#alexander Ludwig gif

[zanephillips]

ALEXANDER LUDWIG Earth Abides 1.01 "Alone"

[dan-cyril-kingston]

ALEXANDER LUDWIG Earth Abides | 1.01

[hunnam]

Alexander Ludwig as Dorn Bad Boys: Ride or Die (2024) dir. Adil El Arbi & Bilall Fallah

[supfag]

ALEXANDER LUDWIG

[men-in-4k]

ALEXANDER LUDWIG as Ish Earth Abides S1:E01/02 · 2024

If you like the content, follow me on TWITTER as well <3

[lemonworldmp3]

"power is only given to those who are prepared to lower themselves to pick it up." — vikings [3.01 mercenary]

[aarontveit]

EARTH ABIDES EP04: Predators

[cloveroctobers]

NO STRESS — Armando Aretas [Fall Crumbles] 🤎

A/N: Going back to my roots of my first official drop on this man, which was a angsty-based Armando piece. It’s a kinda short thing and what I do best! Believe me I’m not pushing for a sad girl autumn by any means and I don’t think this is that?

WARNINGS: Language! + Moving onto bigger things? You tell me. Definitely inspired by current events but this won’t be too deep on that, especially if you’re looking for a break, yet I always find Novembers to be full of grievances but still looking at the positives towards the end of the month and thanks to this album dropping during this time…also helped inspired these chapters I’ve been writing.

SYNOPSIS: Set some time in the future in which every state in the U.S. solely has a president now and Armando Aretas holds that title. What happens when your easy going or dysfunctional? nature becomes too much after Armando’s new actions hits headlines?

ᯓ�� ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ

“Mami, don’t piss me off.” Armando spews at you, eyes locked on you from the moment you walked through the doors of your shared palace.

The way you sauntered along the marble floor, natural sway in your hips, with a strut in your step as your heels clacked along the texture, and your jacket slightly hung off your shoulders as you made your way over to the grand table, implied you were onto something lethal.

You oozed luxury as you took your seat so elegantly at the opposite head of the table, fixing your Prada shades back along your fresh silk press, all while beaming to your right, Mike’s hand going out to grab yours with a smile, as you almost pressed your glossed lips to your other fingertips to silently kiss at him in greeting.

One of your young servers—named Romil—you did the simple task of learning all of your employees names, immediately came to your left, your fizzy speciality already awaited for you in a flute glass, which you plucked into your grasp and always thanked your workers with a warm smile, “Thank you, Rom.”

He quickly sent a smile your way with a dip of his head before moving to stand away from the table in one of the corners. The servers were always supposed to give those at the dinner table space, waiting hand and foot on you. At times you found it ridiculous, knowing you can do these basic tasks on your own, (which you often did) especially on holidays when they should be off with their own loved ones, but you always made it a oath that they were included on gifts every year.

As the First Lady of Miami (Technically it was Florida but “Miami” just sounded better, especially since that’s where you all resided), it was not in your nature to ever treat anyone as less then. You were not that type of bitch, Lady of Georgia, the nasty shady Southern Belle, gratefully held that title.

A loud clearing of a throat and a side of a fist hitting the table, made the utensils on the table jump, and eyes turn to Armando, except for you who took your time facing your husband as you swallowed the Prosecco.

“Excuse me? Did you hear what I said?” Armando hissed.

Your smile could make anyone weak in the knees but Armando looked right past that since you were irking his nerves, “Hello to you too, baby. And No, I didn’t. What’s wrong?”

The way Armando’s eyes went into slits while resting his elbows on the table and pressed his clasped hands to his lips for a moment made his father, Mike Lowrey mumble to himself, “Oh shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Armando repeated, “Where were you huh? You weren’t there at the press meeting—

With a dramatic sigh you interrupted as you picked up a utensil to stab into the kale salad, “You mean the press meeting where they slaughtered you for the fuck shit you’ve been pulling? Why would I need to be there for that?”

Armando raised his brows, “You’re my lady, did you forget? You’re supposed to be beside me whenever I speak to the public, why are you acting brand new?”

Covering your mouth as you let out some laughter, you finished eating your portion of an appetizer, “That’s the thing, I’ve been by your side and when I don’t want to? I won’t be. I had better things to do today. It’s that simple.”

Armando’s eyes went to everyone else at the table, to make sure that he wasn’t hearing things. It shouldn’t be a shock to him, neither of you two were strictly by the book and marched to your own drums, just ask the people of the state who were not a fan of you two, they automatically felt like Armando was and still is a crook. Then there were those who felt like you could do better.

The opinion of sheep in some cases, right?

He was just a businessman that got shit done.

Like it or not.

“A First Lady’s obligiation is to be involved in social affairs. That’s just one of many.” Armando states which makes you tilt your head to the side, laughing once more.

He should be the last one preaching to you.

“Sure and my obligation today was to prioritize self care.” You inhale as you return back to your plate of salad, “I’m glad that I don’t have to beg for your attention, since you apparently miss me so much that you care more about how the public is labeling you. That’s something you should have thought about before you picked the streets over your queen, no?”

Armando immediately knew what you were getting at. It was tossed at him by one of the journalists who outed that the woman Armando was seen spending many outings with behind your back, had been talking about their quality times together for the right price. Fresh off the press, it was something you were aware of at 2 this morning which was sadly confirmed by Dorn over the phone before it hit news.

You had no issue collecting your things around 5 in the morning, when you could have slapped Armando awake but you couldn’t bring yourself to be blind sided. It was suspected every time Armando extended his trips in Key West. You can’t fix stupid and choices have consequences. This has all come to a hilt and this is exactly what the people wanted, to see you upset so why bother trying to save face when you already knew the truth?

“Maybe we should let you two have this conversation in private?” Theresa, Marcus’ wife speaks up, already placing her handkerchief on the table.

Shrugging your shoulders you say, “We’re all a family here right? What happens in the palace stays in the palace. Except…not with what’s her name? Dinah. Thee aspiring photo journalist who comes from a lineage of racist assassins…I know her family is having a field day with this one. How many nights did you let her stay in one of these rooms or better yet, our bed?”

“It was never our bed.” Armando snaps, making Marcus widened his eyes, and lightly scratch at his ear at what his new nephew let slip through his lips.

This time you cackled with your head thrown back.

Armando glared at you, “I don’t know what you’re laughing at because ain’t shit funny.”

Wiping the tears from the corner of your eyes, you nod in agreement as you stared over at your husband in the dim dining hall, “You’re right. It’s hilarious because I just realized I can’t be bothered anymore.”

This is what November’s are for. Saying no to things that no longer have use to you. Getting rid of things to allow the growth to start all over again.

So why was this man playing in your face?

It did sting because it felt like your time was wasted, with a man that should have loved you better. If he wanted to play around, he should have just said that instead of trying to make you out to be a fool. Shouldn’t have even married you if he was going to later second guess your time together. Maybe that wasn’t Armando’s intentions but you just didn’t have the energy to do too much back and forth tonight.

The both of you got into this position of power because of Armando’s mother mainly. Isabel and her husband, Benito—although Mexico City natives—had strong ties to Miami but with their power was also handed down to Armando. It turns out that this was what they were training Armando so hard for as a kid. It was an ugly business, gritty and brutal with the way it turned out but with the way the government was forever changing? Thanks to Benito who had connections with the (dirty) American government, Armando was next in line regardless and knew if he didn’t take his shot, he would miss out on this big opportunity and he wanted nothing more than to take you right with him. Once upon a time, Armando couldn’t picture anyone else ruling this state with him.

Power can make you do questionable things and Armando unfortunately fell into that.

“What does that mean?” Armando quizzed.

“It’s means you’re not as calculated as you think you are,” you pointed the fork in his direction, “And I’m going to move on. Consider this a lesson learned.”

Armando tightened his jaw at your words, “I should have known that you’ve been working against me.”

“No, no. Don’t try and spin this.” You express, “I’m the only one that gets to point fingers. I loved you through your flaws, which is why I don’t love you any less after you’ve been shitting where you shouldn’t eat. You don’t know who to trust and I’m your wife. We’re supposed to be some sort of a union but I guess we’re not. Doesn’t that sound problematic to you?”

Armando scoffed as he let his back rest against the extravagant chair, “What’s problematic is you secretly plotting against me.”

Kelly can’t help but to step in, although Dorn attempts to firmly squeeze her thigh underneath the table, a signal for her to not get involved but she shoves his hand off her, “Look Armando, I’ve been working with you for a good while on this term and your paranoia is out of this world. We can blame your mother for that sure but you got to work through that shit at some point man. You got in your head and now look at you, about to lose your wife. Someone you loved enough to want to spend an eternity with just to let this presidency get to you. It’s clown behavior, I’m just saying.”

“Well nobody asked you, Kelly.” Armando muttered with a strong side eye.

“I don’t care.” The dark haired woman sassed, “I’m not going to be the one enabling you. You’re a dumbass.”

That made you smile.

Kelly scrapped her chair back, looking at all the faces that sat at the table, “And neither should the rest of you, especially you two.” She stared hard at Mike who raised his brows at Kelly’s usual bluntness and Marcus who raised his hands in innocence, “I know where I’m going once you don’t win a second term.” She finishes, looking at Armando one last time before giving you a sharp nod and taking her exit.

Armando stared after her in disbelief, although his usual blank facial expression shielded that well. Yet when he settled his eyes on Dorn, who looked torn, since the two managed to build a solid friendship and partnership—it was actually Armando, Dorn, and Reggie that were the main faces of his term.

“Sorry man,” The blond found himself apologizing but Armando just shrugs his shoulders, knowing Dorn had no true aim on leaving—at least he didn’t have that conversation with Armando.

