Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Happy Valentine's day.” Nacho greets you with a face full of roses as you open the door. He smiles—that little side-smile that he has when he sees you, or Amber, or Jo—and hands the flowers to you, planting a kiss on your forehead before you can process who's even standing at your door.

“Ignacio…” you gasp, stroking the petals of each bud, spreading them apart and admiring the rich sanguine tones inside. You step aside to let him in when you realise that he's still standing out there waiting. “You didn't have to do this.”

You didn't even expect to be seeing him today. Despite it being Valentine's day, Nacho still has to work—Lalo certainly wouldn't appreciate him disappearing in the middle of their ‘duties’—but here he is.

“I wanted to.” He responds, stepping through your apartment and flopping onto the couch with a grunt. The leather creaks under his weight, remembering his form and adhering to it beneath him. You feel his eyes on you, examining you, as you follow him into the living room and place the flowers on the coffee table in front of him.

“I thought you had work.” You hum, meeting his eyes with your own. Rich, dark eyes that bore into you and see right through to your core, bottomless voids but not quite empty. Everything about him sucks you in, entraps you in a snare that gets your heart racing and hair standing on end. Warmth tingles in your chest, fluttering there and struggling to contain itself, as another smile breaks out onto Nacho's face—eyes wide and always searching for something inside of you. So handsome. 

“Slow day. He doesn't need me right now,” An unusual occurrence, for sure, but not an unwelcome one. There's something in his voice that makes the tingling spread elsewhere —a rumbling undertone that sends all of that warmth downwards. “So… I thought I'd come see you.”

Your eyes move away from Nacho's, wandering down to the flowers sitting on the table again. Fresh roses, bound together with twine around the stems, still glistening with this morning's drizzle. The lack of a price tag or the typical plastic wrap brings up the question of their origin in your mind.

“Did you pick these yourself?” You ask, unable to contain your curiosity, as you join Nacho on the couch. He wraps an arm around you as you settle in, pulling you into him and holding you tight. He smells like smoke—cigarettes and other things —and somewhat damp, like he's been rolling around in dirt. The scent confirms your assumptions.

“Mhm,” He responds nonchalantly, rubbing up your arm and giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. You can feel your cheeks growing hotter with every word. “I didn't want to get you the shitty ones left at the store, so what else was I gonna do?”

Your hand moves to his thigh. The muscle twitches and tenses in response to your touch initially, but quickly relaxes. You squeeze. Muscular and firm… The heat in the pit of your stomach grows and you can't help but grip your thighs together in response.

It's almost as if he can sense it—that building heat. Nacho's grip on your shoulder tightens and you hear his heart begin to speed up as you press your face into his chest. Your hand moves up, taking it slow to massage the sturdy flesh, and finally stops as you reach his belt.

“You like them then?” He breathes with a weak chuckle, not making a move to stop you as you fiddle with his belt buckle. The metal clinks as you unclasp it, immediately attacking the fly of his jeans. You can feel him growing hard at your touch beneath the denim.

“They're beautiful,” you purr as you pull your face away from Nacho's chest. “I want to thank you.” You bite your lip gently as your gaze meets his again, half-lidded and hazed with lust. Those eyes, those gorgeous eyes, undressing you and imagining you in all sorts of compromising situations.

He assists, unzipping his fly and revealing the bulge hidden in his boxers. You palm at it, massaging his growing cock through the thin cloth, and earn a satisfactory groan in response. He rubs down your arm, across your back, and up to your hair where he buries his fingers in and grips—firm but not painfully, holding you in place, guiding your movements.

A whimper crawls its way up your throat, your eyes travelling down again as you slip your fingers under his waistband. You pause for a moment, silently asking for permission to continue, and Nacho replies by helping you pull his underwear down completely with his free hand.

His length springs out, twitching in the cool air. Smooth, caramel-coloured flesh, darkened and flushed at the head and disappearing into a nest of neat hair, just begging to be touched. The urge to take it all into your mouth right now is overwhelming, tugging at your stomach and urging your head forward.

Resistance is futile. You rub your cheek against his swollen sex in an attempt to control yourself, taking in his scent and relishing in the familiar musk. Burying your nose into the patch of dark, wiry hair at its base—inhaling deeply, taking in the scent of his arousal—you begin to massage the tip of Nacho's cock slowly. He groans, leaning his head back into the couch and massaging his fingers into your scalp.

“Don't tease me, baby…” Nacho mutters, rolling his hips up into your fist. Needy. He's not needy… Maybe he's had a bad day. The thought only urges you on; you want him to feel good for what he did for you.

You lift your head, positioning your mouth at Nacho's tip. The tang of sweat infiltrates your nose, infects your mind, makes the heat in your crotch roar and transform into a throbbing ache. The pads of his fingers massage into your scalp more, pushing you forward, making your lips meet his tip.

Your tongue darts out, yearning to taste, lapping gently at the throbbing flesh. Nacho moans this time, bringing his hand up to his mouth to clench his knuckle between his teeth. No, no.

You stop, in spite of his plea not to tease. His brows knit together, eyes dart downwards to see what the barrier must be between you and his dick—because why else would you stop? But there's no barrier, only you sitting there expectantly.

“What?” Nacho asks, breathless and almost whiny. His grip on your hair tightens, stinging your skull and loosening weak follicles. You almost pout, reaching up to tug on his sleeve and pull his arm down, away from his mouth.

“I want to hear you,” you breathe against his skin, watch him stifle a shudder as your mouth closes in on his cock again. Close but not close enough, soft lips barely grazing needy skin. “It's just us.”

You live alone. Or, circumstantially alone. Nacho stays here sometimes—in your shitty little apartment that he helps you pay for—and sometimes he brings Amber and Jo. And sometimes Amber and Jo show up on their own, loaded with Nacho's meth, with the hope to get high with someone. It's difficult not to indulge them.

“Okay…” Nacho responds, obedient and wanting. He keeps his hand down, balled into a fist, gripping the fabric of his own clothes as you take his tip between your lips, and he allows himself to release his sounds—albeit hesitantly.

It's choked at first, almost awkward in a way. You know he certainly isn't faking it, but he isn't really the vocal type when it comes to sex, despite being so skilled when it comes to the act itself. He will talk—whisper wanton things into your ear or purr something that sounds sexy in Spanish that you can't understand—but he will rarely moan until he finally comes and lets himself loose.

He wants this. Bad. You can feel it in the way he grips your head, practically begging you to move just that inch further, to take him fully into that warm wetness that he craves; in the throbbing of his pulse in the head of his cock, racing and desperate. You want it too.

Salty precum tinges your tongue as you swirl it around Nacho's tip, sucking in your cheeks and squeezing another moan out of him. You see him resist the urge to move his hand up, to cover his sounds and hide that sensitive part of himself. He doesn't do it because you told him not to, and that makes your gut twist in the most delectable way.

