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“Doctor, explain to me again what is it we came for?” Aventurine’s voice rings through the quiet of the small spaceship, interrupting Ratio's focus on his notes.
“I thought I explained it succinctly enough when I originally declined your dinner invitation.”
“Sorry, Doc, but ‘I have to go to a remote science outpost to review some materials’ is not enough.”
Ratio sighs, setting down his notes. Clearly, Aventurine is not going to let this go until he’s satisfied with an answer. The gambler leans back in the pilot’s seat, propping his feet up and giving Ratio a lazy smile. “Aaaand, since I so graciously provided you with a ride, I think I deserve to know all the juicy details.”
Ratio shoots him a withering look, but Aventurine just raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to elaborate. Ratio pinches the bridge of his nose before answering, realizing he won’t be getting back to his notes anytime soon.
“A colleague I have been corresponding with, Dr. Nikolai Thorn, reached out with information regarding the Propagation,” Ratio says, his tone measured. Aventurine remains silent, waiting for him to continue.
“He believes he has recovered pieces from Tayzzyronth’s exoskeleton, and he’s asked me to come verify.” At this, Aventurine’s eyes narrow, his smile dipping slightly.
“Why just you? Surely such a discovery would garner the involvement of the entire Intelligentsia guild?”
Ratio considers his response before continuing, “Initially, I thought about involving other colleagues, but given the long history of false leads and rumors about Tayzzyronth remains—”
Aventurine scoffs, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“—I thought it to be more prudent to verify the claims myself before wasting valuable time and resources.”
“Got it! And how much time will this take exactly?” Aventurine asks, tapping his fingers on the armrest impatiently, his gaze fixed on the GPS. "You also weren't very clear on that."
“I am unsure. Scientific observations must not be hurried, lest you miss something important,” Ratio lectures evenly.
“Give me a ballpark estimate, Doc,” Aventurine insists, his restlessness clear as they approach their destination. Ratio knows exactly what Aventurine is getting at, sensing the teasing tone in his voice.
“But I expect this endeavor will take no longer than two hours. We should be back in time for your dinner reservation,” Ratio assures, a small smile on his face.
Aventurine’s grin widens and he glances away from the controls to meet Ratio’s gaze. “Perfect.”
When Aventurine docks the ship into the tiny, rundown spacedock, Ratio spots Dr. Thorn hurrying towards them. The middle-aged researcher’s sunspots are scattered across his skin like constellations, and dark circles sag beneath his eyes. As Ratio steps out, Dr. Thorn reaches him first, his excitement practically radiating from his thin frame.
“Dr. Ratio! I’m so glad you could make it,” Dr. Thorn exclaims, seizing Ratio’s hand with an enthusiasm that belies his age. He shakes it vigorously, pulling Ratio slightly off balance. Ratio resists the urge to grimace at the sudden invasion of his personal space, straightening as best he can.
Just then, Aventurine strides down the ramp, his usual smile around Ratio dropping into something more business-like. He regards Dr. Thorn with a polite nod, extending a hand with a friendly, “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Thorn.”
Dr. Thorn’s face falls as he notices Aventurine, his earlier enthusiasm fading rapidly. He pointedly ignores the offered handshake, his gaze sweeping over the gambler with open suspicion, the corner of his mouth twitching in distaste. Ratio, all too familiar with such reactions, swallows down his disappointment.
“I wasn’t aware that we would have company,” Dr. Thorn says, his voice laced with thinly veiled annoyance.
“This outpost is in a rather inconvenient location. I assure you, he is not here on official business. He merely offered me a ride.”
“Correct!” Aventurine smoothly withdraws his hand and offers a casual wave instead, his expression remaining cordial. “Can’t have the good doctor miss out on our dinner, I promise I’ll stay out of the way,” he says with a disarming grin.
Ratio shoots him a glance, knowing full well the gambler's habit of poking and prodding in his lab. “He will not,” Ratio corrects. “But I will be as quick and efficient as possible.”
