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Nacho has noticed, for quite a time, that Lalo’s eyes first aim on his chest before his eyes.
First time was different; there’s a plate of warm food in his hand and the first thing he ought to do was offer it to Nacho, expecting his eyes to shine either in hunger or in utter interest for the man who’s just made food for him.
But after spending some considerable time with Lalo, and after Lalo analyzed Nacho’s physique, it changed. Nacho’s menacingly defensive glare little did anything to Lalo since they met, diluting itself in a considerable amount when Lalo began focusing more on the treasured pair of breasts on Nacho’s chest than what he’s actually trying to impose.
It isn’t something that immediately distresses Nacho, because often Lalo shows it as involuntary — as if his eyes quickly acknowledge his short body and his corporeal expression before speaking. It would be fine, then, because there’s no way someone can make anything out of the shirts he wears, especially the shape of his breasts.
Yet it feels odd when Lalo, on the way to get in his car, taps his chest instead of his shoulder and instead of taking it off as swiftly as he placed it, he lingers on his muscles; as if he’s trying to measure how hard or how soft they are.
It doesn’t take him more than five seconds to grimace, astonished, and move away. But it takes Nacho more than five minutes to process the sudden touch, his reaction, and why it brought shivers down Nacho’s spine.
—
To make it more complicated, it became regular.
Lalo taps Nacho’s chest in different ways and on different occasions. Some are for validation, perhaps appraisal for Nacho’s endless attempts in befriending and doing the right thing for both sides masked as loyalty to the Salamancas. And there are some who happen just to be; like a friend greeting another friend and it was perfectly normal between them.
Except it wasn’t, at all. What Lalo sees isn’t the same as what Nacho seeks.
Though Nacho considered him as no stranger, he would’ve preferred the little bump on the shoulder than anything else but what seemed to be…
Lalo approaches. He opens a smile, taps his chest, always interested in feeling what Nacho hides beneath his shirts, and moves to the kitchen deep within El Michoacano.
What seemed to be… what, really?
Oh, sure, Nacho thinks as he blinks and slowly shakes his head. He likes me.
Little did he know it wasn’t this way, exactly.
—
One day, Lalo arrived at his father’s workplace without warning, and Nacho was there. The moment Nacho laid his eyes on the flamboyant man — whose presence felt singular and exquisite even though he wore subtle-colored clothes — his eyes widened in clear distress. Hard to hide, even harder to pretend friendship with him.
See, Lalo is the one who complicates it all.
But Ignacio doesn’t step back when he wishes to. So much that he quickly paced toward the man — his friend — and stopped him where he’s at.
Though Lalo opened a lovely grin to watch, his eyes were threatening. They pierced through Nacho’s bones and made him freeze for a brief moment before he was forced to recompose himself, crossing his arms over his chest in sign of dissatisfaction, not defensiveness.
“What are you doing here?” Nacho asked, hiding the tension in his voice. Though it wasn’t necessary, because Lalo’s eyes aimed beneath his face and appreciated the sight of his arms and his chest, now drawn by the tight dark shirt he wore now. Nacho sighed loudly and braced himself even stronger.
“You’ve been… pretty away lately,” he said, turning back to Nacho’s eyes. “I was wondering if something happened to you, Nachito.”
Yes, it happened. Life happened. Linking himself with the Salamancas happened. The last few days were spent going back and forth between Gus’ demands and being Lalo’s right hand, taking care where Lalo doesn’t need to take care of personally. And there, there’s Manuel Varga which he dearly wants to be safe in the middle of this madness.
His father didn’t ask for his son’s help, but he came in anyway, despite everything.
“Helping my father in business,” Nacho didn’t need to lie. Lalo’s already seen Manuel a short but memorable amount of times and the resemblance didn’t deny his fatherhood; lying could make things worse than they are now. “If you were so worried, you could’ve just called to check up on me.”
Lalo shook his head. “I prefer checking if my men are alive…” And for some reason he stops and gives another glance over Nacho’s traits, “Cara a cara.”
As if his eyes had x-ray vision and he’s trying to see if Nacho’s heart is beating correctly, just by the looks of it. Nacho clears his throat in annoyance, and he tries to make sure his annoyance is clear to Lalo.
Little effect it caused on him. As always.
Nacho opened his arms wide and showed himself to his boss. “I’m alive,” he said. After some time when Lalo didn't go, he complained, “What else?”
“How’s your father?” Lalo asked. “May I see him?”