You move forward, taking more of Nacho into your mouth, deeper down your throat. Stretching the muscle, allowing it time to accommodate him, feeling his weight on your tongue. You crave this; this familiar weight in your mouth, the taste of his sweat and his lust, the whisper of Lalo's cigar still clinging to his clothes. Pressing forward until your throat tightens, forcing tears to prickle at your waterline, but you don't stop.

Nacho tastes good. His essence runs down your throat, salty and bitter but so fucking good—urges you to gag, but you force the reflex away. His head lulls back, hand raised now only to cover his eyes, as more moans escape him. Vulnerable moans, moans that you wouldn't expect to hear coming out of a cartel gangster, soft and begging and breathless.

“Baby—ah, fuck…” he whispers between sharp breaths, pulling your hair and prompting your head to move. You suck, tongue running up the thick, pronounced vein lining the underside of Nacho's cock, eager for it. He notices this, smiles softly, even manages a chuckle, before descending into his puddle of pleasure again.

You feel each muscle in his thigh twitch against your fingers the harder that you squeeze. Deep breaths, slow and steady and heavy, drawn into your lungs with tremendous effort as you choke yourself on your boyfriend's dick. You love this. You love him. Don't you?

The head of his dick pops into the back of your throat, pushing over that boundary as he bucks his hips up into you. His grip on your hair tightens again, holding you in place as he starts to fuck into your mouth, unable to control himself.

And you let him. You choke, gag, and the tears finally break their dam and stream their way down your cheeks, but you make no moves to stop him. Nacho needs this. You like to think he needs you. It's not as if you don't like it, anyways. You are willingly his to use.

Mierda, you hear him slur above you, drunk on pleasure. His noises have become gruff and low, rumbling in his chest and through his cock into your throat where it floods your entire mouth with saliva, like a wild animal in a rut. The spit quickly bubbles over the barrier you attempt to create with your lips, unable to stop the slick drool from running down your chin and down Nacho's cock to form a puddle at its base. He doesn't seem to mind, relentlessly rolling his hips up and up and up until you see stars.

“I—” Nacho's breath hitches in his throat, his grip falters for just a moment. You feel his length twitch, veins pulsing, and you taste a flood of new bitterness in your throat. Please, please… You want nothing more than for Ignacio to come down your thro—

Buzzing, sudden and distracting, emanates from Nacho's left pocket. He jumps at the ringtone that echoes out after the first, unnoticed, vibration, and lets go of your head altogether to snatch the phone from his jeans.

The tone—beeping, loud and shrill—sends a flood of cold throughout the pit of your stomach, replacing the arousal with trembling anxiety. You pull away from his dick instinctually, gasping for air and choking on it when you take in too much.

Nacho leans forward, cupping your jaw comfortingly in one hand and his phone, to which his eyes are glued, in the other. You look up at him through a bleary haze, knit your eyebrows together in confusion, want to ask who it is but know somewhere deep down already. You can tell from the look on his face—from the sudden lack of colour in his cheeks and lack of light in his eyes.

He flips open his phone and you hear that irritating voice, always so fucking jovial and inconvenient. Nacho looks ill. He's not as hard anymore and you also know that this is over.

He says something in Spanish, fast and completely unintelligible to you, and then promptly slams his phone shut with a bull-like huff. He looks down at you, face softening only slightly, but it's evident that he's pissed.

“Lalo wants me.”

Lalo. It's always fucking Lalo.

“It's okay, baby.” You make an attempt to comfort Nacho and it seems to work—superficially, at least. He leans forward, wiping the spit from your chin, and kisses you. His scruff prickles your skin, makes you want to giggle, but you lean into him and push your tongue into his mouth.

Nacho's breath catches again as he tastes himself, but he doesn't pull away. He responds in turn, holding your cheek, running his tongue across yours and the ridges of your teeth. He's the one to pull away, breathless and full of colour again.

“I'll be back.” He promises, leaning back to make himself decent again. You sit up and flop into a proper sitting position. You're just as frustrated as Nacho must be. The sight of him buckling his belt, getting ready to leave your apartment, knowing that you haven't satisfied him makes you wildly uncomfortable.

“Okay,” you sigh, glancing back to the flowers on the coffee table. You should really get a vase for those. Nacho pulls your attention back to him, stepping in front of you, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. You remember how beautiful he is every time you look; his face never gets old. “I love you.” It comes out so naturally, so quickly, that you barely realise that you've said it.

Nacho smiles but his eyes narrow. He doesn't respond, only leaning in to kiss you again, quicker this time.

And then he's gone. With the click of the front door and the hum of an engine in the parking lot, Ignacio has completely disappeared.

It's always fucking Lalo.

Chapter Text

You tried to like Lalo. You really tried.

Listened to him ramble when you first met, laughed at his shitty jokes, paid your respects by staying quiet unless spoken to. You let him put his hands on your shoulders, let him grip the muscle firmly enough to sting, didn’t move when he wrapped his arms around your neck and used you as a headrest. Didn't move for Nacho's sake. Acted real nice and sweet for Nacho's sake.

You tried really hard to like Lalo. You excused his, admittedly, creepy behaviour, his leering stares, his hushed conversations that seemed to make Nacho's blood boil.

Now all you can feel for Lalo is hatred as you arrange the flowers that Ignacio picked for you in the vase on the counter. He's always calling, always ‘needing Nacho’ , always dragging him away from you.

One of the more fragile stems breaks in your fist, forcing the realisation that you're gripping the roses with such mighty force that the thorns may as well be one with your palm upon you—alongside a rush of burning pain in the pads of your hands. Shit.

The snapped rose wilts over, hanging pathetically over the lip of the vase, as you pull away your hand to assess the damage.

Just a prick. Like Lalo. A bead of crimson swells in your palm, running down the crease of your hand and leaving a saturated trail in its wake. If Nacho were here what would he say?

Maybe he'd reprimand you for damaging one of the flowers he so lovingly selected and cut for you. Or maybe he would be worried about you. He always seems to worry—about you or about his dad or about his other girls or just something. He always looks steely, shifty, like there's something on his mind and—in spite of your efforts—you can never seem to pry it out of him.

Couch. That's where you want to be and you find yourself there before you can make the conscious decision to move. Flopped over, laying in the dent where Nacho was sitting about an hour ago. Before Lalo took him.

Heat rises in your cheeks and your ears, prickling at the back of your neck and making your head teem with what feels like thousands of tiny fire ants, nipping at your eyes and making your brain ache. You hate how Lalo infiltrates your mind, always sitting somewhere in the background just waiting to pop up again—like the smell of his stupid fucking cigarillos that clings to every piece of clothing and never, never goes away. Your head is pounding; your throat is pounding; your fingers are pounding. Every part of you is pulsing with the gallop of your heart.

