#hmmc

[nanabrainrot]

HMMC drabble or thoughts on someone insulting Lalo's wife and calling her dumb/needy or something and Lalo gets angry bc only he's allowed to call her his pet and his sweet dumb girl

yesss ive been slacking with hmmc i need to create a prompt list to be able to have a steady queue with it bc i luvvv lalo i luv u lalo

Idiotic Audacity

Lalo hates when his wife gets involved - even in conversation. Even in passing.

ToxicoHusband!Lalo/Wife!Reader

WC: 1138

Warnings! gun violence and murder, undertones of machismo misogyny

“You got a wife?” the guy started casually, but the mention was enough to make Nacho tense. Enough to make Lalo pause, as he counted the money in his hands. He didn’t look up, but his nostrils flared from what he could see.

“What’s it to you?” Lalo countered in a voice devoid of interest, though the wording betrayed him: he didn’t like when you were talked about. Perceived. Acknowledged. The fact some guy thought you were a talking point over a deal almost made his spit come up. It made him want to hawk a loogie in his eye. 

“Your ring finger. It’s inked,” he replied, leaning into his chair. It’s a statement, like the weather being nice or the color of his shirt. A pause, before the next bill is flicked as he counts it.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know any other members who actually have a wife,” he kept going. Nacho palmed his forehead, watching the scene unfold. He never really pressed Lalo about his relationship to his wife. She rarely made eye contact with him, avoided touching him like the plague, and almost used Lalo as a tin can connected by string to the rest of the world; like you were a girl still stuck playing treehouse with a childish telephone. 

“Well I do,” Lalo scoffed as he continued to flick through the bills before reaching for a rubber band.

“Your girl okay with it?” the man continues, head lulling back on the chair to watch the ceiling. Like he was bored. Bored talking about the wife of one of the most dangerous men south and now north of the border. The vein in his forehead twitched.

“Girl? She’s not a girl, she’s my wife,” Lalo huffed. The bills flicked again, a stack of paper crisp and without any hints of wear. Perfect.

“Girl, wife? What’s the difference? She’s a girl you married then, it’s the same -” “It’s not the same. She hasn’t been a girl since she was 17. She’s a woman, she’s a wife. Drop it, pendejo,” Lalo warned with a dense voice as he flicked through the bills with eyes that didn’t glance up.

“What’s wrong with asking about some girl?” 

“There’s everything wrong with it, you don’t chat about a man’s wife, especially not mine,” he snarled, smacking the bills down on the adjacent table with a hard face: his nostrils flared, eyes wide, and chest tight. The conspicuous nature of the tattooed band usually confirmed him married but he hated the inevitable questions. The fact anyone but him acknowledged you was enough to piss him off; rarely did people see you. Even rarer did they speak to you. Never did they speak of you. 

“Okay, I’ll quit bothering you about some dumb broad and we can get to -”

The next words never come. To is the last word. The firing of a gun forces the room into silence as Nacho stares at the scene: his jaw is clean off and the force of the bullet busting through his cranium left a big splatter on the wall behind him. The wall several feet away. Lalo treads near the body with his wild eyes, that hazy mind without rhyme or reason as he seethed with rage: Lalo kicks the body, toes of his loafer cracking at the skeleton in the corpse. The crack of his shins breaking and body shuffling, limp and lame, at the force of his kicks until Lalo slams the heel of his foot into the body’s chest and forces it back to the floor. Nacho is frozen, listening to Lalo as he fires more shots into the body, “Don’t-”

Shot.

“Call-”

Shot.

“Her-”

Shot.

“Stupid.”

Nacho stands there as Lalo pulls back to reality, tucking his gun back in his pants and breathing hot uneven breaths as he paced in circles with his hands behind his head. Eyes closed. Breathing steadier, steadier, as the minutes of silence passed in the warehouse. Before Lalo leaves, he gestures to the mess to Nacho and sits in the car only after grabbing the wads of uncounted cash. His head in his hands, Lalo is like a child whose secret, most precious toy was discovered. His insurmountable and impossible desire to keep you unknown to the world like a precious painting mounted only for his eyes always seemed to triumph his senses. Nacho rustles the garbage bags in the back of the Monte Carlo and does not ask why he is being dropped off when he is. He just watches the screen in silence as Amber and Jo tentatively try to match the pieces of the puzzle; he can still see the red and hear the gunshot.