Aventurine clutches his chest in an exaggerated display of mock hurt, releasing a dramatic sigh. Dr. Thorn, however, is unimpressed, turning sharply on his heel and gesturing for Ratio to follow him into the outpost without a backward glance. Dr. Thorn’s pace is brisk as he guides Ratio through the narrow, dimly lit corridors of the dilapidated building. The concrete walls are cracked, with patches of rust and mildew creeping through the crevices. As they walk, Aventurine stays behind, curiously poking at the hardy plants that have somehow managed to take root in the barren landscape outside.
“This way, please,” Dr. Thorn says, his voice slightly strained, as if embarrassed by their surroundings. He finally stops at a door that creaks loudly on its hinges, revealing what he generously called a laboratory. Ratio’s eyes sweep the room, taking in the state of disarray. The equipment is outdated, some of it broken, patched together with improvised fixes. A rather clean sofa sits in the corner, however, standing out against the dilapidated surroundings.
“I apologize for the mess,” Dr. Thorn mutters, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ve been working day and night, and I figured I could get more done if I ate and slept here.”
Ratio gives a curt nod, choosing not to comment on the disarray, though he can’t help but feel a twinge of concern over the conditions. Dr. Thorn gestures to a cabinet in the far corner, which appears to be in slightly better shape than the rest of the room. “The samples are in the back cabinet. I’ll leave you to it, Doctor!” he says, a flush creeping into his cheeks. “I’ll check on you soon.”
Before Ratio can respond, Dr. Thorn hastily makes his exit, leaving Ratio alone in the cluttered space. With each minute, Dr. Thorn leaves a worse impression on Ratio first—his open distaste for the gambler, the ruined state of his work space, and now, not even a chance to compare notes. While he usually works alone, he still affords his colleagues the bare minimum of listening to their ideas. Dr. Thorn does not seem too keen on collaborating, despite his urgency in bringing Ratio.
As he moves toward the cabinet, he hears the door click shut behind him, and the low hum of outdated machinery fills the otherwise silent room. Ratio can’t help but wonder what exactly he’ll find in these supposed samples of Tazzyronth’s exoskeleton—and why Dr. Thorn seemed so desperate for his involvement in the first place. He is certainly not an expert on the Propagation. Several of his colleagues are better suited for this endeavor, but he will not turn down a chance to learn something new, especially something of this caliber.
His movements become methodical as he dons his lab coat and pulls on a pair of sterile latex gloves, transforming the chaotic space into a place of purpose. He retrieves a portable microscope and a few vials of reagents from his briefcase, carefully arranging them on a relatively clean corner of the nearest desk. He opens the cabinet and retrieves the glass jar, squinting through the cloudy surface to see the fragments inside.
The proximity of a lush, thriving world in this star system gives every minute of his work urgency. A Swarm attack, if triggered, would decimate everything in its path—plants, animals, and people. Ratio reminds himself of this as he prepares to run his first series of tests, analyzing the crystalline structure and assessing the levels of contamination in the sample. If there’s any truth to Dr. Thorn’s claims, this could be critical data that might buy them time to prevent a catastrophe. He is determined to ensure that no minds are lost to a predictable, preventable disaster. As the microscope comes into focus and the first details of the fragment come into view, Ratio lets out a slow, steadying breath, ready to immerse himself in his work.
Yet, as soon as Ratio inspects the pieces under the microscope, something becomes glaringly clear: these are not from Tayzzyronth’s exoskeleton.
Ratio’s brow furrows as he adjusts the microscope’s focus, peering deeper into the fragments. Further examination confirms his suspicion: these pieces are not even from a True Sting, but rather from a giant beetle found on the planet Vonwacq—the Scarabornis. Though the faint waves of Propagation energy emanating from the samples are puzzling—there’s no reason for a Scarabornis exoskeleton to give off such a signature unless it had been exposed to lingering traces of an Aeon's influence.
