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Nacho doesn’t know how everything turned out so wrong.
It was supposed to be simple: get back to Albuquerque. Tell the story Fring wants him to tell. Die.
Easy peasy, right?
It doesn’t turn out that way.
Trapped beneath the metal floors of some supply truck, suffocating and sweaty, Nacho thought they were just going over a few particularly hard bumps when the truck first lost control. It quickly became clear that wasn’t the case through the sounds of muffled shouting and gunshots. Nacho laid there, still and silent, as bullets whizzed through the air just above where he was hiding.
And then everything stopped.
And the back doors of the truck opened.
And someone methodically started to unscrew the screws above him, slowly, no power drill to be heard, one by one.
As the last screw came off and everything above him was lifted away, Nacho wondered if maybe it was Mike, come to save him and his father, squirrel them away to Canada or Europe or the middle of a village in fucking rural China where they’d finally be safe.
But, blotting out the light above him, smiling so brightly, was—
“Hiya, Nachito!”
—Lalo Salamanca.
And, yeah. Now he’s here. “Here” being in the back of a car, bound and gagged, strewn across two laps.
He’s not fighting at all, not trying to free himself from the ropes that tie him by his wrists and ankles and knees. Why should he? Above him, the Salamanca twins loom; below him, their thighs, strapped to which he knows they each carry a shiny pistol. Both Marco and Leonel have a hand on him, one resting on his leg, the other on his shoulder, silent threats that they don’t need to give him.
He watches the night sky pass through the windows, along with the occasional street lamp, but he can’t see much past that. For a while, he assumes they’re going to some secret torture dungeon where each of them can try to find out exactly what it is that he knows about Fring.
Then they stop and sit him up.
And he sees his father’s house.
His eyes widen. Immediately, he begins to thrash, even with his arms behind his back and Marco behind him like a stone-strong wall of meat. Lalo, in the driver’s seat, laughs that smooth laugh, as if he’s unbothered by this whole thing.
The look in his eyes whenever he glances back at Nacho tells him he’s not.
“What’s wrong, Ignacio? Thought you’d like to see your father!” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Figured I’d let you say goodbye.”
Goodbye? Goodbye? Which one of them does he intend to say that, exactly?
“C’mon, boys. Quick, quick. Neighborhood’s shit, so we’re probably fine, but get him in fast, ‘kay?”
He opens the door and climbs out of the car. Leonel shoots Nacho one more disgusted glance before he follows, only to walk around the car and open the door on the other side. He yanks Nacho’s upper half out, and Marco grabs his lower half as he stands. Together, the pair of them heave him up to his father’s door, while all Nacho can do is dangle between them like a terrified sack of shit.
Lalo is in front of them all. He lifts a fist and raps on Manuel’s door, one, two, three, four times, so loudly that Nacho can hear it echo through the house even from outside.
Don’t answer, Nacho begs, images of his father’s brains splattering the second it opens appearing vividly in his head. Don’t answer, Dad, please, it’s like 3 AM, you don’t know who’s at the door, just stay asleep, just call the police, just—!
After an agonizing couple of minutes, the door creaks open.
“Hi!” Lalo says, in that chipper way of his that always manages to sound more like a demand than anything. “Can I come in?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Nacho sees the glint of a pistol in his hand when he pulls it out of his jacket pocket, and Manuel sees it too, then sees him as all three of the Salamancas push past him and into the house.
The door slams shut behind him with finality.
“Wow.” As the twins dump Nacho unceremoniously onto the living room floor, Lalo wanders around, looking at everything, an invasion of personal space that feels more intimate than anything Nacho’s gone through thus far. “Nacho, you work for my family, but don’t even give yours a nicer place to live in than this shithole? See, this is why you’re a rat. You have no respect.”
“What is this?” his father asks, and he’s pale as a ghost, voice a cross between fear and anger. “Ignacio—!”
