aventurine,” Ratio finally rasps, biting deep into his shoulder. “I’ll be yours for as long as you want me.”
Aventurine can feel it—the knot. Both he and his omega cry the same, wailing for Ratio to shove it deep inside, claim him in a way no one else ever has. No one ever will. It takes two thrusts until it finally nestles inside fully, connecting them like never before.
He babbles nonsense, a litany of “c-cum inside, inside, please, please, please,” that Ratio is not allowed to disobey. Aventurine milks him for all he’s worth, letting out pleasured mewls as the cum fills him to the womb. It might even form a bulge in his stomach. What a happy, happy thought.
“Perhaps we ought to redefine the nature of our relationship.”
Ratio says this, out of the blue, in one long breath. No wonder his tits keep rising and falling so erratically. Distractingly too. Aventurine reaches over to cup his cheeks, flared in pretty hues uncharacteristic of him, and presses a kiss atop the tip of his nose.
The hues darken, reaction so adorable that he momentarily forgets the wedged-in knot inside him. It throbs, as a reminder. “Gambler, please do not make me assume what we are.”
“You said it yourself, doc, you’re mine,” Saying it out loud, that Ratio is his, is elating. He wants to record it, keep it in his archives, and replay whenever the fact seems too good to be true. Aventurine has to reach a bit to kiss his eyebrow, relaxing what tension had formed in between them. “Wouldn’t you say I’m yours in return?”
There are jasmines blooming around them, bright and rich. Ratio nuzzles into his palm, lashes aflutter as he seeks further warmth.