So engrossed in the samples, Ratio barely registers Aventurine approaching him at the lab bench. He hears the gambler asking about Dr. Thorn, but the question slips away as Ratio ponders the puzzle before him.
“How could Dr. Thorn be so mistaken...The procuticle is almost translucent in places, where it should have a more opaque coloration if it truly belonged to a lineage from Tayzzyronth.”
He shakes his head, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. “These marks, they're characteristic of Scarabornis molting cycles. He should have known this.”
“Hm? How could a scientist of his caliber miss that?” Aventurine questions.
How indeed. Even the Propagation energy isn’t imbued within the exoskeleton itself as is typical with True Stings; rather, it merely coats the surface.
“I’ll need to assess the area where this sample was recovered. Dr. Thorn obviously overlooked something important,” Ratio says as he stands, sighing at the oversight. Just as he rises, the door clicks open, and Aventurine speaks up.
“Dr. Thorn, we were just thinking of–”
It all happens in an instant. He doesn’t register what occurs first—the cock of the gun or Aventurine’s hands pushing him away. For just a fraction of a second, he feels the familiar warmth of Aventurine’s shields envelop him as he falls to the floor, only to have them shatter like glass when the gunshot rings out. In a reflexive motion, Ratio shoots out a bolt of imaginary energy toward their attacker, hitting him square in the forehead. Dr. Thorn crumples to the ground, unconscious.
His heart pounds in his chest, but he is unharmed thanks to Aventurine’s quick thinking. Ratio turns to the gambler, expecting to see a crooked smile on his face, the usual lightheartedness returning after another brush with death. But the sight that greets him stops any scolding words dead in his throat.
Aventurine stands frozen, pupils blown wide. His hand is pressed flat against his abdomen, where his waistcoat is quickly staining red.
“Aventurine!” Ratio scrambles to his feet as Aventurine stumbles against the table, unable to support himself. The shock in Aventurine’s eyes is haunting; he looks lost and vulnerable. Ratio gently lowers him to the floor on his back, heart racing as he fumbles to unbutton the clothes obstructing his view. His hands tremble, heart pounding painfully against his ribs. After two failed attempts in trying to unbutton Aventurine’s shirt, Ratio rips it open instead. He can see it clearly now: the bullet has pierced straight through Aventurine’s torso, blood seeping steadily with each pulse of his heart.
“Ah, I…” Aventurine attempts to speak, but the pain and shock make his mouth unable to form words, his breath coming out in short, shallow bursts.
“Just breathe, slowly,” Ratio instructs, both to Aventurine and to himself. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. This is no time to panic. While he may not be currently practicing, he is still a doctor. He recalls the emergency gunshot wound training module he attended as a fresh-faced medical student at 17, and the details come flooding back.
Step 1: Assess the extent of the injury and find the source of bleeding
Aventurine did not just get grazed or miraculously have a metal flask in his coat pocket that absorbed the impact; no, Aventurine took a direct hit to his upper right quadrant. Based on the trajectory of the bullet and the exit wound, it’s clear the bullet perforated his liver. An incredibly deadly organ to get shot in.
A liver injury entails massive internal bleeding, leading to shock and, ultimately death if left untreated. While the blood isn’t spurting, offering a small flicker of hope that a major artery hasn’t been damaged, it does little to ease Ratio's anxiety. The liver is packed with blood vessels, and he has to stop the bleeding. Now.
“Looks like we won’t make it to dinner,” Aventurine croaks, his voice weaker than Ratio has ever heard.
“Don’t talk, you’ll agitate it more.” Ratio commands and leans in closer, trying to analyze the wound. The blood continues to seep from the entry and exit points, a steady stream that makes Ratio’s heart race. He can’t waste time.
Step 2: Attempt to stop the bleeding
Ratio grabs a washcloth from his briefcase, his hands shaking as he grips Aventurine's. He places the washcloth in the gambler’s hands and guides it to the bullet wound. “Press down as hard as you can.”
