lalo pov chapter of lacho butch/femme lesbians blahblahblah
Nacho does this thing where she sits like a man. It drives Lalo insane. Lalo, who has put fifty years of effort into her appearance, her sensibilities, her manicures and her makeup, and here comes Nacho, north of the border, Albuquerque, the ridiculous name and masculine nickname rolling off of Lalo's tongue; here comes Nacho, her hair shaved short with sharp buzzed lines, her ears full of metal and gold, racerback sports bras showing under her tight tank tops. She's short, under 165 for sure, but she throws her weight around like she's Lalo height, even though she rarely speaks and when she does, it's in the softest, happy birthday Mr. President voice Lalo has ever heard.
for @lachowedding2023 i present to you: a rough kingdom au where they kinda have modern stuff like air conditioning and the internet (but it’s called the medianet because it’s an Alternate Universe and it sounds like medieval, get it) where nacho has to marry lalo for political reasons and mike is driving the bus. it’s short and silly and supposed to be funny, so i hope you guys like it! if you do, i might continue the series :)
It was Nacho’s first time in a carriage, and he wished it wasn’t as exciting as it was. He was draped in gold and jewels and satin cloth and he wished he didn’t look as he did. Unfortunately, he looked damn good, and the carriage was luxurious, a smooth ride over cobblestone streets and the air conditioning on high.
Though there were no lack of attractive, young, noble, marriageable women in the Kingdom of Albuquerque, Nacho—the lowly son of a common tradesman dad and a common dead mother—had been chosen due to Prince Lalo’s tastes. Men. Prince Lalo liked men. And Nacho was a man, yes, but also a man who liked men—and a man who could hold his own. The time he had been caught kissing another one of his dad’s apprentices in the shop, and the fact that he’d given the other guy who caught them not one but two black eyes, all those years ago, had now put him in his present situation.
“He might be dangerous,” is what he had been told about Prince Lalo by Royal Advisor Mike, who met with him without Nacho ever once seeing the king. They were in an office, Nacho leaning against the desk Royal Advisor Mike stood behind. Serious men never sat, Nacho had noticed. “This is a gesture of good faith, but we cannot make alliances on good faith alone.”
Nacho had said nothing, just touched the bridge of his nose and looked away.
“This is a favor,” Royal Advisor Mike had then reminded him. “It’s this or the hangman. Attempted murder is not taken lightly.”
“Attempted murder of high-ranking figures, you mean,” Nacho had responded, unable to bite his tongue. That was the other thing that had lead him here: an assassination attempt at a high-ranking Albuquerque figure who was trying to get the king to pass a law which would have lead to more money going to the Treasury and less to his dad’s pockets. The attempt, like the law, had failed. Nacho had thought they would have blamed the poisoning on the man’s kitchen staff, but it had lead back to him anyway, and now lead him here.
Royal Advisor Mike had scowled and crossed his arms. Even with his age, Nacho knew he was far more of an even fight than Nacho wanted to admit. “Watch it,” Royal Advisor Mike said, and the hard set of his eyes said even more.
Now, the morning of their wedding—or, more accurately, the morning afore their wedding night—and Nacho still had not seen Prince Lalo. He had seen pictures of the guy, of course, all over newspapers and the Medianet, but not in real life. He had watched videos of him speaking. He had a certain charm to him—a way that he smiled and moved his hands, maybe. He was handsome, with a trademark gray streak in his curly hair and a wide smile, straight teeth. It annoyed Nacho. An uglier man would be easier to deal with, insecure and manipulable, but handsome men who knew they were handsome tended to be insubordinate and stubborn. Nacho himself would know.
Nacho had also not seen the King of Albuquerque in person, either. Only Mike, who now sat across from him in the carriage. He was dressed in his finery, including a large, plumed hat, but nowhere near Nacho’s level of luxury.
“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” Nacho commented. He was normally not one for small talk, but anything would be better than the tense silence and reflection on his circumstances. Nacho loved a good self-pitying navel-gazing, but maybe he should avoid that on the morning of his wedding day.
“I might be.”
Nacho shifted, his layers of gold jangling against his skin. “Is he really that bad?”