Wait a minute…

Armando tightened his gaze on you, “You mind telling me what Kelly is getting at?”

It was your turn to shrug your shoulders, “Not everyone can be yes men, ladies, or people. People want balance, I wanted balance. You couldn’t even give me that because you value chess over love and it’s really sad.”

The tone you were taking with him, speaking so at ease with a wicked smile at the corner of your lips, and the glint in your eyes did not feel warm. There was a chill right underneath it. The longer Armando searched your eyes, he started to feel his heart race.

And not in a good way.

“Oh those gears are turning now aren’t they, Mr. Soon to be Ex-President?” You grinned.

Armando stands up so fast that he knocks the chair he was sitting in back, “You can’t be fucken serious?!”

Giggling, you dabbed at the corners of your mouth, “Why wouldn’t I be? Always best to be a few steps ahead right? That is what you once said. And I have you to thank for that, so, thank you. Thank you for making me realize what’s worth my time since I’m not yours. Are you ready to be my First Gentleman?”

Armando felt his eye twitch at the ball you just dropped. “Did you know?” He turns to his father.

Mike shakes his head, “No ‘Mando I didn’t but can you fault her?”

“So you’re taking her side?!”

Christine speaks up so her husband didn’t also raise his voice, “Honey, I know you’re upset but let’s turn it down a notch and just hear each other out.”

Before Armando can say more, you shake your head, “I don’t have anything else to say quite frankly. I’m running and if I don’t win then that’s fine too but as long as you don’t get a second term? That’ll be even better. Too much stress isn’t good for the baby.”

All the older adults whipped their heads to you at this news.

“What did you just say?” Mike splutters out.

Christine and Secada both shared a deep frown.

Marcus said, “I know I’m in no position to ever speak on a woman’s body…were you not just sipping on some fizz?”

You scanned all the faces in the room, and the amount of times Armando caressed his facial hair made you think he was about to pass out.

“Ah, I had y’all going didn’t i?” You winked, which visibly made everyone relax, “Can you imagine? Me trying to take over the world while carrying a heir? Real queen shit but…hopefully Dinah doesn’t pop back up talking about a bundle of joy of her own within the next few days because I might just actually have to bury your ass, and pretend you went missing, I don’t know.”

You said all this with a smile that made Christine share a worried glance with Theresa who couldn’t blame you. Reggie quietly finished his meal, wanting to finish it all before they all got kicked out but it’s not like he would have said much in the first place but he was definitely listening. He was the only one who knew what Armando was up to with Dinah until you approached Dorn to gather information (hack into Key West’s cameras and common areas Armando would be at out there) that was slowly about to released into the world.

“Don’t joke like that.” Armando muttered, palms flat on the table.

You blink, “Why? You took this marriage as one.”

Armando shakes his head, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, so we’re gaslighting now? Were you or were you not involved with another woman?” You interrogated.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.” Armando tried to tell you, he wasn’t physical with Dinah at all but if he looked back at it, it was still a form of cheating.

“Screencaps say different. Yapper Dinah says different…but no stress…maybe there will be a divorce or open marriage if that’s more your speed…I’m not sure what I’m feeling just yet though. TBD?”

Armando clasped his hands above his head, low lidded eyes settled on you as he tried to control his breathing, “Are you loca?”

“Nooo! Don’t say that.” Mike immediately shook his head already aware that was the wrong thing to say, shifting his gaze from a collected you and his iritated son.

Marcus also tried to intervene, “Nope.”

Instead all at the table watched you give off another round of laughter. This was not a good sign, it sounded chaotic and everyone can sense you were over it.

Resting one arm along the table and resting your cheek against the knuckles of your other hand you respond, “I could show you but I’ll let the universe do her thing, baby.”

With that you take your entree plate and start to leave the table but not without saying over your shoulder followed by a wave, “Thanks for coming to dinner everyone, my apologies for my late arrival but most importantly, I’m sorry Arman wasn’t the best host. Have a great night, I know I will.” You sing-song, feeling giddy at tonight’s plans.

Armando began to walk after you but Mike was already up and on his feet as well. He latched onto his son’s shoulder, “Aye, you gotta eat this one. Let some steam off before y’all can have a civil conversation, without us being your audience, ya know?”

“You might need some witnesses just in case she murder yo ass.” Marcus attempted with a chuckle, just to be slapped on his chest by Theresa, “Ow! Y’all all heard what she said right?”

“Shut up, Marcus.” Theresa tells her husband before Mike can.

Armando felt his eyes close once the guards shut the door behind you. You being out of his life out of something so one sided, was frustrating and not only that? Now you wanted to run against him during the next election? Then on top of that, you were considering ending this marriage and being so at peace with it too? That didn’t sit well with Armando.

So yeah, he was stressed.

“You know, you screwed up right? When a woman is that calm over your mishaps…that means deep shit.” Secada tells Armando at the front door of the palace, who huffs and rolls his eyes, “Hey as your SecDef who did just see you get your ass handed to you, again, I’m just stating the obvious and trying to help.”

“If I wanted your input, I would have asked.”

“Don’t take it out on me.” Secada affirms, “Usually your defense is better than this which already tells me, whatever you got yourself wrapped into with Dinah, is clearly messing up your judgment and now there’s consequences.”

Armando waved his hand along, still holding the front door open, “Tell me something I don’t know, General.”

Secada placed her hands on her hips as she now stands outside, “…Sitting on top of the world can be lonely, Aretas. Look at your mother—hell just talk to Mike. Don’t let that be your story when you truly have someone who only wanted to be loved by you and has loved you in return.”

“…Heard you.” Is all Armando says with a dip of his head, and Secada can tell that he was taking that part of her words in.

With a final hug of the night to tía Theresa, Christine, and a unwanted one from tío Marcus, Armando shares another somewhat lengthy chat with Mike on not pressing the issue anymore but after Armando remembered that you were trying to go out tonight, that went in one ear and out the other.

He wasn’t shocked to not find you in the primary bedroom, searching one of the ten rooms, finding you on the east wing, tucked far into the palace and out of sight. Armando knew you were in there based on the music vibrating from the door and a bowl you had resting outside the door on a tray.

Armando knocks hard, knowing you should be able to hear him over the bass. You take your time, coming to the door now dressed in a corset, mini skirt, tall boots, and hair in a claw clip. There was no shame in Armando’s game as he drank you in with his eyes, damn you looked good, but that was not the point.

“Where you goin’?”

“A girls night out on the town and that’s all I’m saying on that.” You announce with your chin up in the air before spinning to head back into the room, “Are you going to try and hold me hostage in here? If so, then you’re really asking for a fight.”

“No,” Armando lifted his shoulders with his lips pushed out a bit, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t go out tonight though.”

With a long sigh, you picked up your necklace, placing it in Armando’s palm so he could put it on you. “Well…we can’t always get what we want, right? It’s just like auntie Whitney said, it’s not right but it’s okay, I’m gonna make it anyway.”

Once clasped you turned back to face your husband. Your fingers went to his forehead to smooth out the lines there, “Stress brings wrinkles.”

“Kelly keeps telling me to get Botox…just in case, although my melanin should work in my favor.”

You snort, “Your body your choice, baby. Anyways! I’ve got to run, don’t wait up.”

It was Armando’s turn to grab your wrist, which you halt although you wanted to snatch it right back. However you kept your breathing steady and slowly faced the brown eyed man, questioning what he wanted silently. Something the both of you commonly did, socializing with just your eyes.

“…I hope you’re not for real thinking about ending things?”

Brushing a strand that fell into your eye, thanks to tilting your head to the side you say, “is that really a conversation you want to get into tonight? It’s been a long day.”

“Mine’s longer.”

He was the damn president after all.

“Ah yes, a competition with my unfaithful husband.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

How else could he have meant it?

“What is it exactly you want from me?” You question Armando, “To yell, scream, or cry? All the above? Drag your name through the press so you really end this term in a dumpster fire? That’s not me, never has been and I thought you knew that. I’m just done…probably numb? If I look into your eyes long enough, I can feel my heart wanting to race because I’ve really adored all parts of you until now. Then there’s this stronger side of me that says, maybe I’ve had enough too and just waited too late to see that.”

Armando can feel you fading from his grasp but he only had himself to blame for that. He cleared his throat, scratching at the side of the bridge of his nose as he followed you down the hallway before speaking up, “I think we still owe one another a final convo…once we sleep on it.”

“Okay, Arman,” is all you say texting away on your phone to let him know you heard him but still dreaded that, you knew the most important part of that talk would be the election because over the last few years, that became more important than your marriage, “Goodnight, don’t let the thoughts bite.”

And he stops following you, letting you disappear from his sight.

In bed, Armando lays on his back staring up at the ceiling constantly checking his socials, skipping over the constant talk of his fuck ups with Dinah being put on blast, ignored her texts, and searched for you, to see what you were up to.

Ultimately he would be the one up all night stressed over you.

And if you really chose to think about it, that would be fine by you.

ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ★ ᯓ

Read my final autumn anthology slice here.

[inafieldofdaisies]

Earth Abides (2024—) | Season 1, Episode 5 "The Return"

“Snakebite saved me. Maybe it made me half a devil, too. ” “Half a devil is better than a full one.”

[gratelove]

Stay This Time

Bjorn Lothbrok x Reader

Separated by fate but reunited by fire, a childhood bond between Bjorn Lothbrok and a fierce shieldmaiden reignites into a passion as untamed as the storm that brews between you. Bound by choice, not need, you demand your own legacy — but Bjorn vows to stay, not to claim you, but to stand beside you as your equal.