-

“So why does he call you stupid? You’re not stupid to him, he doesn’t know you like I know you. He knows I’m married so why does he call you stupid?”

You hum, slicing the steak on his plate before sliding it across the counter before rounding it to sit by him. He’s still annoyed by his audacity and strangely, at the idea that someone insulted you. To say your marriage was devoid of moments of Lalo saying hurtful things would be wrong; a good portion of it was Lalo asking if you were dumb or confirming if you were dumb. His nickname for you most days was “dummy.” Your little face screws in concern, watching him tentatively as he bit into the steak. Watching. He sometimes nitpicked the seasoning of it, depending on how long you left it to marinate as he was gone. But he didn’t. He chewed on the meat, seared to a warm brown, and nestled next to some greens. He drinks until the beer is gone and brushes his teeth with you. Showers with you, silent. Still brooding. You never talk much, so the sound of the evening is the dripping of the faucet and running water in the shower, and rustling of bristles of your toothbrushes. The sound of mouthwash hitting porcelain. The sound of the fan whistling into the nest of blankets you crocheted on the king bed. The hum of the air conditioner. 

The rustling of him getting into bed with you, the cord of the lamp switching off, and his breath in your ear. The sensation of his hands pulling you closer to him and fiddling with the fabric of your nightgown (satiny and flowy; easy access). He mumbles into your hair as you start to doze off, your humming into his forearm, “I know you’re smart… you dumb girl…”  The last sound of the evening is this: “I think you’re smart too, baby.”

You press your head into his bicep as he spoons you, hand still rustling with the nightgown. You were smart enough to only address him with sweet words, when the rage wore off.

[tuanhhaiminh]

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[shahananasrin-blog]

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[nioumin-draw]

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My Teresa is a champion !!

Party in the common room and Snape join us !!!

[prettygreenpills]

Headcanons

Welcome. These will be mostly my comfort characters and what do I think how would they behave/react to something, etc. If you want me to write something like this for your comfort character or favorite character, send me a request and i will try to do it<3

To the characters:

Narcissa Malfoy Bellatrix Lestrange Lucius Malfoy

[serpentes-lupus]

1, 2 and 20 for the Preferred Ship?

HPHM MC X Preferred Ship Questions

1. Who is your MC preferred significate other?

The preferred shipping of my muse is with Talbott. It’s a rather strange pairing because Tarra is a very extroverted person and Talbott is reclusive. But I feel like those opposites help balance the two of them. 

Tarra is there to bring out Talbott from his shell and be more engaging, while Talbott helps Tarra have a more calm of mind. 

2. When did they start developing feelings for each other?

Tarra started developing feelings for Talbott after the Animagus event. She never met anyone so introverted and she wanted to know more about him. So when it came to becoming his friend and learning more about him, she saw him in a new light. She didn’t want to pity him for his past but she didn’t want to appear insensitive, so whenever she saw him afterward, she would give him a quick wave of hello or sometimes bring him a small pastry after dinner. In truth, she didn’t fell for him hard and fast, but slow and steady. The more she spent time with him, the more she began to fancy him. Thus leading to the First Date event.

As for Talbott, it took some time. Talbott first saw Tarra as a chaotic, bombastic energetic person. But after she aided him in finding his necklace, he saw her differently afterward. Throughout having classes together and assisting each other in Transfiguration, Talbott realized that Tarra is a pretty good friend. He also realized that, despite her extroverted personality, Tarra did crave privacy. Especially after the fiasco that the Daily Prophet has done to her and her family. He offered her his spots of privacy and keeps her company whenever she asks of him. With these moments of togetherness, they got to see more of what they really were. Talbott may not have realized it yet, but he was developing feelings for her and these feelings came to light after the First Date event. 

20. Who is the most protective between them?

It was tough but I can see Talbott being more protective than Tarra. Just by a little. Because he lost his whole family and is pretty much alone. So, of course, he would do whatever he can to protective anyone he cares for, not wanting to lose any more loved ones. 

[ofprincessesandqueens]

historical make me choose: anon asked: Diana’s or Kate's wedding dress

[nanabrainrot]

cw for humiliation kink and lalo and hmmc not being a healthy couple (nsfw)

just some thirsts for hmmc and lalo <3

lalo who puts you in a headlock during sex if ur being mouthy that day.

tugging your hair back and bucking into you like your life is on the line if he doesn’t pummel into you. Lalo bullying it in after just spitting lewdly on your pussy and harshly pulling the lips apart.