Aventurine’s hands tremble, the weight of the injury evident in his weakening grip as he does his best to apply pressure.
With no approved tourniquet at hand, Ratio knows he has to improvise. He quickly removes the top layers of his outfit, slipping off the white and blue sashes from around his shirt. He wraps them around Aventurine’s torso, tying them tight in a makeshift tourniquet. The material bites into Aventurine’s skin, making him wince, but it’s necessary. By the time Ratio finishes, the washcloth is thoroughly soaked in blood, dark red rivulets traveling down his torso and pooling onto the floor. Nausea rises in Ratio’s throat at the sight, but he pushes it down, forcing himself to focus.
Step 3: Call for paramedics
Ratio places his left hand over Aventurine’s, providing further pressure against the wound as he fumbles for Aventurine’s phone in his front pocket with his free hand. Calling from a Stoneheart’s phone rather than a humble scholar would get the help Aventurine needs faster. A single ring to the emergency line graces his ears before someone picks up.
“How—”
“Aventurine of Stratagems has been critically injured; we need a medical team immediately.” As soon as the words “critically injured” tumble out of his mouth, he hears the click-clack of furious typing on the other end.
“Due to the location, it will take longer than usual for—”
“How long?” Ratio interrupts, his voice tense with urgency.
“Twelve minutes.” Those words make his heart drop to his stomach. Aventurine does not have twelve minutes.
“Get here as soon as possible,” Ratio manages to command, his tone authoritative and final, hanging up the call and bringing his hands back to Aventurine’s trembling ones.
Ratio looks back at Aventurine's face, who is pale and growing weaker by the second. His eyes look more faded than usual, but even so, Aventurine manages a weak smile.
He can feel the weight of time pressing down on him, the reality that Aventurine will bleed out in three minutes—five if his makeshift tourniquet holds. Despite his best efforts, he is still human after all, and the sight of the pool of blood growing larger beneath Aventurine sends a cold rush of fear coursing through him.
Step 4: Wait for paramedics to arrive
The bleeding isn’t stopping, and nothing he does seems to work. Ratio presses harder, trying to keep Aventurine’s hands steady over the wound, but the blood continues to flow, pooling around them, warm and unnervingly vivid. It soaks through Ratio’s clothes, seeping onto his knees. The metallic scent of iron is thick in the air, clinging to the back of his throat, choking him.
“Ratio...” Aventurine’s voice is thin, barely more than a whisper, and Ratio catches the fleeting look of fear in his eyes. He has never seen Aventurine afraid before, nervous yes, but never this haunting look of pure fear in his eyes.
“I’m thinking,” Ratio sputters, and yet his mind is drawing a blank. He’d deemed this excursion low-risk and had packed light. Nothing of what he usually brings when collaborating with Aventurine: no anticoagulants, no adrenaline syringes, no painkillers or sleeping pills. He glances down at his open briefcase: sterile gauze, antiseptic wipes, a roll of bandages. All he has are tools fit for a scrape or small cut, nothing near what he needs for a wound as severe as this.
“Hah…of course you are,” Aventurine rasps out, his voice full of mirth despite the grave situation.
Is this truly what all his PhDs are worth? All those years of study and research, and yet, when faced with this very real crisis, his knowledge feels desperately inadequate. Is there truly nothing else he can do but watch Aventurine slowly bleed out?
“It’s ok, Doc,” Aventurine’s voice is nothing but a whisper, so weak that it sounds more like air passing through his lips than actual words. In spite of that, there is a tiny smile on his lips.
Why is he smiling? The usual warmth of his face is gone, now ghostly pale. His chest is barely rising with each weak, shallow breath. His hands are trembling—his left far more than his right. He’s afraid, and yet he’s smiling, accepting his fate.
“Stop it,” he bites out. He will not let Aventurine die here. The gambler shouldn’t even have been here in the first place. When he had initially declined Aventurine's dinner invitation, citing his plan to visit Dr. Thorn and view the samples, Aventurine had immediately offered him a ride, saying 'This way you don’t have to deal with those pesky wait times, and you can still make it to dinner.'