Mike shrugged. “If the rumors are to be believed.”
“Do you believe in rumors?”
“There’s always some truth behind them.” Mike looked to the side. The carriage window’s had been draped with thick velvet curtains—to keep a fair lady’s skin fair, surely, but Nacho was not a lady. That was sort of the point.
Nacho had seen the rumors in his research on Prince Lalo. Most of it was mindless talk about his sexuality that painted him as some sort of depraved beast with a taste for men’s blood, tears, and other unsavory bodily fluids, but there had been an undercurrent of murder and arson. Supposedly, he had had a minor kingdom burned entirely at a small offense. Unpalatable, but not unreasonable—for a man like him, and Nacho knew how men like him worked. Nacho had lived his whole life under men like him.
He would be living under men like him in a different way, now.
~ * ~
The actual ceremony was a political fanfare that had Nacho grinding his teeth and fighting sleep at the same time. He was not even sat near Prince Lalo, instead across the table from him, flanked by Royal Advisor Mike and some others. King Gus was still not in attendance; Mike was in his stead. To this, Prince Lalo had said, King Hector took offense, and therefore sent another Prince, Tuco, in his stead himself—and Tuco was loud, foul-mouthed, and quickly drunk on the night’s spirits before the long, long ceremony was over and the party had begun. If Nacho had not proven a failed assassin, Tuco might have been his next target—before Prince Lalo himself.
Nacho felt ridiculous, dressed as a bride, as a showpiece, an object of worth, literally wearing gold coins, among men in their normal fancy clothes. Lalo assumed a similarly ridiculous get-up, what Nacho assumed to be Salamanca Prince wedding attire, but he made the clashing patterned fabrics, long-toed jewel-toned alligator-skin boots and necklace of skulls seem natural.
Released from the ceremony, which was more men reading long, long papers that addressed minutely changing borders and other boring geopolitical dealings and had less to do with ever-lasting love—Nacho had not even spoken a single word—and Nacho and Prince Lalo were still not to meet. Instead, Nacho was ushered to a bride’s chamber, where attendants were already lighting candles and incense and pulling back a sheer curtain on a divisor in the room. There was a chair on either side of the divisor, which rather reminded Nacho of a bank teller.
Mike accompanied him; Nacho guessed this was because he didn’t have any ladies-in-waiting with him. “Can’t I just meet the guy?” he asked Mike. “Really, is all this necessary?”
“Salamancas love tradition.” The set of Mike’s mouth let Nacho know he was none too delighted with this, either. “This is the formal acquittance room.”
“We make our formal acquaintance after already being formally wed.”
One of the attendants, a skinny woman with blunt bangs, lighted at this, looking up from where she had been rolling down some sort of ceremonial cloth around Nacho’s chair. “We like to think your souls have already met on the astral plane,” she informed Nacho cheerfully, before blushing and looking back down towards her station
Without the woman able to see his face, Nacho grimaced. He supposed this was, indeed, and in a certain way, fate.
~ * ~
“My betrothed,” began Prince Lalo, taking his seat. He was still in his ceremonial garb, and Nacho his. The blunt-banged woman had instructed Nacho the proper way to sit, which Nacho had promptly disregarded, and he doubted the casual knee slung over one another on Lalo was very formal, either. “Great to finally meet you. There’s not much about you on the Medianet.”
“I keep a low profile. Social media is for losers.” Nacho spoke without even considering it, then he added: “My, uh. Betrothed.”
Prince Lalo threw his head back and laughs in short, wolfish barks. “Drop that shit!” he announced, snapping his head forward again. He moved his hand around fancifully, as if casting a spell. Nacho wondered if the rumors about the Salamancas being witches was true, too. He wasn’t feeling very charmed. “Look, Medianet presence or no, I had my guy tail you for a few months. You’re boring.”
Nacho sat up a bit straighter. “I’m boring?” he repeated, too offended to fully absorb the whole strangeness of the situation.
“All you did was work, eat with your father…not even a secret lover to mourn losing to an arranged marriage.” Prince Lalo shook his head. “But they tell me you’re smart. Levelheaded. Think you can command armies, do you? Some of my advisors say so.”