But Lalo didn’t ask for an actual permission since he was already walking towards Manuel’s workplace as if they already were friends, as if Lalo didn’t see him for so long and now he just wanted to sit and have a coffee and talk for hours with his father; which definitely wasn’t the case.
Nacho immediately held his arms and pushed him back and suddenly, he acted by sheer instinct when he definitely shouldn’t. His brow furrowed, exasperated, wanting to avoid the worst; shivering and stomach twisting when Lalo looked at his attempt and, though his smile seemed calm, rather playful, his eyes held menace.
“Hey, hey—chill!” Lalo said, still playful. He placed his hands on Nacho’s chest to stop him. “You could’ve just said ‘no’ and I’d be fine with it.”
Yet his pupils said something else way different.
“And you could’ve waited for it,” Nacho answered meaninglessly, because neither he meant it. “I’m fine, my dad is fine, you can go now.”
The threat Lalo’s presence held was way more stark than the feel of his warm hands on his chest. It only took Lalo’s laughter after a considerable amount of silence to snap him out of his fight-or-flight mode, and notice the subtle fondling of his chest by his hands.
“If that’s what you want,” he muttered, pressing his hands against his breasts, feeling Nacho’s nipples becoming sharp beneath his shirt. “Then I’ll leave.”
Nacho, still tense, released Lalo’s arms and let him go, trying to ignore the fuss on his body by the light touch and the friction of his palm over his clothered nipples. Lalo smiled widely, slipped his hands away from him — his fingers brushing propositally against his sensitive nipple like the great bastard he was — and winked.
So he stepped back to his car, leaving Nacho there, speechless. With two puffy tits exposed and a clear flush on his face, obviously hard to ignore.
Thankfully Manuel was at his lunch break.
—
Later that day, Nacho decided he’ll visit El Michoacano and stay there for a while just so Lalo will be sure he’s not mad at him for visiting his father’s workplace unannounced. Not that it mattered, though, because Lalo seemed perfectly well when he arrived.
He spent some time there. Some considerable time.
It is late at the restaurant. Fifteen minutes before midnight.
It’s when Lalo yawned and then said, “Ignacio, I was thinking about something that happened today…”
Nacho, sitting on another seat on a table far from Lalo, hummed inquisitively and drank from the lemonade, moisturizing his constantly dry throat.
“Remember when you backed me off?" He asked. "You held me back and made a scene…"
"You would make a scene," Nacho interjected.
"Yeah, yeah," Lalo was clearly ignoring him. "About that: you held me and I held you back. And I held you by your chest. And your chest…"
Everything about this scene, this moment—Nacho despised it profoundly. He twisted his mouth, yet not looking at him, and forced a few gulps of lemonade down his throat. Surprisingly, he didn't feel Lalo's eyes piercing him while he spoke.
"Well, that's what I was thinking about," he said, and it was then when Nacho furiously cursed himself under his breath for believing, for once, that Lalo wouldn't land his devilish-and-Machiavellian stare on him, because he does. Now. They probably glitter in the dim lightning even. "I feel like something happened there. A moment we should explore more than just let it be an accident. What do you think?"
Nacho grimaced and gasped on his lemonade. He cleared his throat and coughed a few times before blinking and finally looking at him, baffled by whatever remaining sense this fucking Salamanca had on his mind.
Yet, see—it's not like Nacho didn't think of it, too, all day until there. It's not like he didn't feel the lingering on his chest and the tingles on his body and how embarrassingly good it felt on his brain when he didn't swallow it down with pride.
And on the other side, Lalo had this shit-eating grin which could be charming if he wasn't a maniac.
And even if Nacho was terribly ashamed, flustered, perhaps confused and deep down a little aroused, his mind couldn't push off the feel of Lalo's hands on his chest; the slight brush of his fingers on his nipple sending intense shivers down his spine.
It was why Nacho agreed.
Something unraveled between this moment and the moment Lalo’s hands found their way on Nacho’s breasts, but it was irrelevant. Lalo was already taking forms over Nacho’s red buttoned up shirt, already pressing and brushing and feeling how strong yet deliciously palpable he was.
Nacho blushed deeply as Lalo discovered him whole. He pinched one nipple with the tip of his fingers, placed one between index and middle, observed him whimper and grinned at that.
“Can I take it off?” Lalo asked at some point, and Nacho shrugged then nodded, as if saying to go already. He smiled, once more in his devilish all teeth exposure. Approaching his face and landing wet kisses on the crook of Nacho’s neck, he began unbuttoning his shirt and removing it along with a white undershirt, now being able to see all Nacho’s got to offer. “Nachito…” He whispered, “Why did you hide this from me for so long?”