He had accepted, of course, as would any man.
Now, as he grapples with the consequences of that choice, he recalls how Dr. Thorn suddenly reached out to him three weeks ago, after his year-long sabbatical. So intrigued was he by Dr. Thorn’s potential findings that he never stopped deeply to think about the researcher's year-long disappearance with no published papers—an oversight that might cost him dearly. But this is no time to think of what-ifs; Aventurine needs his help now.
Think, Veritas Ratio, think.
He cannot–will not, be one of those fumbling idiots who stand around helplessly. His mind races, clinging to every piece of information he knows about Aventurine. There must be something in there, anything that he can use to buy Aventurine some time. He drags the medical data he’s gathered over the years of their partnership to the forefront of his mind, grasping for anything that could help him slow the bleeding or stabilize Aventurine until the paramedics arrive.
He forces himself to focus, trying his best to ignore how Aventurine’s dazed eyes are fighting to stay open, his body starting to go into shock.
Species: Avgin.
Traditional diet: Blood, seeds and nuts, cured meats, dried fruits.
Notable traits: Hypnotic eyes, fangs, resistant immune system, fast wound healing.
The words whirl through his mind, information that he’s known for years but never truly needed until now. Much of the information on Sigonians, and Avgins specifically, is hearsay or downright rooted in bigotry.
However, the ‘vampiric’ traits are real, he has seen Aventurine’s dental records, the stark white rooted above his canine gums unmistakable for anything other than fangs. Has heard Aventurine complain of a toothache during periods when he knew that the gambler was working late, often after hours of not eating. On one occasion, he even witnessed a doctor offering Aventurine a blood bag; he adamantly refused.
The calculations race through his mind: the volume of blood Aventurine has already lost, the rate of blood loss, and the time it’ll take the paramedics to arrive. Each factor compounds the sheer improbability of survival if he does nothing. He knows the odds, his mind throwing out probabilities like clockwork.
The odds of Aventurine’s survival if he follows protocol and waits for the paramedics: 8%.
The odds if he gives Aventurine blood: 64% with a standard error of 15%.
The answer is obvious, yet every instinct as a scientist screams at him to follow protocol, to wait for medical professionals. But Ratio knows he can’t watch Aventurine slip away, not when there’s something he can do to tip the scales. He promises to apologize when Aventurine makes a full recovery.
Taking a deep breath, he braces himself and rolls up his sleeve. He quickly cleans the junction in his elbow with an antiseptic wipe, and with steady hands, he slides a syringe into the vein of his arm, feeling a brief prick before the blood begins to fill the container.
Once the blood has been extracted, he removes the needle and positions the syringe over Aventurine's lips, ready to take the gamble. Pushing down slowly on the plunger, he watches as the warm blood falls into Aventurine’s mouth. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then, Aventurine’s eyes flutter back open, strength returning to them. His fangs start to peek through, the blood seeming to awaken something primal within him.
Aventurine’s fingers twitch and attempt to reach up, but his strength fails him. “Doc,” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy. “What are you...?"
“Saving your life,” Ratio responds, his heart racing at the next step he must take. He knows there are no transfusion machines to administer blood efficiently and safely. The minuscule amount from the syringe will be time-consuming and inadequate. Ripping open another antiseptic wipe, Ratio scrubs his neck quickly.
Aventurine will have to feed from Ratio directly.
Their position on the floor is ill-suited for what needs to happen next and while Aventurine is more alert now, he’s still not in any condition to move on his own. Ratio slides his right arm under Aventurine, propping him up with all the strength he can muster. The effort causes Aventurine to hiss in pain, but no more protest comes from him. He hauls them both to their feet, his knees shaking slightly as he nearly drags Aventurine to the couch.