“I’m sorry, you want me to command your armies?”
“Eventually. Maybe.” Prince Lalo uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, clasping his hands in between his spread knees. The strong incense burning started to nauseate Nacho, or maybe it was the suddenly serious look on Prince Lalo’s face. “If I wanted a pretty hole, I could have my pick. Gus knew that.”
Nacho had never heard King Gus referred to as Gus outside of the most derivative of street performers and political pundit talk show hosts, but Prince Lalo’s—Lalo, if Nacho was going to treat him the same way— lack of formality came as no surprise, in all the five minutes Nacho had had so far to get a grip of the man’s personality.
Nacho angled, letting his gold ornaments drape over his chest, his most attractive feature, if the other men and women he’d bedded before were to be believed. “Do we have to fuck now, or can it wait until later?”
Lalo rewarded him with another one of his barking laughs. “Later,” he says. “We have to feast. I will not be eating much, though, for obvious reasons.”
Nacho raised his eyebrows—he had not expected this turn of events—the great Prince Lalo, a bottom? He shifted once again in his seat, tempted by the idea, though he had nothing to say.
“You’ll be expected to fulfill those duties, of course,” Prince Lalo continued, undettered by Nacho’s silence, as he relaxed once again. “Though I also have my concubines and whores and such. What’s more important is that you fulfill your role as a Consort. The beloved face of a nation.”
Nacho grimaced.
Lalo laughed again. “My tail also told me you’re not very talkative or eloquent. That’s fine; you’ll have writers write your speeches for you. Just smile that nice smile of yours and wave a little at the people, alright? They’re sheep. It doesn’t take much.”
“Why not pick somebody with more, ah. Stage presence?” Nacho could not help but ask.
Lalo narrowed his eyes at him, seriousness flashing once again. He was like a jester who could change the entire mood of a performance with a flip of a mask. “I could have. But that wouldn’t have been as fun.”
“You think I’m fun.”
“I know you’re fun. Show me that later, eh?” Lalo grinned, then looked at the sheer curtains pulled over their talking window. “The wait is fun, too, isn’t it? I love this tradition. Makes the heart grow fonder and the loins stir.”
Nacho balked at him.
“Anyway, the ladies will be back in to get you ready for the feast.” Lalo stood. “We get to sit together!”
“Great Really looking forward to it.”
“You’re funny,” Lalo said, no sense of irony or sarcasm at all in his voice.
~ * ~
The ladies saw that Nacho was ready, which meant rearranging his clothes to be slightly more capable of walking, eating and generally existing in and spritzing him with perfume, and then he was led to a banquet hall. A long wooden table sat at the front, draped with red and black cloths and roses which did not match Prince Lalo’s turquoise and plum get-up nor Nacho’s glittering gold, and Nacho was finally sat on a throne aside Prince Lalo.
Neither King Gus nor King Hector attended the feast, either, and nor Royal Advisor Mike, who seemed to have left Nacho stranded in Salamanca territory without a word. It made Nacho’s marriage feel even more fake than it already was, outside of the law and without known approval of the Kings, even though they had both given their personal signatures to the documents that had been read aloud at the ceremony. He wondered what his name was now, if he had to assume the Salamanca name, or if it was added to the end of his own. Varga. A common name, but one he was proud to bear, given it was the name of his father’s business--the one he was supposed to inherit, the only son, but now never would. He had a feeling his father was disappointed in this, even if Nacho had made just about the biggest upward social move that could be made. Nacho tried to force these thoughts out of his mind and not let them spoil the feast, but they kept coming back to him, not even dulled by the night’s various events.
Several men made speeches, including Prince Lalo himself, who wept with sentiment as if he and Nacho had been childhood sweethearts. They toasted to the sacrament of marriage and the beauty of love. Poetry was sung. Drinking contests were had. Coke was snorted. Nacho developed a headache that the ample available spirits were helping and, thankfully, Tuco had fallen asleep snoring headfirst in his pile of food.