You want a cigarette. You want something more than a cigarette. Your vision focuses on the bong and lighter sitting across the room on the TV stand, blocking the sensor. Did you put it there? Maybe Amber moved it last time she smoked here. You can't remember.

Again, you're moving before you can think, towards the glass apparatus, reaching out and gripping the throat of it in your hand—stinging pain, fire ants, Lalo.

Lighter. Baggie. Bong.

You're sitting on the couch again, staring at the device in front of you. It's a lot. In spite of the marijuana leaves patterning the glass, it isn't the substance packed into the bowl. Nacho brings the glass to you. Sometimes.

Some little part of your brain likes to tell you that Nacho doesn't want you to smoke; likes to over-analyse his expression as he pops his head into the room and tosses you another baggie; likes to replay his words, ‘for you’ , over and over until they don't sound like English anymore and you convince yourself he said something in Spanish instead.

You wish he were here now, to over-analyse. Your apartment is quiet, uncomfortably so. The silence creeps up on you, makes your neck itch.

Should you call someone over?

No. You want to be alone. You want to sulk. And you certainly don't want to share.

Flame, smoke, buzz. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. Oh Gooooooddddd… so good… you slump on the couch, coughing you think, lungs full of thick, yellowish smoke that leaks out of your nose and mouth and burns so bad. Chemically bitterness bites your throat, makes you want to gag—ohhh, Nacho…—but you don't, you hope. You don't want to throw up.

Maybe you do throw up, you can't remember. Every colour is so bright and hazy through the tears collecting in your eyes—from the cough, yeah—that it distracts you. You want to get up. Move, move, move.

*

Your phone is ringing. You can barely hear it over the blaring static of the TV in the living room—max volume. There was a movie playing, but you got distracted. You remembered that the wallpaper in your bedroom is peeling—moved to the room. There isn't much wallpaper now, so it's not a problem. The problem is the scraps all over the floor.

Clean it. You want to clean it, but you want to answer the phone humming on your bed where you left it. Answer it.

Phone in one hand, paper in the other. You don't look at the number before you answer, just eager to chat.

“Yeah?” The word comes out fast. Everything feels fast, or, well, slow. Too slow. Fucking move, do something, then! You begin transporting the paper scraps from the bedroom floor to the kitchen—the counter is fine, it's closer than the bin. You try not to trip over your own feet, pulsing and buzzing with your heartbeat that is still pounding in your skull, but nicely this time. You like this pounding.

“Babe?” Nacho! Did you say that out loud? Maybe. He clears his throat, like he knows that you're high. He always knows. He's so smart. “Are you home?”

“Yeah, mhm, what's up?” All of the words seem to jumble into one to you, but he makes sense of it. Floor, paper, counter, floor, paper, counter.

“I'm gonna pick you up, but…” he pauses. Pick you up! Your eyes blow wide and you thought that your heart couldn't race any faster than it was already going—a hummingbird, trapped in your chest. Humming over the phone too. Where is he?

“Are you coming now?” You ask, abandoning the scraps and opting to pace around instead. Your free hand flaps, shakes, twists and grips all on its own to release just a little bit of the buzz.

“Yeah, baby, but listen to me, I, uh—” Nacho is interrupted by another voice, an irritating voice. Fucking Lalo. You think that you say this out loud too, because that voice laughs a smoky laugh that rings in your ear and makes your skin feel cold and hot and ants, motherfucking ants, oh my God.

“Yeah. I was trying to say that Lalo is with me. I just wanna take you to my place, okay?” 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay.

If you have to sit in that car with Lalo for 20 minutes or an hour or fucking forever then so be it! You want to see Ignacio. You speak, you agree. Fine. It’s fine.

“I’ll see you soon.” And then Nacho is gone again, replaced with the monotonous dial tone.

But he'll be here soon. Not soon enough. You look down at yourself, at the sweat-and-meth-stained tank top clinging to your skin, and have the lucidity through the high to suggest to yourself that getting changed would be a good idea.

The closet is messy. So messy! How could you let it get this bad? You throw the clothes out of the closet onto the bed—you have to completely redo this thing, you have to. In doing so, you find something presentable.

A new shirt, some jeans. Is this Nacho's shirt? You hold up the black t-shirt in your hands, look at the golden light of the sunset outside your window through the fibres, sniff. Sniff… Maybe. It's big. For you. He's big. That's good enough to be his if it's in your closet.

It smells like him as you pull it over your head—the slightest tinge of musky sandalwood that sends a tingle through your skull. It's his, definitely. And knowing that makes you feel goood…

You want to smoke more before Nacho gets here—want to be able to completely disconnect from the ride with Lalo—but something jittery and paranoid inside repels you from the bong, forcing you to sit impatiently at the kitchen counter.

Tap, tap, tap. You attempt to create a rhythm across the faux marble countertops with your fingers. One, one, two, one, two, two, one—maybe you should check the window and see if he's here yet.

You turn on your heel, pace across the kitchen to the window facing the parking lot, peek between the slatted blinds hoping to see that red Javelin pulling in.

A red car pulls in, making your heart jump. But not his car. You only know the make because he talks about it so much—during those nice, long drives where it's just you and him that are so few and far between. You could recognise his car from a mile away, even if you'd smoked a whole pound of glass.

Black truck.

Nacho only seems to talk to you when it's just the two of you. He'll chat to you with Amber and Jo, something flirty or just following the conversation, but he'll go cold when someone like Lalo is around… stone-faced. 

Silver hatchback.

You imagine smashing in Lalo's face with a stone, or a big, sharp rock. That would be nice. Or maybe just crushing him with a huge boulder, like a mosquito under a swatter. He's a mosquito. A parasite.

Red Javelin, white stripe.

The hummingbird in your chest returns and spreads that euphoric buzz that you crave throughout your whole body as you watch the vehicle pull in and park in the usual spot. You don’t need to smoke. Seeing Ignacio brings its own sort of high.

It’s chilly outside. Your knees rattle as you descend the stairs, cool wind prickling the skin beneath your jeans and forcing you to hug your arms around yourself. Even with a jacket on, the desert winds cut through your clothes like a knife. You thought that it would be warmer this time of year—warmer and drier.

You see Ignacio sitting in the passenger seat as you approach the car and Lalo tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, staring off into space with those bottomless eyes. Music is playing, but Lalo seems to be the only one enjoying it.

Nacho’s face changes when he sees you—seems to twitch with worry like it always does, always worrying so much—but you see his hand move to unlock the door, swinging it open. Music, finally.

The beat pounds in your ears, the lyrics blurring with the instruments to create just pleasant sound in your ears. Nacho looks at you with a smile—a grimace, really—and pats his knees, prompting you to sit.