Once there, Ratio maneuvers them carefully to lie back on the couch, trying not to agitate the wound too much. The couch is far too small for two grown men, so Ratio shifts, positioning himself to allow Aventurine to fit between his thighs. Now in position, Ratio wraps his arms around Aventurine's torso, locking them in place to keep proper pressure on the wound from both sides. In such close proximity, Ratio can distinctly smell Aventurine’s signature perfume, tainted metallic with the scent of blood. Aventurine’s breath is weak and shallow against his neck.
With a soft exhale, Ratio leans his head back, exposing the vulnerable skin of his neck.
“You know what to do, gambler,” he urges, his heart pounding not just from the urgency of the situation but also from nervousness. He's allowing Aventurine a part of him no one else has had access to. Considering the circumstances—and knowing how Aventurine jumps at any opportunity to kiss and bite him under different, more intimate situations—Ratio expects him to act immediately. Yet, the gambler does not move at all.
Belatedly, he realizes that Aventurine is waiting for express permission.
“Go ahead, gambler. I will stop you if the risks get too high,” As the words leave his lips, he feels the tension ease in Aventurine, who exhales softly as if he were holding his breath.
Ratio is about to speak up again when he feels something warm and wet run up the side of his neck. The unexpected sensation causes a shudder to run through him.
“Wha—” Before he can even start his sentence, Ratio feels a sharp pain in his neck, causing a small hiss to leave his lips.
The initial sting quickly fades, replaced by an unexpected warmth that radiates through his body. He realizes that what he assumes to be an anticoagulant enters his bloodstream, and with it comes a soothing sensation that numbs the area. The initial unpleasant feeling of being drained of blood dissipates, leaving only a warm, pleasant glow. He feels a strange calmness wash over him despite everything.
Fascinating—he notes the effects with a clinical mind, hypothesizing the presence of a minute neurotoxin, designed to keep prey calm during a feeding. But this is not that kind of encounter. He is not prey, and Aventurine is not a predator.
Aventurine’s grip tightens on Ratio’s shoulders, and his body jerks lightly, his strength slowly returning. Ratio tightens his grip around him, any movement at this conjecture will agitate the wound and cause Aventurine to bleed out more.
“Don’t move around,” he scolds, feeling his strength starting to drain a bit. Aventurine says nothing, continuing to feed from him. A sharper, headier sensation settles into Ratio’s gut, and he distantly recognizes it as pleasure.
Another intriguing observation: not only does Aventurine’s saliva have a calming effect, but it also seems to elicit a sense of arousal while feeding. This creates a positive feedback loop, transforming feeding from a fearful encounter into a pleasurable experience.
And Aventurine is no stranger to this pleasure as well if the hardened cock digging into his hip is anything to go by.
It’s fine. A natural reaction to the circumstances, and after all, this is for Aventurine’s survival. But Aventurine won’t stop moving, making it difficult for Ratio to keep sufficient pressure on his torso. He adjusts his grip, stronger this time, and the movement brings their pelvises flush against each other. This positions Aventurine’s cock to rub against Ratio’s cunt in a move that makes both of them gasp. In an effort to adjust his hips without removing his arms, Ratio effectively grinds against Aventurine’s cock.
Aventurine immediately halts his movements, breaking away from Ratio’s neck. Ratio isn’t sure how much blood Aventurine needs to stabilize, but even so, he knows it hasn’t been enough yet. Beneath his fingertips, he can feel Aventurine’s blood beginning to cool, a sign that the bleeding is slowing. It seems that his gamble has paid off, but Aventurine is still not out of danger; he needs to continue feeding for a while longer.
His voice comes out breathier than he’d like, though whether it’s from blood loss or something else entirely, Ratio isn’t sure. But none of that matters now. Tilting his head, he exposes more of his neck.
"Continue," he murmurs, the word barely a command but enough to spur Aventurine on. Without hesitation, Aventurine dives back in, lips sealing over Ratio’s skin. The pull of another deep draw makes a moan tumble out of Ratio’s mouth. At the same time, Aventurine grinds his hips slowly into Ratio, his clothed cock rubbing over Ratio’s folds. The friction of the cotton against his clit sends jolts that skirt at the edge of discomfort, yet it amplifies the pleasure that’s already winding through him. It must be the endorphins present in Aventurine’s saliva that have left his mind feeling full of cotton, a pleasant fog clouding his mind.