Leonel steps in front of him before he can rush to his son. When that doesn’t dissuade his brave, honorable, stupid father, and he tries to push past him anyway, Marco puts a gun to his head.
“Hey, now, okay, let’s all be nice, here,” Lalo says, as if that’s what any of the Salamancas have ever been a day in their lives. “You should be happy. We could’ve just tortured your lying snake of a son back in Mexico, where he had my home invaded and my people killed. My people.”
For just a second, something passes over Lalo’s face that isn’t bright and cheery. Nacho strains his neck to meet his cold, cold eyes, and feels the icy terror of anticipation drip down his back.
Then whatever that was is gone, and Lalo’s smiling again. “Anyway! We just wanted to stop by, say hi. Hey— Ignacio, how much English does your dad speak? Should I switch?”
He clears his throat and switches over to Spanish anyway.
“My apologies, Papa, my apologies,” he says to Manuel, whose fear seems very nearly eclipsed by his rage, his sadness, his radiating disappointment, as if he always knew he’d wind up here, but had wanted to believe he wouldn’t. “See? I have respect. My father taught it to me. Papa, what did you do to raise this one so wrong?”
Lalo sets a foot onto Nacho’s shoulder and pushes him from his side to his stomach. He steps between his shoulder blades and keeps him pinned with a firm shift of his weight.
“Did you not beat him?” Lalo asks. “Spank him, at least? Belt? Shoe? When I did something bad, my dad would hold my head underwater or burn me with his cigars or make me kneel on rice for a few hours. What did you do? Ask him politely to stop?”
Asked. Begged. Screamed and cried. Threatened and pleaded and gave ultimatums and, eventually, more or less disowned.
But no, Manuel never beat him. Never laid so much as a finger on him that wasn’t full of love or, at least, concern — wrenching his arm to yank him out of the way of a passing car, for example.
Oh, if only he’d let that Corvette mow him down when he was six. Maybe then neither of them would be going through all this right now.
Maybe then Nacho would be dead, and actually able to find some peace.
“Who are you?” Manuel asks the second he has a chance to open his mouth. “What is this? Ignacio—!”
“We just wanna talk to your son a bit,” Lalo says, raising a placating hand — the other one still gripping the gun. “Shhh. Shhhh. That’s right, Papi, that’s right… Don’t want anything to happen to your precious boy, yeah? He’s your only son, isn’t he?”
Lalo lifts his foot off Nacho’s back just to kneel down beside him. He snakes a hand around his neck and up to his jaw, grabbing it hard to force his chin off the ground. His other hand presses the gun right up to Nacho’s temple.
Nacho and Manuel’s eyes meet then, properly, for the first time that night. Manuel’s, full of hurt without surprise, and Nacho’s, wide and red and brimming with apologetic tears. He hopes his father knows how deeply, deeply sorry he is, but he doubts he cares. He doubts it matters.
“Don’t hurt him,” Manuel says. “Please. He—”
“I told you,” Lalo says, “I only wanna talk.”
He rips the duct tape from Nacho’s mouth, who immediately starts to babble.
“L-Lalo, don’t— don’t hurt him, he’s not— I’ll tell you everything! Everything! I—”
“Shhhhh,” Lalo shushes, pressing the tip of his pistol to Nacho’s lips. “It’s okay. I already know everything. The Chicken Man sent you to do it, right?
More like made him do it. Forced him at gunpoint, it’s just the gun wasn’t pointing in his direction.
Nacho doesn’t care what he promised Fring. Right here, right now, the obvious and present danger is not the threat from him, but the threat from Lalo. Lalo, who’s already figured it out, anyway.
So he nods. Quickly, immediately, he nods.
“Ye-yes. Yes! He— He had a gun to my father’s head, man, he—!”
Lalo laughs nice and loud. “You mean like we do?”
