Shipname: Burnt to the Ground
Part 2 of: Una and Ricardo's Wonderful Sex Adventures
Disclaimer: everything, and I mean everything, belongs to Malin Rydén. It's not my fault his characters are dumbasses and lead to this kind of work.
Context: We were talking about Hollow Ground with friends. It occurred to me that Ortega and Una would definitely find a way to be freaky about it. I was encouraged down the path of evil. I can only hope now that Hollow Ground will glimpse this in Una's mind and die from psychic damage, mwah.
What to expect: Una and Ortega work on the mysteries of Lord Ember and Hollow Ground's gang wars. All bets are off. All pants are too. Suggestive, though not particularly explicit: rated M.
2021
(UNA)
It starts on Sunday morning, for conspiracy breakfast. It starts when Ricardo pins that picture on the kitchen wall, among the other pictures, among the red thread and the articles, and on the picture there they both are, sharing a look of intensely polished hatred above a champagne glass, Lord Ember and Hollow Ground, seen together at a cocktail party a few months ago, all dapperly decked in—where is that, Carson City? You feel like you know that high-ceilinged room, from a past life, from your past life.
But all in all, it starts because you’re an idiot, and because Ricardo looks like Ricardo does wearing just his sweatpants and not much else. So you say:
“You think they fuck?”
You gotta give it to him: he doesn’t even choke on the coffee he stole from you. No, no. The swallow a casual bob of his lovely throat, then a step back, and serious consideration, eyes on the wall-board, head tilted to the side. You wonder why he ever hated those glasses: they really have a knack for making your stomach flip a little too low.
Never tell him that, though.
“You think they fuck?” he asks, crossing his arms, which jut at the triceps, which you notice, which he knows.
“I think…”
You glance at Hollow Ground’s face again, on the wall: her mirror-face, so similar to yours, though harder, wider; her fancier haircut, her darker hair, her straightened, shortened, whitened teeth. Breaking them knuckles to gums will feel even sweeter knowing they cost her a fortune.
On the kitchen chair, you spread your tattooed legs, which jut at the quadriceps, which he notices, which you know.
“I think she would really hate knowing we know she’s getting pounded into oblivion by the Viscount of San Fran.”
“And you would know…” his smile is a lighthouse, a starburst of delight. “Since you’re practically her, really. Gracias a dios for technology.”
Fuck. Don’t laugh at that. Ignore the challenge smile, the obvious taunt.
“Amen,” you nod. “Want to do something about it?”
Holding his gaze is the kind of effort that makes your head burn; and burn it does, and burn it does, as he steps closer, yes come come closer, you open flame.
“Only if you call me My lord.”
Continued here.
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