Nacho just wished he could shut that man’s mouth off, for Heaven’s sake.
Yet soon that stupid and pretty mouth found purpose by kissing back his lips. Nacho didn’t know what to think, if it was either unexpected or demanded for too long but repressed, but he kissed him back anyway. With the brush of his mustache tickling his face and the pressure of his clothered body against his naked one, Nacho moaned softly. Lalo chuckled between lips, and then he decided to proceed…
… With kisses on his chin, the crook of his neck, his collarbone, then his breasts. Finally.
Nacho’s face burned hot. He did it very slowly yet too fast. He reached his goal unceremoniously. And Nacho couldn’t follow him, because he either stared at the entrance of the kitchen, afraid of someone stepping in at the wrong moment, or he felt shame and arousal all the same washing him over as Lalo resumed working on his tits.
Lalo managed to fully draw Nacho’s attention to him when he mouthed one of his hardened nipples and sucked it off. Nacho gasped audibly — for a moment he thought he could melt with his soft lips around him and his warm tongue circling him —, and with the same instinct he had earlier, he clutched Lalo’s hair with one hand whilst the other followed Lalo’s artful, sneaky hand down his pants.
He licked, and sucked, then turned to the other nipple, and licked, and sucked — and so on, all while looking up to Nacho and letting him see how much he enjoyed this, and how pleased he was to finally enjoy Nacho the way he wanted to.
Lalo’s hand found its way back to his left breast after he lowered down his pants and began sucking him off. Not that his mouth didn’t do wonders all alone, much the contrary: Nacho fucking loved how he took his cock all the way in and moaned quietly while moving his head back and forth with his guidance. But the subtle pinching on his nipple seemed to add so much to his pleasure, making his cock throb within Lalo’s mouth each time he did so.
Eventually, Nacho came in a desperate shout. Spilled it all in his mouth which Lalo gleefully swallowed, hands shaking with the intensity of his orgasm and body almost collapsing on its own weight, affected by the overwhelming pleasure.
Eventually, too, Nacho would yearn for more. It’s clear when Lalo got up on his feet and kissed him passionately and said, “You are perfect, Ignacio,” even though Nacho didn’t pay mind for the praise itself, but instead on Lalo’s perfectly collected and clothed body against his. It’s all he perceived. It’s all he thought of.
—
The last experience they had that night somehow became recurring.
Between four walls or not — there’s something pretty sexy about blowjobs in a car —, Lalo always reached for Nacho’s breasts and played with them. When he fucked Nacho from behind and their bodies dovetailed in the perfect angle to touch him; when Nacho rode him and he sucked him off, perfect incentive to make him bounce on his cock; or when Nacho seemed pretty tired and Lalo decided to just jerk him off while sucking his tit, giving him the best treatment. In every angle or position or mood, Lalo’s sheer devotion to Nacho’s boobs remained untouchable, burning strong as their arousal for each other.
Sometimes the show of affection (because a blossoming infatuation would grow eventually, even if it’s one sided) goes… a little out of hand. Lalo didn’t seem to have any sort of limits or sense in that mischievous mind of his, and Nacho didn’t set it himself either. It’s like they’re putting it on show: the tapping-on-chest agreement or greeting which occurs only with Nacho Varga and no one of his men but him alone, the exclusivity no one will have but him.
The men themselves see it. The twins themselves, always so infuriatingly quiet, sees it. Gustavo Fring himself, only giving an expressively disapproving glare before, sees it.
Hell, even that lawyer who dresses like a fucking clown and acts like such sees it. And with him it’s even more expressive, because Lalo gets up and swings his arm over Nacho’s shoulder and splays his palm across his chest, right over his right breast, and he simply smiles. And Goodman, perhaps a bit frustrated because of his lost ice cream, only showed distress at that smile. Or a wicked, betraying enchantment out of that smile.
Whatever it is, regardless of the place — Lalo is always enamored with his tits. Nacho couldn’t be bothered by it.
—
At night, Lalo decided to do something different.
Nacho grimaced a few considerable times in the process before getting used to it. Laid over his torso with his legs swung on his sides, Lalo gently spilled lubricant through Nacho’s chest and spreaded it warily, delicately, massaging his breasts reverentially. His eyes shone like two spotlights, attentively at the details and the reactions he pulled out of Nacho’s sensibility, the smile on his lips almost showing love. Almost.
He brushed one nipple after another. Grasped his boobs tightly, studied how it could be possible.