“Please,” Nacho says as Marco’s gun presses against Manuel’s temple. “Please. I’ll tell you anything, man, I’ll do fucking anything, just please god don’t fucking hurt him, I’m begging you—”
“Aww, look at how much he loves you!” Lalo coos, rubbing Nacho’s head like he’s petting a dog. “Now that’s dedication. You know what? I can respect that. I can respect family.”
He pulls a knife out of his pocket and flicks it open. As he inches it toward Nacho, Manuel lunges forward, careless of the danger. Leonel grabs his arms and yanks him back.
But Lalo just cuts the ropes off. And it’s no surprise he’s willing to let Nacho’s limbs free. It’s not like he can do anything with them. Three strong, ruthless, armed cartel members against a rat and his father with a bad back? They all know who’s winning that fight.
Nacho immediately scrambles to get his arms and legs under him. His shoulders ache, and he thinks one might be partially dislocated from the long drive spent bound so tightly. It doesn’t matter. All he cares about is talking Lalo out of whatever it is he intends to do.
“Lalo, please,” he says. “Just tell me what to do. Tell me what to do. You— You want me to help you take him down? Fring? You want— want me to— to run your shit across the border or— or help torture people or— fucking serve you dinner, fuck, don’t hurt him!”
It’s humiliating, begging like this in front of his father. Lowering himself, letting Manuel know all the depraved things he’s willing to do in order to save him. Letting him know just how far he’s fallen.
Manuel barks, “Ignacio! Don’t say that! Kill me. I’d rather they kill me!”
“Dad!” Nacho cries. “No! I can’t— I can’t—”
“Oh my god, seriously,” Lalo says, rolling his eyes. He gets to his feet, gun in one hand, knife in the other. “Blah blah blah, you guys are so irritating. Are all Vargas this pathetic?”
“What do you want, Lalo?” Nacho asks, slowly, carefully. “Tell me what you want. I’ll make it better. Swear to fucking God, I’ll make it better.”
“You can’t,” Lalo says. “Truth is, I kinda just wanna have some fun before I kill you both. Think I might make a skin suit outta Papi. I’ll take it while he’s alive, though, better for the—”
“STOP! Stop!” When Nacho blinks, face screwed up in agony, tears spill over his cheeks. “He didn’t do anything!”
“Neither did Yolanda!” Lalo shouts. “Or Ciro. Or Cecilio, or—!”
He stops. Sucks in a breath.
And then he’s smiling again.
“...You took the people I care about away from me,” he says. “I’m gonna take something from you.”
“Wait!” As Lalo moves toward his father, Nacho throws himself at his legs, grabbing onto his jeans, yanking at them like a kid who doesn’t want to be tugged away from Mama into kindergarten. “Waitwaitwait! I can— Y-you, you can use me, you can! I can prove it! I can be worth it, I will, p-please, Lalo, please let me show you, please—!”
Lalo turns and looks down at him with an arch of his brow. “Show me what?”
Nacho hadn’t really thought that far ahead. He gulps, mind racing a mile a minute to think of what he hasn’t already offered.
And then something lands there.
And sticks.
And makes him want to vomit.
There’s one thing he knows that most men want. One thing that gives them a sense of power like nothing else. One thing you’d keep someone around for, whether they like it or not, if you want that thing bad enough.
He forces his shaking hands up to Lalo’s crotch.
“Let me— Let— Let me prove it. Just let me try.”
Lalo stares at him, stunned for a moment.
Then he laughs and laughs and laughs.
“You— That’s what you want to try?” he asks. “You think sucking my dick is gonna—”
“You’ll like it,” Nacho says, letting his mouth move faster than his brain the way he sometimes used to do when trying to calm Tuco down. Instincts, not overthinking. “You will. Y-you can— can choke me, you— You can keep me. You can do it any time you want. H-hurt me. You—”
“Hurt you?”
Nacho blinks, face ruddy with blush and wet with tears. “Wh—?”