Lalo who just tells you to touch yourself as he stares and casually drinks a modelo like he’s watching any old movie. Lalo who makes you wear the most humiliating slutty outfits and raws you in them then has you sleep with him in you still so he can fuck into you while he thinks.

Lalo who is so mean but only when you’re being bad. He thought he whipped you into shape! Don’t worry, he’ll keep you up with him until you’re sleepy and can’t blink without your head lulling and you beg for forgiveness and let him fill you up before bed; his girl should never go to bed empty. <333

[doctor-wheeze]

historical make me choose:  alberthabrasakrigara asked: Swords or Muskets

[captaindeliciousdetectivebouquet]

[serpentes-lupus]

A little glimpse in the family dynamic of the Lyall house. 

Jacob and Tarra were pretty much the dynamic duos of the countryside, going on adventures through the woods and hills while creating some mischief along the way. Which often led them getting into trouble and punishment from their mother. 

Ailsa was pretty much the one who initiate the punishments, while Castulo was a bit more laidback. However, if their father ends up verbally lecturing them, then they know that they really messed up. 

[ofprincessesandqueens]

historical make me choose: anon asked: House Plantagenet or House Lancaster

[nanabrainrot]

I Live and I Lose

Based on an ask about the reaction of HMMC at Lalo’s passing.

Summary: Devote a lifetime to a man and have it vanish in a day.

Warnings! Suicidal thoughts, abusive relationship dynamic. 

ANGST Husband!Lalo/Wife!Reader

WC: 1411

A smile on the face and a ringing of the ears. It was like running to freedom on hot coals and then shattered glass barefoot for a mile. It was like the adrenaline rush of skydiving and the pain of falling into a field of cacti. It was like you were yourself again but not.

When you were younger and he died then, you would have jumped for joy. Cry tears of liquid gold and spring into the local creek, giggling and kicking like a girl again. But after twenty-four years? After two decades what use was rejoicing?

The look on his face is all grim and depressed, a symptom of the sincerity of his news: “Lalo died – passed away. We’ll bring you back to his hacienda after we bury him.” The beginning of the marriage was so painful, the two years locked away until you hit twenty were scorching and agonizing. The one-bedroom ranch and the little kitchen always seemed so hot; it was a cute cottage looking back but then it felt like a prison cell.

In the backseat of a car, you only say the same thing always said: “Yes,” “No,” or “Okay.” There is no point in negotiating with his cousins, their serious faces plastered in something different than indifference. The muscles are tense in Marco and Leonel, meaning they were putting on a brave face. Salamanca blood was like no other blood and to see it spilt or know it was gone forever was a grim experience that was expected given the line of work but not commonplace. They do look sad, you think. They never really do anything other than bored.

To think the kindness extended to you was not a comfort. In twenty-four years, you were known by your first name. Your whole identity diluted to “Lalo’s wife,” every talent and aspiration wrung like a rag by him and yet it hurt with everything that he wasn’t there. The resentment faded, somewhere along the fifth year, when papa’s farm was bustling and green and he looked content only because you looked content.

Happiness is a choice, surely. You can still smell him. The stupid house that is his but isn’t his that you no less slaved over because it was for him at the end of the day. The ludicrous concept of scrubbing counters with vinegar, cleaning the toilet, mopping the floor, sweeping the hallway, washing and folding and drying and steaming his expensive clothes that he got to choose and painstakingly wearing a sundress day after day – it feels like being thirsty and your first drink of water is piss.

You don’t hate Lalo. You don’t think there’s a point; hatred is a choice too.

What did you get from hating him now, after all was said and done? The Salamancas could have shot you like a dog, Lalo’s dumb and deaf wife who was one ring away from being an in-home maid, chef, and slut. But Marco and Leonel stared at you, back on the sofa, with your wide eyes unmoving. Blinking slowly. Open. Shut. Slowly. Dark for a moment. Open again. There he is, Marco, dark eyes and the fuzz on his chin with that harsh brow. Shut. Slowly. Dark for a moment. Oh, Leonel, with his sharp jaw and tense lips.

Shut.

Slowly.

Dark for a moment.

Eduardo. That day, back in June so many years ago, was like hell on earth. It was like stepping into a biohazardous chamber and being patient zero with a disease that would never leave you. But he was your husband. He got more handsome with age, something that made you thankful you didn’t jump into a ravine when you were young, because he looked and acted so mean when you were 18. That boyish immature cruelty that all teenagers had when he married you to lock you up as if he were buying a backyard bred puppy to keep on a chain all day.