Warnings:p in v, fluff

The clash of steel filled the air, ringing out against the chatter of onlookers. You were locked in a heated practice fight, your breath coming in short, determined bursts as you sparred against one of Kattegat’s men. He was twice your size, but that only drove you to push harder, your movements swift and precise.

With a final twist of your wrist, you swept his legs out from under him and planted your foot on his chest. The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter, and you allowed yourself a proud grin.

From across the training field, a familiar pair of piercing blue eyes watched, filled with curiosity. Bjorn Lothbrok had returned to Kattegat, and though he looked different—stronger, broader, with the air of a man who had seen battles—you recognized him immediately. He was no longer the boy you had once called your best friend, but a warrior who carried himself with a quiet confidence.

Bjorn’s gaze lingered on you, a spark of recognition dawning on his face. It had been years since he left with his mother, and yet here you were, standing tall and fierce before him. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were piecing together a puzzle.

Suddenly, arms wrapped around your neck and a deep laugh erupted in your ear, breaking your locked gaze. The arms of Rune, your long time friend and recent sexual companion. He left a sloppy kiss on your cheek and you laughed, grabbing his forearm with your small hands. He began to drag you away, but not before you got one last glance at Bjorn, who was still watching you.

_

Later that evening, Kattegat was alive with celebration. The great hall was filled with laughter, the smell of roasting meat, and the clinking of cups. You felt a strange excitement coursing through you, knowing Bjorn was somewhere in the crowd. You stood away from the crowd, leaning against a pillar.

As you sipped from your horn of ale, a voice spoke close to your ear. “I thought I recognized that fierce look on the training field,” Bjorn said, his tone laced with amusement. “You always had the same look on your face when we fight as kids.” The voice made its way to stand directly in front of you.

“If I remember right, I always kicked your ass too.” He laughed, only a few inches away from you. You leaned your head against the wood pillar, tilting it up to meet his gaze. He stood several inches above you, and was definitely not the boy you remembered him to be. He was all muscle, scars, and tattoos now. A true Viking male.

“It was only because I let you win.” You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your eyes.

“Is that what you tell yourself to help you sleep at night? Can’t help being beat by a girl?” His index finger found one of the curls of your hair, playing with it. You breath hitched at his touch.

“Not much of a girl anymore. You’re a woman now.” You raised an eyebrow, trying your hardest to not let him see he’s affecting you.

“Yes, as you are now a man,” you say as your eyes travel down his body, then back up to his eyes. A playful smirk finds his lips as his hand travels down to grab yours.

“Will you dance with me? Or will your boyfriend be angry?” You furrow your brows at his accusation.

“What makes you think I have a boyfriend?”

“I saw that boy you were with earlier.” Your eyes widen in realizing you laugh.

“Rune? He is not my boyfriend. I am no man’s. I belong to no one.” Bjorn smiles and pulls your hand so your flush against him.

“How does such a beautiful woman not have a boyfriend.” He tilted his head in question.

“Because, I will never be known as someone’s wife. I will be known as a shield maiden. People will know my name, not because of who my husband is, but for the person I decided to be.” An expression flashed on Bjorn’s face, one of appreciation. One of respect.

“Good, then you will dance with me.” His gaze was intense on you, his eyes sharp and playful.

“I never said yes.” You squinted at him.

“Come on,” he said, his voice rough with amusement. “Or have you grown too proud to dance with an old friend?”

“Proud,” you shot back. “If anyone’s proud, it’s you.”

He laughed, his grip firm as he tugged you into the swirling crowd of bodies. People moved aside, giving him space as he pulled you in front of him, his hands sliding to your waist with the confidence of someone who never asked permission. You stared up at him, your breath caught in your chest as the world around you blurred into flickering lights and music.

“Show me, then,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart pound harder than the drums. “Show me if you’re still as wild as you used to be.”

You tilted your head, arching a brow, unwilling to back down. “You’ll have to keep up, Bjorn.”

He grinned, his hands gripping your hips with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. The music shifted to a deeper, headier rhythm, the steady thump of the drums echoing through your veins. You moved together, your bodies falling into sync as if no time had passed at all.

The air grew thicker with every beat, every sway of your hips. His eyes stayed on you, watching every movement like a predator stalking prey. You matched his energy, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, knowing exactly what you were doing. His grip tightened in response, his fingers pressing into your sides as his gaze flickered down to where your bodies were almost—but not quite—touching.

“Still think you can handle me, Lothbrok,” you teased, breathless from the thrill of it all.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp as a blade’s edge. “I don’t think,” he said, his voice low, rough, and far too close to your ear. “I know.”

Heat spread through you like wildfire. His hands slid up your sides, his fingertips tracing slow, deliberate paths, sending sparks along your skin. The space between you disappeared as he leaned in, his lips so close to your ear you could feel the brush of them when he spoke.

“You’ve grown dangerous,” he murmured, his voice dark and smooth as honeyed mead.

Your heart thundered in your chest, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. Instead, you spun in his grasp, your back pressed against his chest now, your head tilted just enough to catch the sharp smirk on his face.

“Careful, Bjorn,” you said over your shoulder, your voice a little too breathless for your liking. “You might not be able to handle me after all.”

His breath was hot against your neck as his fingers splayed wide over your stomach, pulling you flush against him. “Try me,” he growled, his voice rough with something far more dangerous than playfulness.

The crowd around you blurred into shadows and firelight. It was just you and him, the rhythm of the music a steady pulse between your bodies. Every movement was deliberate, every roll of your hips matched by his. It wasn’t just dancing anymore — it was a challenge, a battle of control, of tension, and neither of you was willing to surrender.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps as you tilted your head back against his shoulder, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. His hands stayed firm, guiding you in a way that felt more like claiming. He wasn’t just following the music — he was commanding it.

“You know how many times I thought about you while I was gone,” he whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. His hands moved from your hips, running up the small of your waist. You spun back around before he had the chance to move further.

“I always knew you had a crush on me,” you teased, as you tangled your hands in his short blonde hair.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, and suddenly his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing short of wildfire — fierce, consuming, and utterly unstoppable. His lips were rough but sure, moving against yours like he had been waiting for this moment for far too long. Your breath hitched as you gripped his shoulders, your fingers digging into the leather of his tunic. He pulled you in tighter, crushing you against him as if he could fuse you together.

The crowd around you barely existed now. There was only him — his warmth, his strength, the taste of him on your tongue like honeyed mead and salt. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, his teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. He took advantage of it, his tongue sliding against yours with a slow, deliberate intensity that made your knees weaken.

But you weren’t about to be undone by him.

Your hands moved to his jaw, your fingers tracing the sharp edges of his beard, then fisting in his hair as you tilted his head back, taking control of the kiss. He groaned, low and deep, a sound that rumbled through his chest. His arms wrapped fully around your waist, his grip unrelenting, as if he was afraid you might slip away.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together. His eyes were still on yours, wild and unyielding, his lips swollen from the kiss. You were sure you looked just as wrecked.

“Still think I can’t handle you?” he murmured, his voice rougher now, like it had been dragged over stone.

“Not bad,” you admitted, a slow grin tugging at your lips. “But you’re not the only one who’s learned a few things.”

His laugh was deep and raw, the kind that made your chest tighten in the most infuriating way. His gaze dipped down to your lips again, and he leaned in, his voice nothing more than a husky whisper. “Then show me.”

Your heart pounded so hard it echoed in your ears. For a moment, you glanced around at the hall — the firelight, the laughter, the crowd still dancing and drinking. None of it mattered. Not anymore. The only thing that mattered was the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm, the unspoken challenge in his eyes, and the heat that had coiled low in your belly, too strong to ignore.

“Follow me,” you said, your voice low but certain.

His eyes flashed with something wild and untamed. Without hesitation, his hand slid down to grip yours, his fingers lacing with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. He let you lead him, weaving through the crowd.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning under your skin. His fingers stayed locked with yours, his grip firm but never controlling. You led him through the winding paths of Kattegat, past dimly lit streets and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

Your home wasn’t far, but the walk felt longer with him so close behind you, his eyes boring into your back. Every step felt like an eternity, every brush of his fingers a spark against your skin. When you finally reached the door, you glanced over your shoulder, catching the way he was looking at you — his eyes half-lidded, his breathing uneven, like a wolf that had just found its prey.

“Are you going to stand there staring,” you teased, reaching for the latch, “or are you coming in?”

The words barely left your mouth before his hands were on you again, spinning you around and pressing you back against the door. His mouth was on yours before you could finish drawing breath, his kiss searing, desperate, and all-consuming. You fumbled with the latch, both of you too caught up in the pull of each other to care. The door gave way behind you, and you stumbled inside, still tangled in each other’s arms.

He kicked the door shut behind him, his hands already moving over your back, your waist, pulling you against him. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, pressing you closer until you could feel every inch of him, hard and unyielding. Your fingers worked at the laces of his tunic, tugging them free with urgency, and he let out a sharp breath against your lips, his forehead resting against yours for just a moment.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured, his voice thick with that familiar cocky edge.

“Don’t pretend you’re any better,” you shot back, pulling the leather from his shoulders.

His grin was wicked and full of promise. “Fair point.”

He pushed you gently, guiding you backward until your back hit the wall. His lips were on your neck now, slow and deliberate, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your jaw. Your head tipped back, a gasp escaping your lips as your hands found his bare chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle. Every scar you touched was a story he’d never have to tell, and you found yourself memorizing each one.

His lips returned to yours, his kiss more focused now — no longer a clash of wills, but something deeper, something hotter. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and his groan reverberated against your lips.

“Tell me to stop,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice so low and raw it sent a shiver down your spine. “Tell me now, and I will.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark, wild, but there was something steady there too — a flicker of restraint, a promise to pull back if you asked. But you didn’t want him to pull back. Not tonight.