You frown. Not because you don't want to sit in Nacho's lap, but because you wouldn't have to sit there if Lalo weren't the one in the driver's seat. Seething ants, angry pincers nipping at your neck…

“Hey.” Nacho greets you as you enter the car, planting yourself in the centre of his lap. He doesn't seem all too bothered by your weight, but you hear him release a short, breathy grunt, stifled by the music. You want to say hello back, but Lalo interrupts you with that stupid, smug fucking grin and a purr of a greeting.

You narrow your eyes at him, wishing you could bore into his skull with just a look—explore the mushy grey matter inside and just smash, smash, smash until he isn't a problem anymore.

“Hi.” The word comes out awkwardly and you wish you hadn't said it altogether. Lalo's eyes graze over you through the rear-view mirror, examining you in the way that a cat might examine a piece of fish. It makes your skin crawl and he can see that. He enjoys that.

The engine purrs as Lalo cranks the gear, peeling out of the parking spot and speeding back onto the road. You feel Nacho's hand creep up your back, coming to rest around your hip as if he's acting as your seat belt. The spot where his hand rests tingles, burns with a heat that you think is coming from him.

Lalo likes to talk. His mouth always seems to be moving, chattering away about one thing or another. Your mouth is moving too; jittering, grinding, clenching. But something inside you wants to talk back, some little spark in your brain that urges words out of your throat in response to Lalo's rambling.

“¡Feliz Día de San Valentín!” The phrase only stands out against the blur of Latin lyrics in your ears because you recognise his voice and because Lalo’s eyes flit to you in the mirror again in search of a response. It isn’t hard to understand what it means.

“Thanks.” A short word. You want to say more. Perhaps ‘thank you’ would have been more appropriate. Lalo roars with laughter, bumping the steering wheel with the butt of his hand as if you just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. 

Nacho’s fingers flex around your hip. Heat creeps up your back and floods into your face. Is it the embarrassment of Lalo laughing at you, or is it because you can feel Nacho’s legs shifting under your ass?

“I bet you and Nachito have some nice plans, eh?” Fingers tapping against the steering wheel again, in sync with the beat, bobbing his head and always smiling. He’s handsome. The thought stabs at your brain, intruding. Ants…

You can feel Nacho’s eyes on you now, burning your skin. It makes you itch. You want to scratch the itch creeping up your arm to your neck, burying itself like a parasite—a tiny, isopod version of Lalo is how you can’t help but imagine it—under your skin, but you keep your hands firmly planted in your lap and your lips sealed.

“Aah, so shy!” Lalo laughs again, glancing between you and the road. It’s impossible to read him. Nacho says he’s unpredictable and, knowing his line of work, that’s never a good thing. “I wonder if Ignacio is the flirty type. What’d he bring you earlier, hmm? Flowers, chocolates, what?”

His prying makes you uncomfortable and you aren’t sure how he knows that Nacho visited you on his ‘break’, but a response worms its way out of your throat.

“He brought me roses.”

Lalo purrs, his face splits into that unbearable, yet somehow handsome, shit-eating grin. “¡Qué romántico! Classic.”

Your heart thrums in your ears and you suddenly wish that you weren’t wearing a jacket as sweat begins to collect at the nape of your neck. Nacho’s grip is only tightening the more that you talk, as if he’s telling you to keep quiet, but you can’t help it.

“They were nice.” It's the truth. You want to talk about how fresh they were, how he went out of his way to pick them, how he smelled like earth, but you can't. You can't… But the words are coming out and Lalo's eyebrows are raised and his grin is widening and Nacho's hand is gripping so tight that you fear the flesh might bruise.

“Ignacio…” Lalo draws the word out, tasting it in his mouth, letting it simmer. He releases a low, rumbling chuckle. “You're so sweet… I bet you wanna be all over him right now, huh?”

You feel your face and thighs twitch. You do. You wish you could be kneeling between Ignacio's legs, propped up against the seat, finishing what you started. And Lalo sees this. He sees right through your feeble attempt at a poker face you put on and his bottomless eyes cut right through you in the rear-view mirror, unyielding.

He's not tapping anymore, not bobbing his head. Your heart is still pounding. Nacho must be able to feel it because his breath is steady but hot against your neck and his grip has loosened just a bit. You can hear him grinding his teeth.

There's a pause. Not silence, thanks to the radio, but a pause that makes the pit of your stomach feel cold and empty.

“¿Y si vamos a mi casa?” You don't know what it means, but Nacho finally breaks, head snapping in Lalo's direction.

“No, Lalo.” His voice comes out low, serious. Not threatening, but serious.

Lalo hums. His eyes aren't on you anymore. They look past you, at Nacho. There's something different in this look, something that even makes your gut twist. Nacho's face falters for just a moment, but, for Lalo, that is submission.

He yanks the gear, making a completely illegal u-turn and forcing you to grip onto Ignacio for stability. Crazy dickhead… Nacho holds you, but doesn't react. He's used to it, you assume.

Lalo speeds off down an unfamiliar street, driving into an unfamiliar neighbourhood and going in the complete opposite direction of Nacho's place. The itch comes back and this time you're unable to resist it.

“Where are we going?” You're unable to resist the words too. You hear Nacho begin to talk behind your head, his voice soft and comforting, but he's overpowered by Lalo.

“My place! Or, well—” he's smiling and tapping again, “—it's my cousin's place, really. It's just… temporary! Real nice though, you guys are gonna love it.”

His place? Why? You don't say this out loud and you know that because your lips are now firmly pressed together in forced neutrality. You wanted to spend time with Nacho. Only Nacho. It's Valentine's day, for fuck's sake, what gives Lalo the right to do this?

The rest of the journey is silent between the three of you. Lalo's eyes now stay trained on the road in front of him, Nacho’s on the back of Lalo's neck and yours wherever they happen to find something colourful. You try to distract yourself.

You see the handle of the gun peeking over Lalo's belt, glinting in the passing glow of the streetlamps. You imagine grabbing it, holding the weapon to Lalo's temple, cocking the hammer. But you can't imagine pulling the trigger. Your eyes are too focused on his belt. On the flamboyantly bejewelled buckle. A bull, made of silver and inlaid with some kind of gemstone. What kind of sound would a buckle so heavy-looking make when unclasped?

No. You can't think about that because it's Lalo. You tear your eyes away from him and look at your lap instead, at your hands balled there.

Lalo's cousin's place is nice. It's in a fancy neighbourhood with fancy hedges and a big, fancy garage. But it's nice, admittedly. Lalo pulls into the driveway, turns off the ignition and takes Nacho’s keys with him as he gets out. He beckons the both of you in as he walks up the path towards the front door.

You look at Nacho. His face is cold, as it usually is whenever you somehow end up around his ‘work’.

“Go.” he urges, reaching around you and opening the door behind you. Cool air floods up your back, makes you shiver, but you obey.