Then he raised his body, pressed his cock between the slot of Nacho’s breasts, and rocked his hips forth. A low pleased groan sounded from deep within his throat, but the look in his eyes spoke of insatisfaction.
“Nachito,” he whispered, still moving his hips, “I’ll need a little help here.”
Lalo didn’t need to speak, because Nacho already understood what Lalo wanted and so what he wanted. He held his breasts, pushed them just a little closer from each other and closed the slot between his tits ever so slightly. What felt little for Nacho was just perfect for Lalo, who groaned louder in pleasure.
“Fuck, Ignacio—” Lalo breathed. “This feels so good…” And he supported the weight of his body in one hand and landed beside Nacho’s head, the other hand still pressing his cock against his boobs. “You’re so perfect, Ignacio…”
Precum fell over his chest, slick and similar to a thin thread. It pooled in the little slot and kept leaking as Lalo kept thrusting. Nacho looked down at himself, at the approaching and distancing messy tip, then upwards at Lalo, whose eyes were shutting to dwell up on his own pleasure.
He could laugh if he was able to, now. A man so threatening on a daily basis now fully surrendered to his boobs, fucking those with so much eagerness, groaning and humping and letting himself go — all because Lalo is stupidly obsessed with his tits. Nacho definitely would laugh if Lalo’s cursing didn’t make his cock throb, and if he didn’t enjoy seeing him so vulnerable now.
His movements fastened and so his filthy moaning became sluttier. Nacho’s chest sank with Lalo’s weight over his torso, complicating his breath, leaving it ragged and impossible to pant. Yet his own cock twitched—flared in arousal.
Lalo’s eyes opened, piercing through Nacho’s skull in an undeniable desire and professed dominance. “Ignacio,” he breathed, his voice nothing but a hoarse lustful lilt. “Open your mouth for me, please?” And his faltering smile only meant he was close to his orgasm.
Nacho obeyed. Not out of fear from that stare but out of the thrill in getting the milk out of its source. He parted his lips open and showed his tongue; if Lalo hadn't closed his eyes thanks to his pleasure, he would have witnessed how pretty Nacho made himself right now.
With a few more thrusts, Lalo moaned gruntly and shuddered over Nacho’s body. Cum leaked and spilled over his chest, in that useful slot between his tits, on his chin and on his mouth. Lalo stopped pressing his cock against his breasts, rising up just a little and jerking off for better results in what he imagined on his mind; Nacho’s face messy with his semen, some even falling perfectly on his mouth, and his puppy eyes—oh, that pretty puppy eyes of his that would make anyone insane in this position.
Nacho received it quietly, already thinking about how this scene will never leave his mind for the next two months ahead. His tongue kept unrolled, seed slowly oozing down there, as he waited for Lalo to step out of his stupor and see by himself what he’s done.
Lalo did it, eventually. He smiled at the sight with a lock of black and silver hair falling over his forehead, which made him gorgeous. And, unexpectedly but not surprisingly, he adjusted himself over Nacho’s torso and lowered down to his face and licked his own spill off Nacho’s warm skin, laughing when he squirmed and kissing when he retreated.
Lalo held his face so steadily that Nacho almost fell for him. Almost.
—
“See you tomorrow,” Nacho said on another day when he was about to leave El Michoacano. His pace was its occasional swift, steps as quiet as a rat sneaking around for his little lair.
As he moved toward the entrance to leave, he stepped past Lalo’s table, giving him just the perfect chance to grab him by the arm and keep him still on his stance. Whilst Nacho did not startle, but rather felt bothered at this, Lalo only smirked and pulled him close. He wrapped his arms around Nacho’s waist and shoved his face against his chest, exactly in the slot of his breasts, inhaling deeply and smiling against his clothes.
“Stay,” he whispered, a little muffled. Then after a few minutes in this awkward embrace (only for Nacho, perhaps) he asked, “Have I ever told you how much I love your tits?”
Nacho only stared at it, not holding him back or anything. Just stared, feeling his breath over his chest, the tight grip of his arms around him, and ignoring how his heart might be beating a little faster now. Deep down he enjoyed Lalo’s closeness or his affection, even though the way he enframes those two things it’s pretty distinctive and most of the time embarrassing.
But what Nacho could do if his lips dipped in a grin, and even if he tried, it would open wide anytime Lalo did it—this?
“No,” he answered normally yet withholding a chuckle. “I would’ve never guessed it.”
Lalo only smiled and nuzzled against his chest. Nacho only rolled his eyes, and grinned.