“Hurt you,” Lalo repeats. “That’s so unspecific, man. What am I gonna do to you? I wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”
How fitting, for Lalo to be this brand of cruel. To not want to just kill him like Tuco would, but tear him down in the process, as thoroughly as he can.
Right in front of his father.
“Ignacio—!”
Speaking of.
“Ignacio, you don’t say anything,” he says. “We’re going to die tonight? Die with honor! These men are nothing but—”
“Papa!” Nacho shuts him up with a quick shout. “Stop! Let me do this, just— f-fucking let me do this for you!”
His stubborn, stupid fucking father. Why couldn’t he have taken the money? Why couldn’t he have run away? His pride will be the death of both of them.
And Nacho can’t even hate him for it.
Lalo puts his knife away and grabs Nacho’s chin. Too soft, too gentle.
“Do. What?”
“...S-suck your dick,” Nacho whispers, trembling hands holding tight to the front of Lalo’s jeans. “Or— or you can fuck me. Anything you—”
“Fuck you, there— There you go again!” Lalo says. “Not using the right words. It’s like Papi taught you nothing at all.”
Nacho blinks. “Wh-wha—”
“What is it called,” Lalo asks, “when someone fucks someone who doesn’t want it?”
His thumb tugs at Nacho’s lower lip. More tears spill out of Nacho’s unblinking eyes.
“...Rape,” he says, so softly the word nearly can’t be heard.
The ugly expression Lalo’s face twists into, full of perverse glee, sends shivers down his spine.
“Say it again,” he says. “Louder. Tell Papi what you’re asking me to do to you.”
“Rape,” Nacho says, though the word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, like when you accidentally bite into a pill. “Rape me.”
“Say it again,” Lalo tells him. “Again. ‘I want him to rape me.’ Go on.”
Nacho speaks over his father when he tries to say something else. “I want him to rape me.”
“Again.”
“I want him to rape me.”
“Again.”
“I w-want him to rape me.”
“Say, ‘He’s going to rape me.’”
That’s where they’ve landed, huh? Nacho’s eyes fall downcast, and he says, trying not to speak too softly, “...He’s going to rape me, Papa.”
“No,” his father says, voice breathless with worry as Leonel holds his struggling body back. “No, son, no, I’d rather die than let you do this—!”
“Hey, seems like the message still didn’t get through,” Lalo says, somehow both friendly and cold all at the same time. “Tell him. You look him in the eye and you tell your father what I’m going to do to his little boy.”
Nacho hiccups up an abrupt sob that tastes like bile. If he’d have known that one day he’d be on his knees in front of his father, begging a cartel don to rape him, he’d have shot himself in the head sooner than talk to Tuco.
He looks up at Manuel, and when their eyes meet, he says, “He’s gonna rape me.”
He watches his father’s eyes water, brim over with tears. Nacho’s do the same.
“That’s right,” Lalo says, gripping the back of Nacho’s neck tightly to pull his face flush with the bulge in his jeans — sicko, already hard. “I am. Now open that pretty mouth and suck my fucking cock, you little rat.”
Nacho coughs out a dry sob, moving trembling hands to undo Lalo’s pants. He fumbles over and over while he tries. He’s never sucked a man off before — he and Domingo fooled around in high school, yeah, but they never went that far. Over the clothes. Juvenile. Safe.
Nothing about this is safe now.
And, as he tugs it out, Nacho notes with growing dread how big Lalo is. Bigger than him, that’s for sure. He has no idea how he’s gonna fit it into his mouth, let alone anywhere else.
But Lalo quirks a brow at him and impatiently says, “Well?”
So Nacho opens his mouth.
First, he licks the head. Tastes it. A little stronger than a woman’s flavor, though there’s not much there yet, mainly the musk of Lalo’s body settling on the back of his tongue. Then, not wanting to draw it out, he closes his lips around the head and sucks. He tries to bob his head, but he can only comfortably get the first couple inches in.