You don't want to walk in there by yourself. A rabbit offering itself up to a hungry wolf… You find that you can't move forward, as if your feet are one with the flagstones beneath them, until Nacho is behind you, pushing you forward. His hand sits at the small of your back, urging you on, comforting but firm in his orders.

The inside of the house is just as nice as the outside. It's definitely ‘traditional’ in comparison to Ignacio's pop art on the walls and sleek architecture. Lalo likes embellishments, it seems. Nacho pushes you forward into the kitchen, towards the tune of Lalo's whistling.

And what a kitchen it is. Black marble countertops, golden trims and dark wood. It's fancy. The skillets and pans hanging from the rack over the island counter are fancy. The new stove is fancy. Everything about Lalo is fancy.

“You guys hungry?” Lalo is rolling his sleeves up, pulling a skillet from the rack, turning on the stove. It looks like you don't have much of a choice to not be hungry. He turns to you and Nacho, both standing awkwardly in the doorway of the kitchen, and tuts. “Come! Aquí—” he smacks the island counter. “Sit, sit.”

You do. Nacho is stiff, which makes you stiff. You can sense his discomfort and it's weighing on you, dampening your high, scaring you. And the fact that it seems like Lalo can smell the smallest spike in your heart rate like a well-trained dog doesn't help.

“You like tacos?” Lalo asks, gliding over to the fridge and pulling out a hunk of meat and vegetables. You nod. “Great! I promise my tacos are the best this side of the border.” And you laugh. You actually laugh. It’s not an uncomfortable, choked sound, it’s real.

Nacho’s thigh tenses. You hear the leather of his stool creak, the fabric of his pants rustle. You’re hyper-aware of his every move. But Lalo is beginning to distract you.

He oils the skillet, making sure to put on a show of it all. And you fall for it. You can’t help it. You have to admit that there’s something charming about him, the way that he smiles, the way that he beckons you over to stand beside him and help him chop the meat. Nacho’s eyes on your back keep you grounded, remind you that you are standing beside a dangerous man and that he is not your friend.

“Nachito, ven aquí, cut these for me.” He hands Ignacio a chopping board and some tomatoes. Something about his eyes tells you that Ignacio would very much like to pick up the knife on the board and sink it into Lalo’s neck. But he doesn’t, using it to chop the tomatoes as instructed instead.

You cook together. And it’s nice. Actually, it’s one of the best experiences you’ve had in a while. You didn’t misjudge Lalo, you know that, but some little part of your brain is screaming that you did. That Lalo isn’t as bad as he seems, he’s just eccentric.

But his hands linger in spots where they don’t belong and so do his eyes. Leering at both you and Ignacio like hunks of fresh meat to tenderise and knead into shape. He conflicts with himself. He confuses you. Lalo Salamanca is, truly, anything but predictable.

And at the end of it all, you find yourself sitting at the island counter again, mouth full of—yes—the best tacos you’ve ever had, laughing with Lalo and actually enjoying yourself.

“I told you, huh?” He chimes with a beaming smile, making sure to watch both you and Ignacio eat every little bite. Nacho is quiet. He eats what is given to him and doesn’t comment unless Lalo speaks directly to him. His face is hard to read. You can see that he isn’t happy, but what he’s really thinking about is a mystery. It always is.

“Thank you.” You say it properly this time and Lalo chuckles. He stands, glides his way across the kitchen and towards what you assume is the living room.

“Let’s watch something!” Lalo calls out, making your eyebrows raise. Just how long is he planning to keep you here? The question is pushed out of your mind as Nacho stands up and tugs on your shirt, pulling you along into the living room with him. He obeys Lalo’s commands without question. Most of the time.

Like the kitchen, the living room is also fancy. And clean. Almost too clean, but you suppose that Lalo doesn’t live here. You don’t really notice the surroundings, too focused on Nacho or Lalo and what either one might say or do next to be bothered about the big TV or the new leather couch.

Lalo flicks through the channels on the TV, patting the couch beside him and inviting the both of you to sit. Nacho moves first, planting himself beside Lalo and folding his arms over his chest. His eyes are glued to the screen, dissociated.

You take in a deep breath before moving forward. It feels like stepping over the edge of a cliff into a dark abyss—a leap of faith with unknown consequences. Nacho pulls you to sit beside him, hand lingering on yours for a moment before being tucked back beneath his armpit.

What is this? What does Lalo want? He didn’t seem like the type to want to third-wheel a makeshift ‘date’. He finally decides on some old movie that you don’t recognise. It’s a Western and highly ridiculous. It draws you in, distracts you from the current environment.

Once again, you find that you’re enjoying yourself. You lean your head against Nacho’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move to pull you closer or even lay his arm around you like he usually would. He remains still, like a statue embedded into the seat, completely disconnected.

You aren’t sure how long you’re sitting here like this, silently watching and ‘cuddling’, but it’s a welcome break from the tension that was present in the car and briefly in the kitchen. Your buzz is fading, making your eyes droop and the craving for smoke bubbles in your chest again. You can resist it. You’re not a junkie. Not yet.

“You guys seem tense, ” His voice calls your attention, forcing you to look away from the TV and at him. Lalo drags the words out, narrowing his eyes at you as you look at him. He’s very cat-like, you’ve noticed. In mannerisms, in attitude. You imagine him mewling, like a cat, and it brings a slight smile to your face. He likes that. “I get it, you wanna get all romantic… Ay, don’t let me stop you.”

Lalo stands, stretching his arms upwards—biceps flexing stiffly under that tightly tailored shirt.

“Let’s loosen up a bit, huh?” He suggests this as if either of you will refuse him. Nacho’s brow twitches and you swear that you can see sweat collecting on his forehead when you glance between him and Lalo. He does loosen, though, physically. His shoulders release, only slightly, but enough for Lalo to burst into roaring laughter and make them tense all over again.

“Hey, uhh, I gotta ask…” Lalo starts, looking directly at you to make sure you know he’s speaking to you. You raise an eyebrow and sit up from Nacho’s shoulder, eyes still heavy. “You smoke? Like, smoke? ”

The question stuns you and you sit there with mouth agape, stuttering over a response. Why does it matter? Does it matter? The tension is back, for just a second, as you try to read Lalo’s impossible face.

“Yeah.” You manage. You notice that you’re gripping the couch tight enough to make the old thorn wound in your palm sting. What’s he getting at?

“You drink?” And then the tension is gone all at once. Your brain feels fried, but you nod in response and Lalo claps his hands. The sharp sound rings in your ears, making you flinch.

Nacho finally touches you, resting his hand on your thigh. He doesn’t squeeze or rub, but having it there is better than an hour or so of nothing but his shoulder smushing your cheek.

“What do you say, Ignacio? Bebamos.” Lalo chimes, suddenly very close. He claps a hand down on Nacho’s shoulder, who looks up at him with a blankness that you’ve never seen in his eyes before. It makes you cold. Something about it isn’t right.