Throughout the ceremony, Prince Lalo’s knee rested against Nacho’s own. Prince Lalo dined lightly, as he said he would, but Nacho helped himself to traditional Salamanca kingdom fair. The food was stupidly good and stupidly luxurious, of course, far from the commoner’s stuff Nacho had been eating.
Once again, Nacho said nothing much besides a few answers to Lalo’s comments—he was a gossip, it seemed, and liked to lean to whisper something in Nacho’s ear while holding his own wine glass aloft and laughing. His mustache tickled Nacho’s ear and neck. It was not an unpleasant sensation.
There were no women around, Nacho noticed at one point, beside the attendant girls who scampered around like scared mice. He made a note to ask Lalo about this later—he had a feeling it was not so much Salamanca tradition as it was Lalo’s personal preference.
The feast ended in the wee hours of the night with Lalo standing up from the table abruptly. Despite all that Nacho had seen him drink and snort, he was not drunk, and instead rather steady on his feet. His constitution was sort of attractive, especially from this angle. He was so tall standing fully, and the low light of the lamps highlighted his strong nose, twinkling eyes. Nacho was actually starting to look forward to the winding down of the night, and what would come once they were truly alone. If they were to be truly alone--he had heard some nobles had attendants with them at all times, including lovemaking and anything else he’d rather do in private.
Lalo surveyed the room and the rowdy men, some of whom had followed Tuco in passing out, and announced, “Time to end the evening, gentleman. To the prosperity of the Salamancas, now and forever!”
“The Salamancas!” responded all but a silent pair of twins who spoke even less than Nacho did and were seated at Lalo’s other side. Lalo had told him they were his cousins, minor Princes, and to treat them with respect. Nacho gave them a nod of understanding after giving his own cheer, which he hoped was more heartened than he felt.
The servant girls came to get him after the feast again—three of them, the blunt-banged one from earlier, a blonde girl, and a girl with black pigtails. They lead him to the bridal chamber, a closet outside of the royal couple’s room, and tried to help him shed his clothes, but he swatted them away. “What are your names?” he asked them as he started to remove layer and layer of gold.
“I’m Amber,” the one with the bangs said, “and this is Nikki,” the blonde, “and Jo,” the pigtails. “We’ve been assigned as your personal ladies.”
“Great,” Nacho said sarcastically. “You guys know I’m not noble, right? I’m a commoner.”
The girls nodded. “The Salamanca Royal Family have asked that we treat you as if you were noble,” Amber explained.
“I don’t need that.” Nacho set aside all of his jewelry, now left in his silk robes. Nikki and Jo brought him another robe, sheer and lined with fur, and held it out in front of him, while Amber tried to undo the ties of his current outfit. He once again moved out of her way, took the robe from Nikki and Jo, and laid it on the back of a table. “Really, girls. I can do this myself.”
“You don’t have to,” Amber said.
Nacho touched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not some spoiled, noble-born brat,” he said again. “I can wipe my own ass.”
The girls, to his surprise, giggled a bit at that, though they immediately suppressed it, their eyes going wide. He smiled, trying to show them it was okay to laugh. “Do I really have to wear this?” he said more softly, gesturing at the robe. “Did Prince Lalo request it?”
The girls looked at one another. “No,” Amber said, and it seemed she was the one who tended to speak for them. “It’s just what the brides normally wear.”
“I’m not a bride,” Nacho reminded them. He untied the silk bridal robe he was wearing to emphasize that point, leaving him in his usual black shorts. “I’ll go just as this. Thank you, girls.” Then, giving the only command he will ever give to them as long as they serve him: “Take the night off.”
The only thing left to do was enter the room and whatever else might be waiting for him in there.
Marco tells him, over the phone. Curt, professional, emotionless: “Varga’s dead.”
Varga. Lalo hasn’t thought of him like that for months. Not Ignacio, not Nachito, not even Nacho—Varga. Varga’s dead. Alright, then.
Lalo hangs up.
He is standing in a gas station in nowhere New Mexico, filling up the truck, wasting time. The sun is high. They must have recently done it. Varga’s blood is probably still warm, running through the cracks in sunbaked desert dirt, sticky under the twins’ sharkskin boots. A sudden urge to know all the detail grips him. It feels like the stitch you get in your side when you run too fast for too long. Lalo touches the spot on his side. He has never needed to run at all.