“Don’t stop,” you said, your voice steady, your gaze unwavering.

His eyes searched yours for half a heartbeat, then something inside him snapped. His hands were on you again, rough but never careless, lifting you with ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you further inside, his lips never leaving yours. Your back hit the fur covered bed and Bjorn quickly reconnected your lips.

Bjorn’s hands were everywhere — rough, warm, and possessive as they roamed the curves of your body. The air in your home was thick with the scent of pinewood, firelight flickering against the walls, but none of it mattered. The only thing you could focus on was him — the weight of him above you, the feel of his body pressed so tightly against yours it was hard to tell where you ended and he began.

His mouth was on yours again, hungrier than before. His kisses were fire and steel, each one hot enough to sear away every rational thought. His beard was rough against your skin, but you didn’t care. If anything, you welcomed the sensation — the way it grounded you in the wild, electric storm of him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a low, guttural groan from his chest.

“Still think you’re in control?” he rasped, his lips brushing against the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

“Don’t mistake patience for surrender,” you shot back, breathless but still defiant. Your legs tightened around his waist, locking him in place. “If I wanted to stop you, Bjorn, you’d already be on your back.”

That earned you a sharp, wicked grin. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in just hard enough to make your heart race faster. “Is that right?” he muttered against your collarbone, his voice rough like the scrape of stone on steel. He nipped at your skin, drawing a gasp from you, and then soothed the spot with his tongue, slow and deliberate. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You will,” you promised, tilting his head up so his eyes met yours, fierce and unyielding. “But not tonight.”

His breath caught, his grin faltering for half a heartbeat before it returned, sharper now, more dangerous. “Then I’ll take what you give me,” he said, his eyes locked on yours with a heat that threatened to consume you both. “But know this — I’m not gentle.”

“Good,” you said, your lips brushing against his. “I don’t want gentle.”

The moment you said it, he surged forward, capturing your mouth with a kiss so fierce it left you breathless. There was no more teasing now, no more restraint. His hands were on your waist, pulling you closer, his body pressed so tightly against yours it felt like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. The heat between you was unbearable, every brush of his skin against yours sending sparks down your spine.

You fought back, of course. Your hands explored his chest, nails raking lightly down his skin, tracing old scars and new ones alike. His muscles tensed under your touch, and you felt his sharp inhale, his body shuddering slightly under the weight of your touch.

His hands found the hem of your tunic, sliding under to rest against the bare skin of your waist. The warmth of his palms sent a shiver down your spine, and you arched into him, your breath catching as his thumbs stroked slow, lazy circles against your skin.

“You’re quiet now,” he teased, his breath hot against your ear. “Where’s all that clever talk from before?”

“Careful, Bjorn,” you warned, turning your head just enough so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You might regret what you’re asking for. Most men don’t want a woman who dominates them.”

He growled, the sound raw and primal, vibrating low in his chest. His eyes met yours again, his pupils blown wide with something wild and untamed. “I want all of it,” he said, his voice low and dark as a storm on the horizon. “Every part.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, he was on his back, his eyes wide with shock before a grin broke across his face. You were straddling him, your hands on his chest, pinning him down with a grin that matched his own.

His laughter was sharp and wild, his eyes bright with pride and something else — something hotter. “There she is,” he said, his voice full of approval, his hands gripping your hips with bruising strength. “That’s the girl I remember.”

“She’s still here,” you said, leaning down so your face was just inches from his.

“And by the gods, how I’ve missed her.” His eyes darkened, his grin fading into something more serious, more dangerous. His hand moved from your hip to the back of your neck, pulling you down into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, like he was no longer rushing to win. No, this wasn’t about victory anymore — it was about savoring every second, every taste, every inch of you.

His hands roamed your back, your sides, gripping, holding, claiming. You felt his heart pounding under your palm, wild and fast, just like your own. The steady thrum of it matched yours beat for beat, as if the two of you were caught in the same storm.

“Say it,” he muttered against your lips, his voice hoarse with need. “Say you missed me.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, those blue eyes that had haunted your dreams for years. “I missed you,” you admitted, breathless but unashamed. “More than you’ll ever know.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, something softened in his gaze. His hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness you hadn’t expected. “I missed you too,” he said, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “More than I should have.”

For a heartbeat, the world slowed. The only sound was the distant crackle of the fire, the only light the flicker of its glow. His eyes searched yours, his gaze raw and open in a way you hadn’t seen before. The weight of it settled deep in your chest, warm and aching all at once.

But then the storm returned.

His lips were on yours, fiercer than before, his hands pulling you down against him like he never wanted to let go. Your hands were in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. He flipped you again, his body pressing you into the bed, his weight a welcome, grounding presence.

There were no more words after that, just the sound of your breaths mingling, the scrape of rough hands on soft skin, and the steady, unrelenting crash of two people who had been apart for far too long. It was wild. It was reckless. And it was everything you had been waiting for.

Your fingers clawed at his back, your legs tangled with his as the heat between you grew unbearable. Every touch was fire, every kiss a clash of wills. You lost track of time, of space, of anything but him. His name was a whisper on your lips, and yours was a growl on his.

He quickly undid the ties of his pants, pulling them down. You did the same to yours, neither of you seemingly able to move fast enough. He grabbed your hands, pinning them above your head. He buried himself in you and you let out a cry of pleasure. He was true to his word. He was not gentle. His thrusts were fast and rough, and you basked in the immense pleasure of him pounding into you. Your head fell against the pillow, your eyes rolling back. He was hitting you deeper and deeper with each thrust.

You met his gaze and he was a thing of beauty. His blonde hair clung to his forehead and his piercing blue eyes drank in your appearance. His muscles tightened under his scarred and tattooed skin as he relished in the pleasure of his cock inside you. If you could see this for the rest of your life you may die happy, you thought to yourself.

With your legs wrapped around his waist, you used your strength to flip yourselves over, once again. You were now on top, palms flat against his muscles pecks. You pushed into them, using them as leverage to grind on him. You moved your hips back and forth, watching as his mouth fell open in pleasure. His hands squeezed your waist, pushing you back and forth with more speed. Your head fell back as you began to bounce up and down on his length. You let out a loud moan at his deep he was entering you.

His hands clasped your breasts as you bounced faster and faster. He let out an animalistic groan and you matched it with your own moans. You could feel the pressure building in your lower stomach. You were so close to the edge.

“Bjorn,” you moaned his name, earning a moan from him. Your movements became sloppier as you reached the edge. You finally tipped over the edge, a wave of ecstasy washing over you.

You kept up your movements until Bjorn hit his climax. You felt him spill into you and you let out one last moan, before falling next to him on the bed. He wrapped his arm around your naked body, pulling you into him.

When it was over, you lay tangled together, your breath still coming in shallow gasps, the heat of his body a steady, grounding presence against yours. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm, his head resting against your shoulder as he lay beside you.

Silence hung between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that comes after a storm, calm and steady, like the world had finally decided to give you peace.

“You’ll stay this time,” you said softly, turning to face him.

His eyes met yours, steady and sure. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’m done running,” he said, his voice firm with resolve. “I have nothing to run from anymore.”

Your eyes searched his, looking for doubt but finding none. You nodded, your heart a steady thrum of warmth and certainty. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Because I won’t let you leave again.”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you wondered if he would say something reckless, something that would make you shove him right back out the door.

But then he smirked, his thumb brushing slow circles over your skin. “I thought you didn’t want a man tying you down,” he said softly, his voice teasing but not cruel. “Didn’t you say you didn’t need a husband or a man to be remembered?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you tilted your head toward him, letting your fingers trace the edge of his jaw. His beard was rough beneath your fingertips, but his eyes were soft now, softer than you’d ever seen them.

“I don’t,” you replied simply, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I don’t need a man to carve my name into the sagas.”

His grin widened, slow and wolfish, but he didn’t interrupt.

“But,” you continued, your voice strong and clear, “if I choose to have one at my side, he’ll be there because I want him to be. Not because I need him. And not because he defines me.”

His grin faded, replaced by something deeper. His eyes, sharp as they were, held something raw and unguarded now. His fingers squeezed your hip, his grip firm but not possessive. “You are an exceptional woman. I never wish to change you. I never wish to define you. I will stay,” he said quietly, his eyes locked on yours like he was making a vow before the gods themselves. “I will stay because I want to stand beside you. It would be an honor to be know as yours.” His voice lowered into something rougher, more honest. “If you’ll have me.”

You blinked slowly, the weight of his words settling into your chest like a steady, thrumming beat. It wasn’t possession. It wasn’t control. It was choice. And that made all the difference.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, your eyes closing as the warmth of him surrounded you. Your voice was soft but steady when you replied, “Then stay, Bjorn Lothbrok. Stay and see if you can keep up.”

His sharp inhale was followed by a low chuckle, his breath warm against your lips. “I’d like to see you try and leave me behind,” he murmured, his voice filled with a challenge you both knew would never truly be tested.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips against his, slow and deliberate. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.”

[aarontveitisonfire]

NEW ✨ Aaron Tveit as Charlie in Earth Abides TV series promo | Aaron is in Episode 4 and 5 (Dec 22 MGM+)

[hunnam]

[shirtlesscelebsofdaworld]

[hyper-trash-panda]

Bad Boys — Legacy pt 1/?

No clue how many parts this is gonna be, just running on vibes

Warnings = blood, violence, cursing

Rated R

The first light of dawn stretched over the Miami skyline, painting the horizon with streaks of gold and crimson. A thick mist hovered over the water, shrouding the old dock in a cloak of shadows. On the weathered planks, a group of Cuban men stood in tense silence. Their faces were hard, eyes sharp, scanning the area for any sign of trouble; dressed in dark suits that clung to their muscular frames, the sheen of expensive leather shoes glinting with each subtle movement.