“...This is trash, wow,” Lalo says after a few moments. “Use your tongue, imbécil, ay…”
Nacho’s limp tongue rises to caress Lalo’s shaft, his cockhead, but it does no good. He’s clumsy and inexperienced, and he doesn’t want to be doing this.
Lalo sighs. He sets both his hands on Nacho’s head, mutters, “Gotta do everything myself,” then starts to fuck his face like he’s some sort of dive bar hooker.
He goes deeper than Nacho had. Nacho’s body seizes up, and he chokes, thick spit from the back of his throat rising to drip messily down his chin. He shoves against Lalo’s hips, but Lalo is stronger, and it takes all of Nacho’s self-control not to just fucking bite him.
“Hey—” Lalo grunts mid-thrust. “Papi, you better be watching this. You open your fucking eyes or I shoot your son in the head.”
Keep them closed, Nacho begs in his mind. Please, Papa, be stupid and stubborn for me one last fucking time, please.
But Lalo says, “There you go,” so Nacho assumes without trying to look over that Manuel has complied.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Lalo’s still talking, lord forbid he ever shut the fuck up. “Ngh— Not too bad. Y’know, your slut son looks good all stuffed with my cock…”
Nacho looks up and meets Lalo’s eyes with his own tear-brimmed ones. He feels his cock twitch in his mouth, and it’s sickening, nothing like he would have wanted it to be if he’d chosen to stick a dick in his mouth of his own free will.
“Real good,” Lalo amends. “Let’s see— mmn, how much the little bitch can take, huh?”
He sets a hand on the back of Nacho’s head and pulls him closer at the same time as he shoves his hips forward. Nacho’s throat tries to close, but Lalo pushes past all resistance, until Nacho can’t breathe, and every bit of spit that tries to come up goes right back down into the sinking pit of his gut.
Then he feels scratchy pubes on his nose, and realizes with wide eyes that the entire thing is inside. Lalo’s free hand rubs the outside of his throat, where there’s no doubt a hint of a visible bulge.
“That’s it,” he coos. “You’re—”
Nacho wrenches back so hard that Lalo can’t keep him down, and bends forward to vomit the meager contents of his stomach onto the floor between his knees. It feels like acid coming up, particularly painful with his throat raw from being forced open.
“Ew,” Lalo says, staring down at him. “Guess you’re not as much of a natural as I thought you were.”
“Please,” comes Manuel’s voice, weak and shaking. “Just stop.”
“But I’m not done yet.” A swift kick lands in the center of Nacho’s chest the second he straightens up. It sends him flat on his back. “Your son’s got another hole, doesn’t he?”
Nacho scrubs a hand over his tear and spit-slick face, biting back another sob. “Lalo, please, not in front of my—”
“He’s gonna watch,” Lalo says. “Because you told me you could be useful. You told me you’d do this to keep me from capping Daddy Dearest. So—”
Lalo kneels down and backhands him.
“...take those fucking pants off and show Papa what belongs to me now.”
Anything. Anything to save his father.
Nacho’s hands shake as he undoes his pants and shoves them down.
Lalo quickly grabs them and yanks them over his legs, sending his shoes toppling off. It’s a rough, violent motion, and so is the way he shoves Nacho’s legs apart, as if he was ever going to try and close them.
“I want you to beg,” Lalo says, low and dangerous. “Beg me to rape you in front of your father.”
So vile. So disgusting.
So very, very Lalo.
“Pl-please,” Nacho forces himself to say. “Please— please r-rape me in— in front of my dad.”
“Here?” Lalo asks, carding his fingers over Nacho’s twitching hole. “You want my cock in here? Want me to make you bleed and let Daddy see?”
“You’re a monster,” Manuel interrupts, his voice brimming with fire. “You’ll rot in Hell for this. You hear me? You pathetic animal, you—”
“Papa!” Nacho cries. “Let it happen! Fuck! Lalo, do it. Do it, put it in, rape me, now, please—”
Lalo snatches him up by the jaw nice and tight. “You can do better than that, bitch. Cry. I know you’re scared, let me feel it.”