The details come soon after, as they have to, as is Lalo’s job.
The twins meet him in a safehouse.
“He took the coward’s way out,” he declares to the twins.
It’s like talking to a brick wall. Lalo knows how to talk to brick walls.
“A coward until the end,” he continues.
The twins nod.
“Fuck him,” Lalo declares.
The twins say nothing.
“Fuck him to hell, and his mother too.”
The twins’ shoulders twitch. Their eyebrows raise a fraction.
“Show me the body,” Lalo says. “I won’t believe it until I see it.”
“We already buried him.” That is Leonel.
“Dig him back up.”
It has been days, but it is still clearly Ignacio underneath all that dirt. Lalo kicks some more on top of it, when all is said and done, and then spits, also.
Then Marco is reaching his hand out to him and, caught in the glinting light of the desert, is a familiar, gaudy, diamond-studded snake earring. It is, strangely, clean.
Lalo snatches it away. He drops it in his shirt pocket. He feels it slither as he moves. “A fucking snake,” he says to the twins, which is likely saying it to nobody at all.
Eventually, Lalo learns Ignacio had a father.
Eventually, Lalo learns where Ignacio’s father lives.
“I don’t want trouble,” the man says in English, and then when Lalo says in Spanish, “You’re not going to get any,” the man says in Spanish, “Please, I have nothing to do with what my son does.”
“I know that,” Lalo tells him. He grabs a high plastic chair and sits in it, straddling the back as he faces Ignacio’s father. He found him working late in the shop, good, industrious, quiet father. He does not look a lot like Ignacio. Figures a man as pretty as he was took after his mothe.
“Who are you?”
Lalo shakes his head.
“I will call the police—”
Lalo draws his gun.
Ignacio’s father stops on the way to the phone.
“Your son is dead,” Lalo announces.
He watches the father’s face. All of the melted lines of a hardworking man’s middle ages rearrange themselves like the gradual shift of the tides. Shock; always shock, comes first. People simply do not believe in death. His eyes narrow, an expression that makes him look like Ignacio for a second. Anger. Back to shock. A frown—and Ignacio definitely got his mother’s mouth—of sadness. Then, strangely, a smoothness, something that transports him to a younger time, perhaps before he learned the truth of his son: relief.
Lalo shoots the phone Ignacio’s father had been moving towards. The man ducks; bits and pieces of metal and wire go flying. Lalo turns around and leaves.
Another man might have left the earring. Lalo takes it with him, to his grave.
1.6k / lalo character study / Hector tries to make Lalo a man by bringing him to a brothel. It does not go well.
Lalo was not a pretty boy. He had a face that would only get handsome when he got old. But he knew how to slick his hair back with just the right amount of pomade so it would not get too greasy or too tough, and he knew how to tuck his shirts into the belt of his pants so just the slightest, most intentional crease would show, and he knew how to suck dick better than any of the other dons' whores.
From the first time he saw Yolanda's breasts exposed as she bent to bathe him, he knew he did not desire women, nor did he particularly like them. He knew that men were supposed to desire women—though they weren't really supposed to like them—or at least want to fuck them, based off the things he heard and saw. Apart from money and power, pussy seemed to be the most important thing in a man's life. He also knew that most men worked boring jobs like gardeners and shopkeepers and that most children did not have an armed guard escort them to their private school, so he figured that, like those other banal things, he could be above them and live without them.
READ THE REST HERE. https://archiveofourown.org/works/46255696
NOTE: dead dove do not eat, this fic deals explicitly with a traumatic moment in lalo's life. i generally take a more positive, brushed-over view of how lalo might live as (somewhat) openly gay in the cartel; this fic does the opposite.
❝ I WANT TO TELL YOU THIS STORY WITHOUT HAVING TO CONFESS ANYTHING.
I WANT TO TELL YOU THIS STORY WITHOUT HAVING TO BE IN IT. ❞
richard siken, crush.