At the center of the group stood a man whose very presence commanded respect. He was tall, with broad shoulders and an air of authority that was undeniable. His suit was a shade darker than the rest, almost black, tailored to perfection. A blood-red tie stood out against the crisp white of his shirt. His hair slicked back with precision, and a thin scar ran down the side of his face.

The soft hum of an approaching ship broke the silence. All eyes turned to the water as a large freighter, its name obscured by rust and age, glided into view. The ship's engines rumbled low, echoing through the stillness as it came to a slow stop at the dock. A moment later, the creaking of metal rang out as the gangway was lowered, and from the bowels of the ship, men began to emerge. They were a stark contrast to the polished appearance of Vargas and his crew. These men moved with the silent, practiced steps of those who lived in the shadows. At their center was a figure that drew every gaze, even from those who were trying not to stare.

He was a mountain of a man, standing nearly a head taller than the others. His skin was a canvas of ink that told a story of violence, loyalty, and survival. The lines and shapes crawled up his neck and over his bald head, a mix of intricate designs and symbols that marked him as someone who had seen the inside of more than one prison. His eyes were dark, almost black, as they scanned the dock with a cold, calculating detachment. He wore a simple black hoodie and cargo pants that allowed for easy movement. His look was nondescript, designed to blend in yet his sheer size and the aura of danger made him impossible to ignore.

The tattooed man stepped off the ship, his heavy boots thudding against the dock. He paused, waiting as his men, similarly dressed in muted tones and rough fabrics, spread out in a wide formation, creating a perimeter around him.

Vargas took a step forward, his eyes narrowing as he appraised the newcomer. Despite the size of the man before him, Vargas showed no sign of intimidation. He extended a hand, the gesture formal, but his expression was anything but friendly.

"You're early," Vargas spoke in Spanish, his voice a low growl, thick with a Cuban accent.

The tattooed man did not immediately respond. Instead, he reached up, slowly pulling back his hood to reveal a face that was a patchwork of scars and faded ink. His lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"We don't like to keep people waiting," he replied, his voice a deep rumble, carrying a hint of an accent that was difficult to place, yet held Hispanic origins.

For a moment, it seemed as though the air itself had thickened; suffocating. Neither man moved, each waiting for the other to make the first gesture.

Finally, Vargas broke the silence. "You have what we agreed on?"

The tattooed man's smile widened just a fraction. "It's all here," he said, gesturing to the ship behind him. "But first, I want to see your end of the deal."

Vargas nodded, a brief, curt motion. He turned to one of his men, who quickly opened a large, steel case at his feet. Inside, stacks of cash were neatly arranged, the crisp bills reflecting the early morning light.

"Everything as promised," Vargas said, a note of pride in his voice. "Now, let's get this done."

The tattooed man's eyes flicked to the case, then back to Vargas. For a second, something like amusement flashed in his gaze before it vanished, replaced by the same cold indifference.

"Let's," he agreed, his tone almost mocking as he moved toward the ship.

The tattooed man turned on his heel, walking back up the gangway and disappearing into the shadows of the ship's hold. Vargas and his men watched him closely, their hands inching toward their concealed weapons, ready for anything. After a few moments, the tattooed man reemerged, carrying a large black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He descended the ramp with deliberate slowness. When he reached the dock, he dropped the duffel bag at Vargas's feet with a heavy thud. The sound echoed through the stillness, but Vargas remained unmoved, his expression hardening as he glanced down at the bag.

"That's it?" Vargas asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is what you bring me after all the promises? This... pathetic little bag?"

The tattooed man's jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing his face. He folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes narrowing as he locked gazes with Vargas. "If you want more, you need to pay more.” he shrugged coldly. His voice was low, a warning that Vargas would have been wise to heed.

But Vargas was not a man to be threatened. His lip curled into a sneer as he gave a slight nod. In an instant, his men raised their weapons, the clicks of safety switches echoing in the quiet morning rays. Rifles and pistols were now trained on the tattooed man and his crew, fingers itching to pull the triggers.

"I don't think you understand how this works," Vargas said, his voice a deadly whisper. "You don't get to dictate terms here. I paid for a full shipment, not some half-assed delivery. Now, give me the rest of the supply, or I'll take it myself-starting with what you owe me."

The tattooed man remained still, his expression unreadable as he glanced at the weapons now aimed at him. He didn't flinch, didn't blink. Instead, a dark smile crept across his lips.

"You think you're in control, don't you?" he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder, he added, "You talk a lot for someone who doesn't know what he's dealing with."

Vargas's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Don't play games with me. I know you're not the real leader here. You're just the muscle—the errand boy. I want to talk to the one in charge. I want to talk to—“

Vargas's words were cut off by the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot. The sound shattered the morning calm, reverberating off the dock and across the water. For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Then, as if in slow motion, Vargas's head snapped back, a single bullet hole appearing dead center between his eyes. The shock in his expression remained frozen on his face as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Blood sprayed in a fine mist, some of it spattering across the tattooed man's face. The Cuban leader's men stood in stunned silence, their weapons still raised, but now useless in their trembling hands. The tattooed man didn't so much as blink as the blood dripped down his cheek. Without a word, he knelt down beside the fallen body of Emilio Vargas. The once-proud tyrant now lay in a growing pool of his own blood, eyes vacant, staring up at the dawn sky. The tattooed man reached into the dead man's jacket pocket and pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, wiping the blood from his forehead with calm precision.

Rising to his feet, the tattooed man glanced at the remaining men, who were still frozen in place, their weapons slowly lowering as the reality of the situation sank in. He turned back to the ship, wiping the last remnants of blood from his cheek as he spoke, his voice laced with irritation. "You sure took your time making your entrance."

From the shadows of the ship's hold, a figure emerged, his presence immediately commanding. He was a tall, imposing man, his frame exuding both power and control. He wore a sleek black leather jacket that clung to his muscular build, the fabric smooth and unblemished, reflecting the dim morning light with a subtle sheen. Matching black gloves encased his hands, the leather creaking softly as he recalibrated the weapon he had just fired. His thick, jet-black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his skin was deeply tanned.

As he descended the gangway, each step deliberate and measured. The men on the dock, both his own and the remaining Cubans, seemed to instinctively straighten. There was no doubt in anyone's mind now—this was the man in charge, the true leader of the Cartel. Reaching the bottom of the gangway, he looked down at the lifeless body of Emilio Vargas, his expression unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the scene before him with mild curiosity, then spoke in a calm, almost casual tone. "He wanted to speak with the leader," he said, his voice carrying a faint accent that hinted at his origins but remained elusive. "So I took that as his last dying wish." He shrugged.

The remaining Cuban gang members began murmuring to each other in rapid Spanish, their voices a mixture of panic and defiance. Their weapons rose once more, but their hands trembled, betraying their fear. They were outnumbered and outclassed, and they knew it.

The dark-haired leader turned to tattooed one, his expression softening only slightly as he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Handle the nuisances, Alejandro," he said, his tone both an order and a display of trust.

Alejandro nodded, understanding the unspoken command. He turned to the group of Cuban men, his eyes narrowing as he assessed them with the cold precision of a predator sizing up its prey. Without hesitation, the men under Alejandro's command moved into action, their weapons firing with deadly accuracy. The sounds of gunfire echoed across the dock, mingling with the cries of the Cuban gang members as they were cut down one by one. The air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood, the once-peaceful dawn now shattered by violence.

The dark-haired leader didn't bother to watch the carnage unfold. He turned his back on the scene and began to walk back toward the ship, his posture relaxed, his hands casually slipping into the pockets of his leather jacket.

As he reached the top of the gangway, he paused for a moment, looking out over the city of Miami as the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the horizon. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. This was only the beginning. The real work was about to start, and soon, the entire city would know who truly controlled its streets. He disappeared into the ship's hold, leaving the chaos behind him, confident that when he emerged again, Miami would be his for the taking.

Mike gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual, his knuckles faintly turning white as he navigated the streets of Miami. The late morning sun cast a golden glow over the city, but inside the Porsche, the atmosphere was anything but warm.

Armando sat in the passenger seat, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed out the window. His expression was neutral, unreadable. Behind him, Marcus was wedged in the backseat with Reggie, both of them doing their best to pretend the tension wasn't thick enough to cut with a knife. Mike stole a glance at Armando, struggling to find the right words. He'd rehearsed this moment a dozen times in his head, yet now, everything he wanted to say seemed to evaporate into thin air. "So, uh..." Mike started, his voice low and hesitant, "you catch that game last night?"

Armando turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Mike's attempt at conversation. "No."

Silence. Mike's jaw tightened as he searched for something, anything, to keep the conversation alive, but Armando's single-word response shut it down cold. The young man returned his gaze to the window, clearly uninterested in continuing.

From the backseat, Marcus watched the exchange unfold, his mind racing for a way to ease the tension. "Hey, nephew.” Marcus began, leaning forward slightly, "Can I call you that?” He began, “It’s nice to finally have someone I can say that to, you know?”

Armando turned slightly to the older man across him, his gaze indifferent and unreadable as Marcus continued to ramble. “My sister, Syd—ah Sydney, had a daughter last year, so I got a niece, but Mike and I have been like brothers since forever. My kids call him Uncle Mike, always have. He's family, you know?"

Armando's expression remained impassive, but his brows knitting together slightly. The word 'nephew' hung in the air. Marcus caught the look and felt a momentary twinge of regret.

"But hey," Marcus hurried to add, sensing his first attempt was a miss, "you don't have to call me Uncle Marcus or anything. It's just a formality, really. I mean, Mike never had kids, so I couldn't have a nephew until now, but that doesn't mean you have to, uh..."