He spits, and it lands sloppily over Nacho’s hole. Good aim, he thinks bitterly as Lalo rubs his cockhead through the mess.
Sucking in a shaky breath, Nacho lets it out as a choked sob, throat burning with pain.
“Oh my god,” he says, and he’s slipping between English and Spanish now, head wobbling with fear and disgust. “Oh my god— Lalo. Lalo, please. Rape me. Put it in— O-oh my god. Shit. Shit—!”
Lalo’s cockhead is pressing in. It’s fucking— It’s blunt, and it’s thick, and Nacho doesn’t know how the hell— Oh, fuck, it’s going in, and— Lalo hawks up more spit onto his cock, rubs it in, and keeps going.
He hears his father let out a noise caught halfway between a sob and a wail. Nacho hasn’t heard him make a sound anything like that since Mama died.
And now he’s the cause of it.
“My son,” Manuel cries, voice full of grief and despair and blame and guilt. “My son. My boy. Stay strong, Ignacio, stay—”
Nacho cuts him off with a scream as Lalo snaps his hips and forces half of his cock in. He doesn’t go slow. Doesn’t give Nacho time to adjust. Doesn’t speak. Just sets a bruising, brutal pace, going deeper with every thrust, until he’s bottoming out with every single one. The pain is incredible, not as bad as being shot, but more violating, more humiliating. He thought whimpering under those smug fucks Victor and Tyrus was the most degrading thing to happen to him, but he can add this to the long list of things he was wrong about, right under “Tuco Salamanca will improve my life.”
He very nearly catches himself going limp and compliant. Quiet save for occasional grunts punched out of his stomach involuntarily. But he knows that’s not what Lalo wants. He won’t be entertained by an easily-broken plaything. He’s like a cat, he likes movement, something to chase, something to hunt.
So, though he knows how much pain he must be causing his father by crying and struggling, he keeps fighting. Shoves at Lalo’s shoulders, slaps at his chest, kicks his aching legs out uselessly on either side of his waist. He sobs, and he lets himself beg, because Salamancas have nice, big egos that love to be stroked more than their cocks.
“W-wait! Wait, please—” He arches his back, cries out, splashes tears on the ground as his head whips to the side. “Lalo! La-Lalo, it hurts! It hurts!”
“Good,” Lalo pants above him, “I want it to. Jeez, Ignacio, you’re such a baby… And what’s all this ‘Lalo, Lalo’ shit, huh? Do you think we’re still on a first-name basis like that?”
Nacho looks up at him with confusion painted on his strained face. If not Lalo, then…?
Lalo answers for him. “You call me ‘Don Eduardo’ like everyone else. Because you— you’re like everyone else, aren’t you? Just the same…”
There’s a quality to his voice that isn’t entirely present in the moment. He glowers down at him, but Nacho has a feeling that he’s not the only one Lalo’s talking to.
“I—” He closes his lips and gulps. “I-I’m sorry… D-Don Eduardo.”
Lalo glares for another few thrusts, then abruptly pulls out. “I don’t wanna look at your lying rat face. Turn over.”
He doesn’t let Nacho do it on his own, wrenching him over so hard he nearly dislocates Nacho’s other shoulder. When he repositions himself between Nacho’s legs, he makes sure to grab Nacho by the throat, too, lifting his head just far enough so that he can see his father’s face.
“Look. Look at Papa,” he says as he shoves in again, drawing a sharp cry from Nacho’s throat. “Look what you’re doing to your poor father.”
Nacho doesn’t want to, but he does. Something in him wants to punish himself even more. So he looks with overflowing eyes up to Manuel, who looks back at him with a gaze that drips with pity and anger and grief and all those other nasty emotions Nacho knows are all his fault.