Each roll of Aventurine’s hips brings both tenderness and pleasure, almost unbearable as it sends sparks through him. He feels himself getting wetter, his body responding eagerly to the irresistible pressure, clenching around emptiness wanting desperately to be filled. Aventurine is so, so close to where he wants it most, but his small scraps of rationality still hold. He knows he can’t risk releasing his grip, not when Aventurine is still in such an unstable state. Though he aches for more, to be filled with Aventurine, he will not let go.
Ratio’s cheeks flush as he feels just how wet he’s become, the slick fabric of his underwear adding a smooth slide against his clit with every movement. Aventurine’s movements gain momentum, and he can feel the gambler’s breaths coming hotter and steadier against his neck. The faint sounds escaping from Aventurine’s lips, raw and heavy, send an electric shiver down his spine. Aventurine presses in closer still so that Ratio can feel each quiver of Aventurine’s body against his own.
The overwhelming sensations swell, and the familiar coil in his gut pulls impossibly tight until he can barely contain it. When Aventurine rolls his hips just right against his clit, it sends him spiraling over the edge, a wanton moan tumbling from his lips. Aventurine continues to move against him, riding out Ratio’s orgasm, extending the waves of ecstasy crashing over him. Ratio had expected a moment's rest but he should know better by now–Aventurine is disastrously insatiable.
Aventurine doesn’t stop moving.
Even as his body trembles in the afterglow, Aventurine keeps rutting into him, grinding his impossibly hard cock against him with wild fervor. His oversensitive nerves ignite with each brush, the double-edged sword of pleasure-pain searing through him. Any coherent, rational thought dissolves, leaving him with nothing but the intensity of the raw sensations flooding through him. All that matters is the warmth of Aventurine pressed so close to him, overwhelming his senses.
“Mm…Ratio,” A shiver runs through him from the way Aventurine murmurs his name, low and full of wanting. Ratio chooses to ignore how a whimper escapes him, both at Aventurine’s tone of voice, but also because Aventurine is speaking to him again. It had only been a few minutes of silence, yet those minutes filled with Ratio’s doubts and Aventurine’s silent wheezing stretched like an eternity, heavy as lead in his stomach.
Aventurine dives back into his neck like a man starved, tracing over his neck in a series of open-mouthed kisses, savoring every drop that still drips from the puncture wounds. Filthy noises tumble from the gambler’s mouth, even louder than Ratio’s own, like it’s the best thing Aventurine has ever indulged in.
And when Aventurine says “Mm, you taste so good,” in between breathy kisses, it’s with the same fervent tone as when he’s nestled between his thighs, eating him out like he never wants to do anything else again.
His chest aches as each insistent rut from Aventurine presses his length against the sensitive, aching hole just beneath the fabrics separating them. With one particular thrust, Aventurine’s cock presses in just the right way, pushing in the stretchy fabric of his pants until Ratio can almost feel the tip breaching him.
His mind floods with memories of their last time together, of Aventurine filling him, stretching him open with a heat that reached every nerve in his body. The mere thought tightens the coil in his core, making him acutely aware of how empty he is, of how badly he wants Aventurine inside him once more. By now Ratio’s underwear is completely ruined, soaked with his slick, each thrust from Aventurine drawing out lewd, wet sounds that echo in the vast space.
“Ah, good heavens, you–you’re so wet, Doc,” Aventurine seems to be back to a more stable state; enough for him to let every filthy thought spill freely.
“Stop your–ah–incessant ramblings,” he mutters, but his voice betrays him, caught between a gasp and a stifled whine.
“Bet I could slide right in,” Aventurine murmurs right up against his ear, punctuating his words with slow, deliberate thrust right up against his clothed hole. “No need to stretch you like I usually do.”