"Okay," Armando interrupted, his tone flat. He turned back to the window, clearly done with the conversation.

Marcus blinked, his enthusiasm deflating like a balloon. "Okay," he echoed softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned back in his seat.

In the silence that followed, Reggie shifted uncomfortably beside Marcus. He glanced at Mike, then at Marcus, and then back again. Finally, he cleared his throat, setting his gaze on Mike, trying to lighten the mood. "Since I'm Mr. Burnett's son-in-law, Sir, does that make you my uncle too?"

Mike and Marcus both turned their heads sharply, their voices overlapping in an unplanned chorus. "Shut up, Reggie!"

Reggie nodded in understanding before he slouched back into his seat, clearly regretting his attempt at humor. The car returned to its strained silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the soft whir of the air conditioning.

The silence persisted as they arrived at the police precinct, the car's tires crunching over the gravel before Mike parked in his usual spot. The four of them stepped out, the Miami heat wrapping around them like a blanket. Mike adjusted his sunglasses, his jaw set in that familiar hard line, while Marcus stretched, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the uncomfortable ride.

Armando followed Mike's lead, his face betraying nothing as he took in the precinct. He hadn't been here before, so the place felt foreign, like walking into enemy territory. Reggie brought up the rear, locking his hands behind his back and trying to blend into the background as they made their way inside. As they entered the precinct, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations dimmed, and the once-busy hallway grew quieter as officers and detectives turned to stare at Armando. Mike felt the weight of the stares as if they were aimed at him, too.

"Eyes front, people," Mike muttered under his breath, but he knew it was a futile command. Everyone knew who Armando was: The man who killed Captain Howard. The son Mike didn't know he had until it was almost too late. The kid who went from enemy to something...else.

Armando's reputation walked ahead of him, clearing a path through the crowd, but it wasn't respect that parted the sea of officers. It was fear, suspicion, maybe even hate. Mike could feel it, and he knew Armando did too. Marcus tried to deflect some of the tension by nodding at familiar faces, offering a few quick hellos, but it was like trying to stop a flood with a sponge. He could see the wariness in their eyes, the way they glanced at Armando and then away, as if looking too long might invite trouble.

Marcus glanced at Armando, then at the officers, and leaned in closer to Mike. "Man, you'd think they'd never seen a drug dealer before," he whispered, trying to sound casual.

Mike gave him a look, a silent warning to drop it. This wasn't the time or place to make light of the situation, not when the past hung over them like a storm cloud ready to break. They finally reached the glass conference room in the narcotics division. The door was slightly ajar, and Mike pushed it open without hesitation, leading the way inside. Rita was already there, her expression serious, though a flicker of something softer crossed her face when she saw Mike. She stood at the head of the long table, her crisp suit a stark contrast to the informal tension they carried with them from the car. Beside her, Dorn nodded in greeting, his usual stoic demeanor in place.

"Detectives," Rita greeted them, her tone professional but warm. Then her eyes shifted to Armando, and the warmth cooled, replaced by something more guarded. "Aretas."

"Captain," Armando replied, his voice even, giving her a respectful nod. But there was no warmth in his tone, just the acknowledgment of her rank and position.

Rita's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she looked at Reggie. "Officer Burnett," she greeted, her tone slightly less formal, almost as if she was relieved to address someone without the baggage.

"Captain Secada, ma’am" Reggie replied, throwing in a small salute that made Marcus roll his eyes.

"Man, I'm never going to get used to you changing your last name." Marcus comments before leaning back in his seat.

"I find it rather respectable that he didn't pressure Megan to change her last name and changed his instead." Rita nodded, returned a half-smile before getting down to business.

Everyone took their seats around the table, the tension lingering like a storm cloud. Dorn, ever efficient, moved to the side and retrieved a single folder, placing it directly in front of Armando. The half-Mexican man eyed the folder for a moment before flipping it open. His eyes scanned the first few lines, and Mike could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as he absorbed the contents.

Rita, watching Armando closely, began to speak, her tone measured and precise. "The folder contains the terms of your contract with the District Attorney. You're here because Detective Lowrey"—she glanced at Mike—"convinced the DA that you're no longer a threat, but an asset. Your expertise in the underworld is invaluable, and that's why we've offered you this deal."

Armando didn't look up as she spoke, his focus still on the document before him. Mike knew what was going through his son's mind; he could see it in the slight twitch of Armando's brow.

"The terms are simple," Rita continued, her voice carrying a note of finality. "You'll work as a consultant for AMMO for the remainder of your prison sentence. For every case you help us close, your sentence will be reduced. However, during this time, you'll be under 24/7 surveillance, as if you were still in prison."

Finally, Armando looked up, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked from Rita to Mike and then to Marcus, who sat stiffly in his chair.

"Detective Burnett," Rita continued "has agreed to open his home to you during this time. The DA felt it would be too unreliable for you to stay with your father." Her eyes flicked back to Armando, gauging his reaction. "This is a controlled environment. We can't afford any slip-ups."

Armando's gaze shifted to Marcus, who gave a small smile, but made no attempt at humor—just an acknowledgment of the reality they were all in.

Dorn stepped forward, a metal case in his hands. He placed it on the table in front of Armando and flipped the latches open. The case clicked, revealing a sleek ankle monitor nestled inside.

"This," Dorn began, his voice low and authoritative, "is your new accessory." He stepped back, nodding to Rita, who took over the explanation.

"You'll be wearing this monitor at all times. It's calibrated to track your whereabouts within a specific zone in the greater Miami area." She motioned to Dorn, who pulled up a projection on the screen behind her. A map of Miami appeared, with a large circle indicating the designated area. "This is your boundary. Step one foot out of this zone, and every patrol car in the area will be notified and instructed to arrest you."

Armando's eyes flicked to the screen, his face remaining stoic as he took in the information.

"You get three strikes," Rita continued, her tone firm. "Three violations, and the deal is off. You'll be sent back to prison to serve the remainder of your sentence. No appeals, no second chances."

The room was silent for a moment as the weight of Rita's words settled over them. Mike watched Armando closely, wondering what was going through his son's mind. He knew this wasn't the life Armando had imagined for himself, but it was the only path forward now.

Armando finally leaned back in his chair, his eyes meeting Rita's. "I understand."

Rita nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. She glanced at Mike and Marcus, then back to Armando. "Good." Rita nodded to Dorn as he stepped forward, picking up the ankle monitor from the case. Armando watched him, expression neutral, as Dorn knelt and fastened the device around his ankle.

"This monitor is tamper-proof.” Dorn stated, “It's been calibrated to send an alert if it's removed or tampered with in any way." Armando remained silent, his face a mask of indifference as Dorn secured and activated the monitor. "If that happens, you'll be treated as an escaped convict and hunted down accordingly. You're also restricted from engaging in any unsanctioned activities, which include but are not limited to: contacting known felons, carrying unauthorized weapons, or entering areas flagged as high-risk for narcotics activity—those will get you strikes. Understand?"

"Sí," Armando replied, his voice clipped but clear.

"Good." Dorn handed Armando a pen, pointing to the necessary sections in the contract. "Sign here, here, and here."

As Armando began to sign, Mike stood and moved toward the door, catching Rita's eye. She raised a brow but followed him out of the room. Mike closed the door behind them, ensuring they were out of earshot of the others.

"Rita," Mike began, his voice softening, "I just wanted to thank you for helping me get Armando this deal. I know it wasn't easy."

Rita crossed her arms, her expression serious but not unkind. "Michael, you should be thanking Judy Howard. It was her testimony, along with Callie's, about how Armando saved her life that made the DA even consider giving him a chance."

Mike nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. "I know, and I have. But I also know that your reputation, your standing as the Captain of the narcotics division, made a difference. Your dedication to protocol and procedures is what convinced the DA to let Armando stay here in Miami, instead of being shipped off to some precinct in the middle of nowhere."

Rita's tough exterior softened slightly, and she allowed herself a small smile. "I'll take that as a compliment. But remember, Michael, this is still a gamble. Armando's got a lot to prove."

Mike followed her gaze back into the conference room, where Dorn was pointing out the sections Armando needed to sign. "I know," Mike said quietly.

Rita nodded, her expression thoughtful. "But I can see the good in him. He just needs the right guidance."

Mike looked at her, his expression softening with affection. "And I can't think of anyone better for that job than you, Captain." Mike grinned, stepping closer to her, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone. "It's a good thing Armando has the chance to work under such a dedicated Captain. Someone who'll keep him in line."

Rita's smile widened, her eyes flicking up to meet his. "Keeping Armando in line won't be easy. He's a lot like his father, unfortunately."

Mike's gaze locked with hers as the distance between them shrank. "Is that right?" he murmured, inching even closer.

But before the moment could go any further, a sharp rap on the glass pulled them both back to reality. They jumped apart, turning to see Marcus standing on the other side, knocking on the window. Through the glass, his voice was muffled but still clear enough. "Hey, Mike, we're gonna show Armando around the station."

Mike sighed, annoyance flickering across his face. He waved Marcus off, trying to salvage the moment. "Go ahead without me, man."

Marcus gave a thumbs-up, not oblivious to the tension he'd just interrupted, but turned back to the room, leading Armando and Reggie out.

Mike turned back to Rita, attempting to pick up where they left off, but she had already taken several steps back. The flirtation in her eyes had cooled, replaced by her usual professionalism.

"I'm late for a meeting," she said, her tone polite but firm. "We'll catch up later, Mike."

"Rita, wait—" Mike started, but she was already halfway down the hall, her heels clicking against the tile floor as she made her exit.

Mike watched her go, a mix of frustration and admiration in his expression. He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath.