Open. Slowly. No tears, but an, “Okay.” Marco and Leonel seem to understand you more than anyone. More than Tuco or Hector could, who were just as harsh in their own ways. At least Tuco had so much emotion you could see pity in his face. Hector might just slap your shoulder in that comforting old man way. But they saw the world as you did: wordlessly.

You wondered often if they didn’t speak by choice or it was squeezed out of them like Lalo did to you.

But the backseat is a different feeling, a new one. Lalo makes you sit front seat, hand tight on your thigh with a vice grip. Sometimes he would rub his thumb consolingly, like petting a pup. The first few times he took you for a ride it felt like being cornered, stuck in the moving mass of metal that he loved so much. Cried the first few car rides, around age 19, twenty-three years ago. There’s no hand on you, for once.

“Leonel, Marco,” you murmur, from the back. It hurts. It hurts in the heart, in the head, at the thigh, and in the hands. It feels like withdrawal, like Tuco when he was younger when he showed up at the hacienda with his head all in sorts. Twitchy. Like you need something that’s bad for you.

“What now?” it cracks, your voice. Ah, sounding like a wounded dog. A whining one expecting to be hit. Marco’s eyes tilt to you in the rearview, without pity that you can detect, but acknowledgement. Silence. Wrong crowd to ask, you thought. Wringing the manicured hands that still say “LALO” and the huge ring that feels like it’s burning your skin. What now?

After twenty-four years, he had denied you an education, socialization, companionship, autonomy, and opportunity and you fucking miss him. Because he loved you. He loved you in the wrong way, in a harsh way, but undeniably there was something like love. Why else would he keep you if he didn’t love you?

He could have swapped you out for a newer model, like one of the girls at Eladio’s parties, but no. Even as a gray or two popped up, even as the little crow lines formed at the eye or a little line between the brows, he stayed. He loved you so much he locked you up? Locked you away for two years away from anyone? Loved you so much he wrung any other words from you that weren’t “yes” or “no” or “okay.” To be seen and not heard for longer than some lifetimes made your stomach churn.

You miss him. You want him right now.

You want his hands on your thigh, the sureness of his movements. He wrung every ounce of self-confidence from you and had the nerve to not be bulletproof in the process; it occurs you aren’t bulletproof either. One bullet should be enough, some people survive attempts though you wonder about. It would suck to lose your mandible or be bound to a bed like Hector.

Oh.

“Marco, can you drive to see Hector? At the Casa Tranquila?”

 It’s so miserable. To be here, or be alive. It’s grim, almost aggravating these old people lived past fourty meanwhile Lalo has to be buried. Aggravating you had to live to fourty. It’s depressing, miserable, horrid, detestable, but human. Hector’s face, old with age, all white hairs and freckles with his lips doing that pursing, screwed up in misery as he rings that bell, pathetic and hurt. Lalo died. Tuco is in jail. Marco and Leonel don’t speak. The last one who visits him is the silent wife of his dead nephew, the girl who never spoke who grew into a woman who never spoke. But today, you don’t doodle.

Your watery little eyes blinking. You never fucking knew what to say, other than you and those silent boys telling him Lalo died. It’s agonizing, the feeling of loss. A nephew, a cousin, and husband. A quiet feeling.

“Tio Hector?” you murmur, feeling stupid, “can I take care of you away from Casa Tranquila? Go through this together?”

 It’s a feeling, grim and soul-crushing. The dark, dimly lit room with the television with some telenovela on. His skinny body in the chair and your frame sunken into the chairs, staring, but together. The moments alone, without him, without Hector, drive a sinking feeling in your belly. This is okay for now. Just for the moment.

- 

AUTHOR NOTES: In Breaking Bad, Tuco is the one caring for Hector but before Tuco gets out of jail HMMC cares for him because she knows Lalo loved him. She also secretly misses the dependence and feeling of being ‘needed’ so to say. She never got to go to school and never had a job so it’s difficult for her to be able to get back out there. Her reaction is initially conflicting but also the urge to end it because she has no idea where to go from there. But Hector in his chair comes to mind so in Breaking Bad, she likely would make a cameo taking care of Hector. Her dream is to go to school so she can work at Casa Tranquila but getting the papers are too much. Her and Tuco help with Hector and it’s kind of sweet brotherly dynamic he has with her <3