“I’m s-sorry, Papa,” he grits out, voice strained from the position Lalo has him in. “I’m so— so sorry.”
“Hah. You sounded sincere that time,” Lalo says, grinding his cock into him harder. “How can I ever— ngh— How can anyone ever trust you again, Ignacio? Is this what you’re gonna do? Huh? Be our— our little cocksleeve ‘til you die? Apologize with your body every time?”
“Whatev-ever you w-want,” Nacho stutters as each thrust makes his hipbones strike the hardwood, shooting pain across his lower back. “Can— Can— Th-them, too—”
“What? My cousins?” Lalo asks with a laugh. “You think they’d wanna touch you? If you live long enough for Tuco to get out, maybe. Marco, Leonel, you wanna fuck a rat?”
Neither of the twins move. Leonel still holding Manuel back, Marco still pointing a gun at his head.
“No. See, not everyone’s as nice as I am,” Lalo goes on. “But maybe— Hm. Maybe if we take you back— mmn, back to Mexico— they have a little fun their own way. Hurt you, Nachito… Mmn, hurt you bad.”
He speeds up, clearly getting off on whatever depraved images are flashing through his mind. The imaginary sight of pliers and blowtorches and rusty scissors has Nacho trembling even more violently than he already was.
“Please! Yeah— Anything! A-anything, just let— let my dad go—”
“Hah! Gonna beg to be tortured and raped?” Lalo asks, grinding into him with a few slow, deep thrusts. “Oh, baby boy… Maybe I will keep you alive. Maybe you come home as my fuck-maid. Huh? Maybe we kick you around for stress relief…”
“Mhm. Mhm,” Nacho groans, Lalo’s hand still too tight around his throat. “Tor-torture— me. Rape me— L-L— Don Eduardo. Don— Be— be anything f-for you—”
He hears Lalo gasp behind him and knows that he’s struck something just right. The renewed vigor of his thrusts only serves to confirm that even more.
“My whore,” he growls, tightening his hand until Nacho can barely breathe. “That I can rape whenever I want. Think I’ll brand you— a nice S on your face or somethin’, how about that?”
Nacho claws and slaps at the floor, vision swimming. His father’s tear-streaked face grows blurry around the edges.
Lalo releases him just before he can pass out, grinding his face into the hardwood. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’ll keep you…”
He pulls out again, flipping Nacho back over. This time, he’s straddling his face in an instant, big blood-streaked cock hanging over Nacho’s head. Lalo’s thumb hooks behind his teeth, yanks his mouth open, and his other hand works quickly over his cock, smearing red everywhere. Nacho barely has time to close his eyes before heavy drops of cum splatter over his face, his tongue, damn near going up his fucking nose.
“Swallow,” Lalo commands, yanking his thumb out to close Nacho’s mouth with a hand on his jaw.
Nacho’s teeth clack together hard enough that he catches the tip of his tongue, and the taste of his blood mingles with pungent salt from Lalo’s cum as he gulps it all down. He gasps for air after, hardly able to catch his breath, trembling from head to toe.
Lalo stands and kicks him in the stomach. “Fucking slut. See what happens when you don’t have a firm hand when they’re young, Papi? Well, he’s ours now, so not your problem anymore.”
“Please,” Manuel says, hoarse and tired. “Please, you’ve had your fun. Get out of my house.”
“Papa—”
“No, it’s okay,” Lalo says. “We’ll go. Boys, let go of Papa. Bring the rat back out to the car. We’re done here.”
“N— No, you can’t take him,” Manuel says immediately. “You’ve had your blood, your revenge. Do the right thing! Let him go!”
“I,” Lalo says, looking Manuel right in the eyes, “have not had nearly enough blood. Your son spilled a lot… I’m gonna pay him back.”
He turns to smirk down at Nacho, but his eyes are colder and deader than Nacho’s ever seen them.
“Blood for blood, Nachito. You’ve got a long way to go.”