The neon lights of Eclipse flickered, casting vibrant hues of pink, blue, and purple onto the sidewalk where a line of eager patrons stretched down the block. Among them were four teenagers, standing out just slightly due to their awkward mix of confidence and trepidation. The two boys, tall and lanky, wore their best attempts at looking mature, sporting button-down shirts and jeans that fit just a bit too loosely, while their dates were dressed to impress.

Zach, the taller of the two, kept running his hand through his hair, trying to look nonchalant as he leaned over to his friend Tyler. "Just play it cool, man. We're in."

Tyler nodded, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him. "Yeah, no sweat."

On the other side of the boys stood Madison and Hannah, the girls' heels clicking softly on the pavement as they shuffled forward with the line. Madison, with her confident smile and perfectly styled hair, was the picture of excitement, craving the thrill of sneaking into a place where they clearly didn't belong. Beside her, Hannah clutched her tiny purse a little too tightly, her eyes darting nervously to the bouncer at the door.

"I don't know about this, Maddie," Hannah whispered, her voice tight with anxiety. "These IDs are trash. We're gonna get caught. My dad will kill me if he finds out."

Madison rolled her eyes, though there was affection in her tone. "Relax, isn't your dad out of town for another week? And besides, all you gotta do is act natural. Mature." She threw a playful smirk at her friend, who didn't look convinced.

Hannah bit her lip, casting another glance at the bouncer, a hulking figure whose muscles seemed to strain against his black T-shirt. "What if he asks questions? Or calls the cops?"

"Hey, come on. We didn't get all dressed up just to bail now." Madison looped her arm through Hannah's, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You've got this. Just follow my lead."

The line inched forward, and suddenly they were next. The bouncer, with his stern gaze and clipboard, motioned for them to approach. Madison stepped forward first, handing over her ID with a smile that bordered on flirtatious. "Good evening."

Hannah let out a frustrated sigh at what her friend considered 'mature', but followed suit; though her hand shook slightly as she handed over her ID. The boys did the same, standing a little taller, a little straighter, as if they were trying to will themselves into adulthood on the spot.

The bouncer scrutinized the IDs, his brow furrowing as he flipped them over, once, then twice. Hannah's heart pounded in her chest, her nerves making her feel faint. She could practically feel her father's disappointment and the grounded-for-life sentence he'd no doubt hand down already.

But just as the bouncer looked ready to ask a question, a loud shout came from behind him. Two men burst out of the club, fists swinging as they grappled with each other, knocking over a trash can and sending a cascade of bottles clattering to the ground. The bouncer turned, momentarily distracted by the commotion.

"Hey, knock it off!" he barked, stepping away from the teens. He waved them on without another glance.

Madison nudged Hannah, a triumphant grin on her face. "See? Told you it'd be fine."

Hannah could only nod, her pulse still racing as they slipped past the distracted bouncer and into the club's pulsating interior. As the heavy bass of the music washed over them, she let out a breath—her nerves slowly giving way to the thrill of the night ahead.

The sun dipped low on the Miami skyline, casting the city in hues of burnt orange and deepening shadows. The late evening air was thick with humidity, seeping into the black interior of Mike's sleek Porsche as it glided through the streets. Inside, the atmosphere was stifling in more ways than one. Mike's hands gripped the steering wheel, his usual swagger muted by the tense silence that had settled between the four men.

It had been a long day, most of it spent at the precinct acclimating Armando to his new role. The morning and afternoon were a blur of briefings, introductions, and tense meetings. Armando had been called upon to weigh in on several current narcotics cases—mostly low-level operations that wouldn't normally warrant attention. But that was the point. These cases were a test, a way for the team to gauge Armando's trustworthiness and see if he could be relied upon for accurate intel. He'd done his part, offering insights and identifying key players with a level of expertise that even the most seasoned detectives had to respect. Yet, despite the productive day, the air between him and the rest of the team was still thick with unspoken mistrust.

Marcus sat in the passenger seat, his eyes darting between Mike and the rearview mirror, where he caught glimpses of Reggie and Armando in the back. Reggie, who sat directly behind Marcus, stared out the window, while Armando, seated behind Mike, kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression unreadable. Marcus fidgeted with his phone before finally clearing his throat. "So, uh, Armando, Theresa called me earlier. She wanted to know if you liked smothered chicken." He forced a grin, trying to inject some warmth into the moment. "She's makin' it for dinner tonight to welcome you to our home."

Armando, finally turned his head slightly, his voice flat and accented as he replied, "Never had it."

Mike glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Armando's eye for a brief moment before returning his attention to the road. "Trust me, man, Theresa makes the best smothered chicken. Ain't nobody do it like her."

Marcus nodded eagerly, "She's got this special gravy, right? Learned it from her grandma. It's somethin' else, man. You won't find anything like it anywhere else."

Reggie, who had been silent up until now, leaned forward, "Is Miss Theresa gonna be makin' quinoa with the chicken?" Reggie asked, his voice almost casual.

Marcus whipped his head around to stare at Reggie, his face twisted in a mix of confusion and mild disgust. "Quin-what now? What the hell is that shit? And why would you even think that goes with smothered chicken?"

Mike smirked, glancing at Marcus out of the corner of his eye. "Quinoa, man. It's like rice, but healthier. High in protein, fiber—good stuff."

Marcus wasn't having it. He threw his hands up in the air. "If he wanted rice, he should've just asked for rice! Why you gotta complicate things with some fancy shit nobody asked for?"

Reggie shook his head. "I don't want rice, sir. I want quinoa."

Marcus looked ready to argue back, but Mike cut him off, "Man, you really should be eatin' quinoa. It's good for your blood sugar, helps with cholesterol, and it lowers the risk of heart disease."

Mike put particular emphasis on the last part, and Marcus immediately bristled. "Oh, here we go," Marcus muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'm the picture of health, Mike. I don't need no damn quinoa."

"Alright, show of hands. Who here has *not* had a heart attack in the last five years?" Mike took one hand off the steering wheel, raising it high.

Reggie raised his hand as well, throwing a cheeky grin in Marcus' direction.

There was a moment of silence as all eyes turned to Armando, who had been watching the exchange with quiet interest. He hesitated, clearly uncertain whether he should join in on the banter or keep his distance. Mike caught his eye in the rearview mirror, a small, encouraging smile tugging at his lips.

"Come on, man," Mike urged. "You got something to tell me, or what?"

Armando glanced at Marcus, who was glaring daggers at Mike, then slowly raised his hand, a reluctant grin finally breaking through his stoic expression.

Mike let out a whoop, the victory sweet on his tongue. "There we go! Three to one, joker. You're outvoted."

With a defeated sigh, Marcus slumped back in his seat, facing forward once more. "Theresa better not be makin' no damn quinoa."

Hours passed in a blur of pulsing lights and thumping bass, the night fully enveloping Eclipse in a haze of sweat and alcohol. The four teens had long since shed their initial nerves, now fully immersed in the wild energy of the night. At their table, a collection of empty shot glasses bore witness to the evening's indulgence.

Maddie and Hannah clinked their glasses together, giggling as they downed another shot of tequila. Hannah, who had started the night tightly wound and wary, now felt a warm, buzzing sensation coursing through her veins; leaving her feeling light, carefree, and, for the first time all night, fully present. She swayed to the music, laughing freely as Maddie cheered beside her.

"Best night ever!" Maddie shouted, her words slightly slurred, but her excitement unmistakable.

Before Hannah could respond, Tyler stumbled over to their table, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Yo, guys," he started, a grin plastered on his face, "some dude just gave me this." He held up a sleek, black vape pen as if it were a trophy.

Zach raised an eyebrow. "What's in it?"

Tyler shook his head, his movements loose and uncoordinated. "No idea, man. Took a couple of hits, though, and it's way stronger than any drink we've had tonight."

Maddie reached out for the pen. "Let me see that."

But Tyler quickly pulled it back, wagging a finger at her. "Nah, the guy said you gotta get your own. But he's over there if you want one." He pointed across the dance floor to where two men dressed in all black were seated in a booth mostly obscured by the crowd.

Even through her drunken haze, Hannah felt a flicker of hesitation. "I don't know about this, Maddie," she muttered, though the sharp edge of her earlier fear was dulled by the alcohol.

Maddie, unbothered by Hannah's uncertainty, waved her hand. "If you're that worried, just stay here. I'll get us both one."

Hannah watched as her friend sauntered over to the men, her confidence unwavering even in her slightly tipsy state. From her spot at the table, Hannah couldn’t make out the words exchanged over the blaring music, but she noticed how Maddie gestured back towards her at one point. One of the men, his chest exposed by a loosely buttoned shirt, turned to look directly at Hannah, a strange smile playing on his lips. She noted the wings inked across his skin, barely visible under the dim lights.

After what felt like an eternity, Maddie returned, stumbling slightly on her heels as she handed Hannah a vape pen identical to the one Tyler had shown them. "Here you go," she said with a smirk. "The guy said this one's just for you."

Hannah frowned, her earlier apprehension returning for a brief moment. "Why would he say that?"

Maddie shrugged, unbothered. "Probably thought you were hot or something. Who cares? Let's just enjoy it."

The two girls walked back onto the dance floor, joining the swaying mass of bodies as they each took several huffs from their pens. The vapor filled Hannah's lungs, a strange but not unpleasant taste lingering on her tongue. The effects hit almost immediately, her entire body warming with a comforting, almost overwhelming heat. The warmth spread from her chest outwards, melting away any last traces of anxiety, leaving only a sense of blissful euphoria. Hannah felt herself floating, the world around her softening into a dreamlike haze. The lights danced in time with the music, every beat sending a ripple of pleasure through her body. She grabbed Maddie's hand, laughing as they spun together, the club seeming to pulse with life.