What Comes Next | 120k | E | Lalo & Nacho | Canon Divergent
To understand what comes next, you must understand what came before.
Lalo confronts Nacho after the betrayal and must decide whether to let him live or die. The answer lies in the development of his and Nacho's relationship over the course of a few months.
lacho / 5.8k words / take place from coushatta thru magic man
Lalo learns he'll be going to Albuquerque on an average weekday morning. He's at his estate, out back by the garage, birds chirping, ponies running, the smell of Cecilio's garden's fresh blooms, and he's bent over the hood of the Monte Carlo. He works with no particular purpose or aim; he just felt like getting his hands into her today, up to his elbows in grease, sweating through the back of his denim shirt. He had known of his uncle's failing health and stroke and had been planning on a trip up north soon regardless, but he'd been reveling in the relative calm in Mexico as of late, the problems over the border the problems over the border, let the boys there sort it out, no need for Lalo to step in. That calm affords him mornings like this, when the only thing on his mind is the song that's playing and the anticipation of a glass of Yolanda's orange juice when he retreats into the cool cave of his house for a hot shower. One of his horses whinnies; he snags his hand on a jag of the engine and curses under his breath; his San Martin Caballero pendant hits his chest, the silver warmed by the sun.
Those are the only things on his mind, that is, until his cell phone rings. At the sound of its cheery little tone clashing with the music playing and his own thoughts, Lalo unfolds from the car hood. He wipes his hands on a rag from the toolbox, turns the radio down, and answers his phone. "Yes."
"Your uncle is recovering, but he's not going to be able to oversees things anymore." Lalo recognizes the voice as one of Hector's top lieutenants, a something-cousin, Salamanca by marriage. He leans against the car and stares at the trees, already shifting his schedule around, clearing the room for the problems that may require Lalo to step in, after all.
"Don't you have a guy up there?" Lalo asks. He knows the answer, of course. He even knows the face, shown to him in a glossy, blown-up eight-by-ten photograph along with all the other members of the cartel about whom he should know. He plays the conversation out anyway, courteous, curious.
"He's not a Salamanca," comes the crackly voice over the line.
nacho/lalo - rimming fic - 7k - no content warnings outside of usual canon stuff
"Ignacio."
Nacho turns his head—slowly, carefully—to Lalo, sitting beside him, looking at him over the top of the newspaper. Just his eyes, their soft wrinkles, smile lines.
"Yeah?" Nacho asks. "Yeah. He's late."
Lalo's eyes dart to the door. "Not that."
Nacho waits for what's to come next, but nothing does. He hates it when Lalo does this, makes him carry his weight in the conversation. The guy loves to talk, but also loves to make you talk when you don't want to, and it's a roll of the dice for his mood for the day. "What?" Nacho asks after the few seconds he spends addressing Lalo's daily conversational method, deciding how to react.
"You seemed stressed," Lalo comments.
"Yeah, well. Stressful job." It's the cartel equivalent of working hard or hardly working, this conversation. Annoying, trite, useless small talk. Shut up, Lalo.
Without moving the newspaper, without changing his tone of voice, without indicating in any way that what he's about to say is completely, absurdly ridiculous, Lalo states, "You need to get your pussy eaten, Nachito."
lalo/nacho // 3k // domingo gets shot, they have sex, as you do // no warnings outside of canon-typical depictions of violence
A scared, cocky, teenaged kid gets jumpy during a visit and the gun goes off, getting Domingo in the gut. Panic flares in Nacho for a moment, a panic that he thinks the others don't feel, a fear of losing a friend, genuine, real, sudden before all else. Before he can get his own gun from the back of his pants Lalo has his between the kid's eyes, holding it there, pressing into his forehead. It smells like gun smoke and – no, Nacho doesn't think he smells shit, because if he smells shit that means Domingo's probably going to die. More likely, Nacho smells fear and blood all over the street.
"I—I—" the kid stammers, looking up at Lalo as he falls to his knees. "I'm sorry, man, I—"
Lalo pulls the trigger.
The bullet blows the back of the kid's heads out, a steady leak of blood and brains, as he slumps backwards.