Nacho nods, Lalo purrs. That seems to be the cycle. Lalo’s hand lingers, squeezing and massaging the flesh of Nacho’s shoulder and extracting a reluctant grunt out of him. Pleased with the sound, he turns on his heel and disappears around a corner.

As soon as he’s gone, your eyes are on Nacho’s. You have so many things you want to ask him, but you can only manage a few in your post-meth stupor.

“You okay, baby?” The words almost slur in your mouth. Nacho’s face twinges, his hand on your thigh flexing to match.

“I’m fine.” His answer is nowhere near satisfactory. You know he’s not ‘fine’, you know he’s anything but ‘fine’. Normally, you wouldn’t push, but nothing about tonight feels normal.

“What’s wrong?” You try to rephrase it, hoping for a different outcome. Nacho’s mouth moves as if to repeat himself, but he stops. His eyes are serious and wide and still so beautiful, even when he’s looking at you so coldly.

“Watch yourself,” He warns, making your heart jump. Did you do something wrong? “Around Lalo, I mean.” And he doesn’t elaborate. You want to ask what he means, want to pry even deeper, but you don’t. Your words catch in your throat and you slump over onto his shoulder to stare at the TV again instead.

The movie is still on. You can’t remember the characters’ names, but you try to immerse yourself into it again. All these old Westerns are so long…

Lalo returns shortly, holding three glasses in one hand and an ornate decanter filled with amber liquid in the other. You sit up again, watching Lalo place the glasses and hum a tune as he pours a significant amount of whatever alcohol this is into each one.

“This is the good stuff, I promise you’ll like it.” He reassures, holding the half-full glass out to you. You look into it, catching your reflection in the liquid, and then back up to Lalo to give him a thankful simper and take the drink into your hand.

It smells like nuts and burnt wood, whatever it is. It’s not bad, but it tingles your nose in an unfamiliar way. You’re not one for nice liqueurs and alcohols. Not because you don’t desire them, necessarily, but because you can’t afford them. Not without Nacho.

“Thanks.” The word almost slurs out of your mouth. Lalo’s eyes twitch, lips curl in a way that tells you he didn’t expect a response before you tasted the liquid. He hands a glass to Nacho, who sips it silently. He doesn’t thank him. When you finally do take a sip, encouraged by Lalo’s eyes on you and Nacho’s actions, it burns your throat so intensely that you almost choke. 

Lalo breaks out into laughter again. He raises his own glass and then takes a hefty swig. He pulls back with a raspy groan of satisfaction and smacks his lips.

“Magnífico…”

Lalo stands just slightly in the way of the TV. Enough to distract you and pull your attention from it to him and his chattering mouth. He manages to talk about nothing so perfectly, manages to somehow make the human equivalent of white noise with his mouth. But it’s nice.

You admit that his voice is nice. You’ve become accustomed to the way he rolls his tongue, the way he lingers on some words and draws them out and always somehow manages to make something sound sultry, the husky chuckling between everything. It’s attractive. It makes you think; more like, stops you from thinking about anything else other than Lalo.

Your pulse is quickening—or maybe you can feel it so strongly right now thanks to the alcohol still burning in your chest—but Lalo isn’t concerned with you right now. His eyes are glued to Ignacio, watching him. Ignacio isn’t looking back, staring straight through Lalo’s abdomen and the TV at nothing.

There’s a shift in the air. An increase in pressure that makes your brow twitch. You want to curl up under it, but you resist the urge and try to relax. This is nice. Things have been nice, right? Even though Lalo intruded on your plans to do ‘whatever’ at Nacho’s house, this has been a pleasant experience. So far.

The pressure only increases as Lalo closes in, stepping forward. Your heart is definitely racing now. There’s something in his eyes—a spark behind the emptiness that you’ve never seen before—that doesn’t sit right with you. What does he want?

Prowling. Cat-like. He slides in between you and Nacho, pushing you further down the couch. His thighs are firm and warm. Tight. You stare, you can’t help it, but you’re pulled away by the sound of Nacho grunting.

He’s staring at you, past the still chattering Lalo who now has his arm snaked around Ignacio’s shoulder. He blinks, slow, keeping eye contact with you, but Lalo’s sudden switch to Spanish catches his attention again.

“Pareces tenso, Ignacio,” Nacho’s eyes narrow, his brows twitch. As if he’s asking Lalo what he means. You don’t understand what he’s saying, but Lalo doesn’t seem to care to involve you in this conversation. 

His arm moves between you and himself—tightly tailored shirt stretching over firm, warm flesh—bumping you that little bit further away. You drink. You feel obliged to.

Lalo’s hand moves. You watch, seeing it come to rest on Ignacio’s thigh. Just a bit, but enough to make your head buzz with questions.

“Deberías beber.” Another command, maybe? No. Ignacio’s face doesn’t change. He looks away from Lalo towards the television.

“Lo soy.” Nacho’s reply comes out quiet and hoarse. The alcohol is strong, tearing at your throat, making it sting. It must be doing the same to him, but you guess he’s used to it.

Lalo tuts, unsatisfied with Nacho’s response.

His hand moves, immediately recapturing your attention, towards the glass clasped in Ignacio’s hand. It wraps around his, holds there for an uncomfortable moment, and then brings the glass up and to Nacho’s lips.

Watching Lalo force the liquid down Nacho’s throat—watching a drop of the amber liquid dribble from the corner of Ignacio’s lip, down his chin and over his Adam's apple—is completely surreal. Nacho’s lack of resistance is even more so. You don’t notice the rising heat in your face and your stomach until it presents itself as a prominent throbbing in your crotch.

What the fuck is happening? Did he spike you? Is he spiking Nacho?

No. It can’t be spiked. It would have kicked in more by now if it were.

There’s a thickness hanging in the air. You’re choking on it. You have to put the glass down, placing it on the table in front of you quietly. This seems to remind Lalo that you’re here too and he pulls Nacho’s glass away from his lips, releasing his hand.

Lalo’s eyes are on you now. You can feel them burning against your skin but you keep your own gaze fixed on the TV. You don’t want to look back at him because you can imagine his face. You can feel his face. His leering stare.

“Vamos a jugar con tu amiguito.” His voice is deep, intentionally sultry now. You feel a shiver crawl up your spine. You don’t understand, but you know he’s talking about you.

Your gaze glides  over to Nacho. It’s unintentional, but something inside you wants to see his reaction to Lalo’s words and your eyes are unable to resist. He’s frowning. Hard, up at Lalo.

“No, Lalo.” Seriously. Intensely. Your gut twists. “Ahora no.”

Lalo hums. His eyes aren’t on you anymore. They’re meeting Nacho’s, staring. You look at Lalo’s face. He smiles. There’s something sly about it that makes that anxious chill writhe its way back to the pit of your stomach.