Everything felt perfect, the night a brilliant kaleidoscope of color and sound, until suddenly, the heat in Hannah's body began to intensify, shifting from pleasant warmth to an unbearable burning. She felt herself begin to sweat, her skin clammy as she tried to focus on her friend.

"Maddie, I—" Hannah reached out, but her words died in her throat as Maddie turned to face her.

Blood poured from Maddie's eyes, staining her cheeks with crimson tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a wet, gurgling sound came out before she began to cough violently. Her body convulsed, her limbs jerking uncontrollably until, with a final, shuddering breath, she collapsed onto the floor.

Hannah's mind refused to process what she was seeing. It had to be the pen, or the alcohol, or maybe just a twisted dream. She couldn't move, couldn't think, as she stared at Maddie's limp form, her eyes wide with shock. Around her, the nightmare only deepened. The same grotesque scene began to unfold with others nearby; people screaming as blood poured from their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths; their bodies seizing before crumpling to the ground. The music pounded on, deafening and relentless, but all Hannah could hear was the sound of her own ragged breathing.

A wetness dripped from her nose. She touched her top lip, feeling the slick warmth of blood. Her hand trembled as she pulled it away, staring at the crimson stain on her fingers. The pain in her head was unbearable now, like her skull was being split open from the inside. Her vision blurred, the world around her spinning out of control. With a final, desperate gasp, Hannah's legs gave out, and she collapsed beside her friend, the night's horror swallowing her whole as the darkness claimed her.

Mike eased the car into the driveway. The ride had become quiet as the banter died down, but a weight had been lifted from the air. As soon as the car came to a stop, Reggie was out, eager to determine just which side would be accompanied with dinner. He gave Marcus a quick nod before heading to the front door. Marcus followed, keys already in hand, ready to step into the familiarity of home.

But Mike stayed put, watching as Armando unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the warm Miami evening. Mike took a deep breath, then reached for the trunk release. The click of the trunk opening broke the silence as Armando walked around to the back, retrieving his bag. The sound of the trunk closing seemed to echo louder than it should have in the quiet night.

Mike leaned against the car, his eyes fixed on Armando. "You know this is just temporary, right?" he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of concern. "A few months of good faith with the department, and I'll see if we can renegotiate your deal. Maybe get you your own place. Or..." He paused, weighing his next words. "You could live with me if that’s what you want."

Armando didn't answer right away. He just stood there, his bag hanging at his side, eyes staring into the distance as if searching for something. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but there was a heaviness to it. "I knew what I was signing up for before I came back here. It's all good, detective."

Mike nodded, understanding the burden Armando was carrying. He wanted to say more, to offer some kind of reassurance, but instead, he forced a small smile. "Come on, let's get inside before Theresa has our heads for letting dinner get cold."

Armando gave a small nod, his grip tightening on his bag as they headed toward the house, the warm glow of the porch light guiding them to the doorstep. As Mike and Armando stepped into the house, the first thing they heard was a chorus of voices shouting in unison, "Welcome to Miami!" The sudden burst of sound startled both men, causing them to glance around the room in surprise.

Before them, a group stood grinning beneath a banner that read "Welcome Cousin Manny," the letters becoming more smushed and chaotic toward the end of the phrase. Theresa was front and center, her warm smile a beacon of welcome. Beside her stood Megan, Marcus's daughter, with a little girl who couldn't be more than one perched on her hip. The toddler, with big curious eyes, clung to her mother's shirt, looking at the newcomers with quiet interest. Reggie was flanked by two boys who looked like they were ready to burst with excitement.

Marcus moved forward first, his usual swagger tempered by the genuine warmth in his eyes. "Welcome, man," he said, clapping Armando on the shoulder before gesturing to his wife. "This is my better half, Theresa."

Theresa stepped up with a welcoming smile, her hand extended. "It's great to finally meet you, Armando. Welcome to the family."

Armando shook her hand, feeling a little overwhelmed by the warmth of the welcome. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft, but sincere.

Theresa nodded, then gestured for Megan to come closer. "And this is our daughter, Megan, and her littlest one, Amala."

Megan shifted Amala to her other hip and smiled. "Hi, it's nice to meet you," she said, while Amala regarded Armando with wide, curious eyes.

Armando nodded to both mother and daughter. "You too," he said, his gaze briefly lingering on the little girl, who gave a shy wave.

Reggie nudged his boys forward. "Alright, boys, introduce yourselves."

The older of the two, who looked about six, flashed a big grin, showing a very visibly missing front tooth. "I'm Marcus Jr., but everyone calls me MJ," he said proudly. "And this is my brother, Dwayne."

Dwayne, who couldn't have been more than four, stared up at Armando in awe, his eyes wide and unblinking. There was a moment of silence before MJ, sensing his brother's hesitation, gave him a gentle push. "Go on, say hi.”

But Dwayne had a different question on his mind. "Have you ever killed anyone.” he asked, his voice filled with innocent curiosity.

The room seemed to freeze for a moment, the air thick with the adults' collective intake of breath. "Dwayne!" came the chorus of scolding voices, but Armando simply shrugged, unphased.

"Yeah," Armando answered simply, meeting the boy's wide eyes with calm seriousness.

Dwayne blinked, his mouth slightly agape. "How many?" he asked before Reggie could reach him, covering his mouth with a swift hand.

But Armando answered anyway, his voice steady. "A lot."

Dwayne, his father's hand still over his mouth, managed to pull it away just enough to whisper, "Cool," his eyes still locked on Armando in amazement.

Megan, catching the moment, stepped forward quickly, herding the boys with practiced ease. "Alright, you two, time to wash up for dinner," she said, her voice firm but loving as she guided them toward the bathroom.

As the kids shuffled off, Marcus gave Armando an apologetic smile. Theresa clapped her hands lightly, breaking the moment of introductions. "Reggie, why don't you show Armando to the room he'll be staying in? It's your and Megan's old room."

Reggie snapped into a playful salute. "Yes ma'am," he said with a grin, then gestured for Armando to follow him.

Armando hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking back to Mike as if silently asking for permission. Mike caught the glance and gave a small nod. Reggie led the way, and Armando followed, disappearing deeper into the house. As they vanished down the hallway, Theresa turned her attention back to Mike and Marcus. "Alright, you two, help me finish setting the table. Dinner's almost ready."

"On it," Marcus said, trailing after his wife. As they moved toward the kitchen, he leaned in closer to her, lowering his voice to a curious whisper. "Hey, babe, you know what quinoa is?"

Mike chuckled at the exchange and was about to join them when the doorbell rang. He paused and called out, "I'll get it!"

Mike strode to the door and opened it to find a young woman standing there, holding a tattered yellow suitcase. She was beautiful, with deep brown hair of twists and single-stranded curls cascading down to her shoulders. Her white and red floral dress, cut off the shoulder and stopping just below her knees, contrasted beautifully against her dark skin.

She wore a polite smile, her eyes warm as she asked, "Is this the Burnett residence?"

Mike took a moment to assess her, his instincts quickly deeming her non-threatening. He returned her smile. "Yeah, you're at the right place. And you are?"

Before the woman could answer, a voice called out from the hallway. "Val?"

Mike turned to see Armando standing there, a look of confusion and surprise on his face.

The woman, Val, however, seemed relieved and stepped into the house, closing the distance between them as she embraced Armando tightly.

Though he hesitated at first, his arms encircled her waist. He leaned in closer to her ear, speaking in a hushed tone of Spanish. "¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?" ("What are you doing here?")

Valerie pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a puzzled expression. She answered in Spanish, her voice at a normal volume. "Terminé el trabajo temprano y tomé un vuelo antes." ("I finished work early and caught an earlier flight.")

Their conversation continued in Spanish, but Mike, who was fluent, caught every word. He watched them carefully, still trying to piece together who this woman was.

As the couple spoke, Marcus reentered the room. "Hey Mike, who's at the—" His question trailed off as he caught sight of Valerie standing there.

Having heard Marcus's voice and the name he called, Valerie turned her attention to Mike. "You must be Armando's father," she said, switching back to English.

Mike nodded, still piecing things together. "Yeah, that's me."

Before he could say more, Valerie threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. "I've heard so much about you," she said, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Well, as much as Armando is willing to tell me. You know how he is."

Mike smiled, though the confusion didn't leave his face. "Yeah... I wish I could say the same about you."

Valerie chuckled, but as she glanced between Mike and Armando, she began to sense the awkwardness in the room. Her smile faltered, and she turned to Armando, speaking in Spanish again. "¿Le has dicho?" ("Have you told him?")

Armando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "No estabas supuesta a llegar hasta mañana por la mañana." ("You weren't supposed to arrive until tomorrow morning.")

Mike, having had enough of the half-whispered conversation in a language he was fluent in, spoke up, his tone firm. "Alright, who is she, Armando?"

Valerie looked at Armando, irritation evident on her face. The silence stretched out before Armando finally sighed again, this time in resignation. He straightened up and wrapped his arm around Valerie's waist, pulling her closer to his side.

"This is Valerie," he began, his voice steady but resigned. "My fiancée."

[headlesssamurai]

‘‘There's a storm inside of us. I've heard many Team guys speak of this. A burning. A river. A drive. An unrelenting desire to push yourself harder and further than anyone could think possible. Pushing ourselves into those cold dark corners. Where the bad things live. Where the bad things fight. We wanted that fight at the highest volume. A loud fight. The loudest, coldest, darkest, most unpleasant of the unpleasant fights…’’

//lone_survivor/ //dir_peter_berg/2013/

[aarontveit]

EARTH ABIDES | 2024 EP02: The Space Between