The words bring heat to his face and ears but also ignite a raw hunger deep inside him. He bites his lip, torn between the desperate need for more and his pride.
Ignoring the bait, Ratio says, “You... still need more,” noticing the lingering paleness of Aventurine’s skin and the faint dullness in his gaze. Aventurine’s eyebrows raise at his words before a tiny smug smirk creeps onto his lips.
“Doctor’s orders, right?” With that, Aventurine latches onto the puncture wounds once more. This time, though, Ratio’s vision spins with a sudden, dizzying pleasure. It’s a sensation too intense to be caused by blood loss alone. His answer comes in the wet smacks amidst the throaty moans that come from the gambler. More saliva, more endorphins–an intoxicating cocktail spreading through Ratio’s veins.
His body arches instinctively, hips moving to meet Aventurine as their gasps intermingle. Even through his black shirt, he feels Aventurine’s fingers grazing and pinching his chest. A gentler touch than usual, but it still causes a tingling, electric sensation to settle over him. Both are so focused on chasing the pleasure the other is providing, moving their bodies in tandem with wild abandon. He can no longer tell his moans from Aventurine's, their voices overlapping and filling the space around them.
And he’s so, so close, the arousal in his core making it painful to breathe. Aventurine is as well, his breaths becoming shallow and needy, his thrusts losing their rhythm.
The sensations get to be too much, turning his mind to mush: Aventurine’s cock pressing against his clit and hole, his masterful mouth against his neck and his nimble fingers playing with his nipple.
“P–Please,” he whimpers, barely knowing what he’s asking for. But that one word is enough for Aventurine.
It’s with one final, strong thrust that Aventurine’s tip finally breaches inside him despite the layers between them, and the friction, the heat—sends him over the edge. His vision goes white as Aventurine’s name is torn from his throat as he climaxes for the second time, slick further staining his already ruined clothes.
Aventurine shudders, breath catching with a needy moan as he follows right after, body trembling and then fully collapsing against Ratio. As Ratio takes a deep breath, coming down from the peak, he realizes that Aventurine hasn’t moved at all. He shifts, angling his head down, only to see Aventurine’s face, calm, eyes closed in what looks like deep sleep. His heart skips in fear until he notices that the blood beneath his fingers is completely cold.
When did Aventurine stop bleeding? He hadn’t realized it at all.
Carefully, he removes his arms from Aventurine’s torso, easing himself out from under him. Maneuvering Aventurine onto his back, he inspects the wound. The blood has fully coagulated, closing the wound and stopping the bleeding entirely. That doesn’t mean that Aventurine’s internal bleeding has stopped as well, however. Pressing two fingers to the gambler’s jugular he finds his pulse is steady, a bit lower than normal, but steady. A long, unsteady breath leaves him, one he hadn’t realized he was holding as he collapses to his knees next to the couch.
The sound of sirens grows louder in the distance. Finally, the medical team arrived.
Ratio glances down at himself, taking in the sight of both his and Aventurine’s blood smeared across his clothes. The slick cooling against his skin beneath his pants is sticky and uncomfortable. He feels utterly drained and knows he’s due for an immediate bath. But he looks back at Aventurine, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest and the faint flush returning to his cheeks.
He hears the paramedic team rushing through the front doors of the station; if they’re competent they will arrive at their location shortly. Ratio is already planning on how he’ll have to reschedule meetings and classes to be able to visit Aventurine in the hospital, aware of the gambler’s penchant for ignoring doctors’ orders. He can already envision the scolding he’ll have to give Aventurine for being reckless with his life once again—and for ruining his pants in the process.
But that is for later because, despite everything, Aventurine is here, alive. Hurt, and depending on the extent of the damage, will most likely have a long recovery ahead of him, but alive. His actions made a difference, and he brings his hand to Aventurine’s cheek, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from his face, peaceful and serene.
The warmth of the skin underneath his fingertips reassures him.