There’s silence for a moment. Thick, choking, uncomfortable silence that tells you that Nacho has yielded. His eyes do too, softening for only a split second. Submission.

Lalo growls. A predator closing in on its prey.

He turns back to you, his gaze unavoidable now. You’re forced to look back at him, to look into those voids that swallow up all of the words in your throat and keep you locked in stunned stillness. You can see him turning something over in his head, mulling on an idea, coming to a critical decision.

Lalo’s hand raises, two fingers present themselves and beckon you forward.

Nacho? You want to ask him so many questions. You look back to him, like you’re asking for approval to fulfil Lalo’s request.

But his face doesn’t help. Reddened with, what, anger? Sweat rolls down his forehead, his eyes splitting focus between you and Lalo, darting between you, assessing the danger. It’s dire. This is an expression you’ve never seen before. His wall has crumbled—only slightly—to reveal a peek of the true, quivering fear beneath.

You’re moving, crawling across the couch, closing in on Lalo. He smiles, humming in approval at your obedience, and claps his hand down on Nacho’s thigh.

The force of the slap makes Ignacio jump, the muscles in his neck twinge in a way that almost looks painful.

“Show me.” The command is short, and comes out quickly, but you can almost hear Nacho’s teeth grinding in response. Show him what? Your expression matches your confusion, and Lalo laughs. His hand trails up Nacho’s thigh, squeezing the tense flesh.

“Lalo, por favor—” Nacho’s plea is interrupted. Lalo shushes him, tutting and glancing at him coldly. He turns back to you in an instant, cocking his head in Ignacio’s direction.

“Go. Down there,” He spreads Nacho’s knees expectantly, patting the space between them. Down… there?

Your mouth opens to respond but the words don’t come out. Nacho’s eyes offer no relief in the tension, nor an answer to your questions. You don’t want to know what Lalo will do if you refuse.

So you go. You slide off the couch, onto the floor, and crawl between Nacho’s knees.

Lalo’s tongue darts out of his mouth, eyes examining every twitch in your body with a burning intensity.

“ Show me, ” You think you know what he means, but you don’t want to assume. Why would he want that? Why does he want this? Lalo tuts, frustration rising in his face. “Come on. You must want to thank Ignacio for going all that way just for some flowers,”

It’s like he’s teasing you. Lalo was the reason why you couldn’t ‘thank’ Nacho earlier.

“Don’t be shy. It’s Valentine’s Day.” He’s purring again and, this time, it makes a heat bubble inside. You can’t help it, kneeling in this position, inhaling the hint of lustful musk on Nacho’s jeans.

You look away from Lalo and to Nacho instead. He’s staring down at you, chest heaving, focusing solely on you. This is going to happen. He’s going to let it happen, and so are you.

Nacho is unbuckled and unzipped with a few trembling, anxious motions. Your thighs are tensed, sending shooting pains up your legs with every movement, but you can’t relax. Lalo’s eyes on you make it impossible to relax.

And yet, somehow, Ignacio is almost hard. You reach out, running your fingers over the bulge in his underwear and feeling the blood rush to the area in response. It’s still you. Even if Lalo is here, it’s still you touching him. And Nacho likes you, you hope.

Lalo’s hand presses against yours, wrapping around Nacho’s cock and rubbing his hardening shaft through the cloth. “Bien… Sigue así…” The praise makes your brain buzz, but Nacho offers no response—his lips pressed firmly together. So much for it only being you touching him.

Lalo isn’t happy with Ignacio’s lackluster reaction.

He removes his hand from yours. You watch it snake up, running over Nacho’s chest, up over his neck, gripping his jaw. Lalo forces his mouth open with a tut and a firm squeeze.

“No seas frígido.”

Nacho looks at Lalo through his lashes, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he collects himself. Whatever that alcohol is, it’s strong. Strong enough to make your head swirl and to make redness bloom in Nacho’s face, even whilst being held by Lalo like this.

Lalo drags his thumb across Nacho’s lip, forcing the digit inside and holding his mouth open. Nacho is unable to stop the soft groans from creeping out of his throat in response to your touch. “Más.” Lalo’s mouth twitches into a crooked grin again; Ignacio’s groans transform into moans, unwillingly vulnerable.

Your brain feels completely fried. You aren’t entirely convinced that what’s happening is real until you finally release Nacho’s cock and feel the swollen head bump against your lip. What is happening…

“Mm, take it slow.” Lalo is speaking to you now, commanding you as well. Playing with you and Ignacio, like you’re his little dolls that he can force to kiss and lay in bed together. Is that what you are? Because you’re obeying his commands. You both are.

You do take it slow. Your tongue comes out, swirls around Nacho’s tip, drawing it into your mouth. He quivers, letting out a breathy moan that sounds too close to a whimper for Lalo not to rumble. He must be sensitive—he didn’t get to come earlier, after all. 

Lalo’s hand snakes its way into your hair, massaging your scalp before taking a firm grip. You know that it’s Lalo’s because you can see both of Nacho’s hands firmly gripping his own thighs. Your gut twists again as the hand in your hair pushes you down, forcing you to take more of Nacho down your throat.

You don’t resist. Lalo guides your head down until you’re swallowing Nacho’s dick down to the root. His fingers flex, holding you there for long enough to make darkness prickle in your peripheral vision, and you hear him hum above you.

Ignacio’s hands twitch. You hear his breath hitch, catching a moan in his throat, as you take him fully into your mouth. It’s a satisfactory response for you, causing that pooling heat to return and grow until it makes every part of you ache. A part of you feels disgusted for being turned on by this—by serving as Lalo’s personal, interactive live porno show—but it’s quickly drowned out by the drunken buzz fogging your mind and the thrum between your legs.

Lalo pulls your head back, allowing only a second for you to take in a breath through your nose, before pushing you all the way back down again.

“Ay… So obedient.” You think that this is praise, but it ignites that spark in your mind that wants to smash a bottle and jam it into Lalo’s gullet for a moment. Nacho’s cock twitching in your mouth, the slightest shift of weight against your tongue, calls your attention back to reality.

Reminds you that you have a job to do.

Ignacio’s sounds have become uneven, weak. He’s close. You taste the familiar flood of precum dribbling down your throat and you finally pull against the force of Lalo’s hand, lowering your head against his guidance. It’s the slightest show of resistance—a minor rebellion—but Lalo doesn’t stand for it.

You hear him tut and you know that you’ve done something wrong. Nacho does too. He’s so close, but he doesn’t come, stunted by your defiance and the break in rhythm.

Lalo grips your hair hard. You feel tears prickle at your waterline and are unable to stop them from immediately flooding down your face as he yanks your head back completely, forcing you off of Nacho’s dick with a displeased grunt.

He removes his hand from your head as you cough and choke on the rush of cold air down your raw throat. You notice, through the bleary haze of tears occluding your vision, a few wispy strands of your hair clinging to his fingers. Your scalp tingles painfully.

Nacho’s head is thrown back, chest heaving. You look up at him, past his still probably-achingly-hard cock. All you want is to see his face, to make him happy, but Lalo has other plans.

He unwinds his arm from around Nacho—whose face, you can now see, is streaked with sweat and possibly tears—forcing him to lift his head again. His brow twitches, eyes gliding down to you, still kneeling between his legs. So close to climax twice in the same day, prevented entirely by the same person both times… You can see the frustration in his eyes.

“I’m feeling festive,” Lalo comments, leaning back and undoing that big, gaudy belt buckle. It clunks loudly as he unclasps it, pulling the belt from around his waist completely in one swift move. Your heart jumps to your throat.

Is he going to demand something of you? The sight of his cock tenting his underwear provides no comfort. You hear Nacho choke on the air. He shuffles, sitting up a bit as if to protest Lalo’s actions.

“No puedes—”

“¿Crees que es buena idea decirme lo que puedo y no puedo hacer?” Lalo shuts down Nacho’s resistance in an instant. You wish you could speak Spanish. Your rudimentary understanding of the language gives no solace, Lalo speaks fast and hard and doesn’t repeat himself.

His arm has found its way back to Nacho, hand wrapped around the back of his neck, grasping dangerously. Are you the one in danger here? You can only sit and watch, waiting for Lalo’s next command or for Nacho to finally crack. Lalo’s fingers flex, his eyes narrow.

Lalo frees his dick with his other hand. You have to resist the urge to gasp. It’s big. Slightly bigger than Ignacio’s, which is big for you in the first place. But Lalo’s eyes aren’t on you and neither are his hands. He doesn’t want you.

That can’t be right.

You look back to Nacho. His lip is sucked in, clasped between his teeth, you imagine, with anxiety. You reach up, placing a hand on his knee. Hopefully it’s comforting, but he doesn’t show it if it is—eyes glued to Lalo’s.

They hold eye contact like this for a second. A tense second that feels like it lasts for hours. You notice every twitch in Nacho’s face. It’s like you can see the thoughts forming in his head and they only confirm what you hope isn’t about to happen.

But it’s going to happen. And you’re going to let it. And Nacho is going to let it. Because what other choice do you both have?

Lalo pulls Nacho in by his neck, like he’s holding a disobedient dog, guides his head down towards his cock. And Nacho doesn’t resist. Not much. He’s stiff, but he allows Lalo to manhandle him, allows him to bring his face to his tip and force it between his lips.

You don’t notice that you’re digging your nails into Nacho’s knee until the flesh twitches and he moves it away. Lalo doesn’t seem to care. He pushes down on Nacho’s neck, forcing more of his cock down his throat, with a drawn out groan.

Lalo’s eyes are back on you, urging you to look up at him instead of at Nacho’s swollen lips wrapped around his dick. He smirks, showing teeth. Jaws of the wolf clamped around the rabbit’s neck…

“Go on.” He hums, cocking an eyebrow down at you expectantly. Your face twitches and he tuts, nodding down towards Nacho. You understand, but you don’t want to. You wish you didn’t understand what’s happening here, and you wish that it didn’t get you so fucking worked up.

You obey, but you wonder what Lalo would do if you got up and walked away right now. If he would keep fucking Ignacio’s throat without caring about you, or if he would demand that you come back and finish Ignacio off. You don’t want to know what Lalo would do if you resisted any further than that.

Nacho isn’t as hard anymore, understandably. You try to focus only on him—not on the sound of him choking and grunting for air—on his smell, the taste of his desperation on your tongue.

You lap at his dick, quickly revitalising it as you draw the tip into your mouth again and take Ignacio down to the root. This time you’re going to finish, regardless of what Lalo wants or says.

You hear him—Lalo—groaning above you, muffled by the thrum of your heart in your ears, but loud enough to make your stomach twist and pull. You’re not sure whether you want to knock his teeth in or sit on his face to shut him up.

Nacho throbs against your throat, you try not to gag. It’s impossible. The alcohol only makes it worse, but you don’t throw up, thankfully. You don’t care about the flood of saliva bubbling over your lips, staining Lalo’s couch.

“That’s it…” Lalo is breathless, finally robbed of words like he’s left you and Ignacio so many times. He’s close. You can hear it in his moans, feel it in the tensing of his leg against Nacho’s. Nacho is close too, which is a much more appealing payout for you.

Ignacio rolls his hips up, moves his hand to hold your head gently—just placing his hand there, but it’s enough to make your brain swirl. His cock pulses, jamming all the way down your throat until your nose is buried in that familiar nest of musky hair, and finally erupts.

You struggle to swallow. Rather, Nacho’s cum just gushes down your throat, bubbling there and filling your mouth, threatening to overflow. Lalo seems to be coming too, holding Ignacio’s head still and down, as he releases a guttural moan.

You’re dizzy. Your vision prickles, eyes screwing shut with the force of so much fluid forcing its way into your gullet.

There’s a moment of calm where you manage to catch a breath, swallowing most of the liquid down in one big, painful gulp. You cough afterwards, pulling away from Nacho and spluttering. A few droplets of the saliva-cum mixture dribbles over your lip, staining Nacho’s shirt that you’re wearing.

You hear the leather of the couch creaking, hear Lalo’s weight shifting out from underneath Nacho—who slumps over, heaving and trying not to gag.

You’re throbbing. Everywhere. Your head, your throat, your crotch, your stomach. Lalo grunts, fixing up his loud, garish belt buckle. You see his hand descend to grab your glass and hear him down the remaining liquid in one gulp.

“Happy Valentine’s day!” he beams, back to his usual, facetiously cheerful self. “That was nice. We should do that again. I’m gonna go clean up.”

You catch a glimpse of his blue moccasins disappearing around the corner, down the hall, and soon hear the sound of rushing water. Ignacio’s legs are shaking. You look up at him, finally breaking eye contact with the floor, and see that he’s looking down at you.

Neither of you say anything. You know that he’s probably drunk—or at least tipsy—but you don’t protest as he retrieves his keys from his pocket and tucks himself back into his pants. His hand reaches out to you and you clasp it firmly.

You don’t let go, even when you’re stood up and stable. He doesn’t either. You leave Lalo’s house hand-in-hand, only breaking apart when you’re getting into Nacho’s car.

The engine hums to life and you’re on the road to Nacho’s place before you know it. Finally.

His eyes stay glued to the road ahead, blank and empty. You can’t help but stare at him, at the side of his face, if not at the blur of passing streetlamps. How many times has Lalo done that to him, you wonder. Has he done more? Will he do more?

Are you involved now?

You have a lot of questions that you want to ask, but you keep quiet. It’s Valentine’s day, and your throat is raw anyways.