Summary: Geta sees a lunar eclipse, dread fills him and news reaches the royal domus. He must act, but how will he?
Notes/Warnings: Dated views of a lunar eclipse, dated views of marriage/pregnancy, lots of angst. calamistrum: device to curl hair (even back then!)
❤️s, comments, feedback & reblogs are always appreciated.
Sorry for the such a short chapter, I am really trying to crafted these following installments. Thank you for reading!💐
The flames were vivid, the screams were angry. The people were calling for his head and that of his brother.
He startled awake, he felt a cold sweat that had fallen over him in his dark slumber.
Swallowing hard, his chest felt tight and he looked for you. You laid beside him looking as peaceful as ever. That aided in easing the tightening he felt in his chest.
Easing from the bed, he poured himself a glass of wine and walked out to the balcony. The cool night air was refreshing, his breathing finally began to calm. Finishing the glass, sighing he rubbed at his face.
Glancing, skyward his stomach churned. He could not tear his eyes away from the spectacle before him. He watched as the moon before him disappeared in a dark shadow. Blinking he watched as it then slowly began to reappear. Dread filled him, what ill and dark was on the cusp of crossing his path. With frantic hands he grasped at the curtains and closed them. They shook in his hands as he pulled them closed.
Chewing on his bottom lip, ice cold circled his heart. Did they wish to steal his baby? His unborn child. He went over and taking a breath, he wiped his hand on clothes before laying a shaky; open hand on your belly.
Pounding filled his ears. The flutter that had grown stronger over the last few months reached his touch. He closed his eyes exhaled.
“Stay strong little one.” He murmured. “Your mother and I cherish you deeply. I promise to lay my life for yours if the need were ever to arise.”
The flutter that followed his words were even strong. It brought a smile to his lips despite what he had witnessed in the skies above.
*******
“Make sure Caracalla is bathed and groomed accordingly. We have to look impeccable for his arrival. The people love him. Fetch, the new crown from the metal smith. Make sure that is shiny and bright. A general such as him; should be rewarded for his grand victories.”
Geta paced as he issued all that had to be done.
“Go. I want this done. Those dealing with my brother make sure all that is done in the proper manner. Also let us not forget; make sure his little Dondas is also looked after. That will please him.”
He knew that it would. It would not be an easy task. Never was. The struggle was strong even when childhood was upon them.
“Extra food and wine will be given those handling him. I will have that brought to those living quarters.”
A flurry of footfalls and pattering echoed and filled the open area as they went in different directions following his commands.
Acacius’s chariot would be arriving when the sun would be at its highest. A cloud better not steal it away like the shadow had done to the moon the night before. From his readings in the past, those moments never transpired near each other, but he never fully trusted those scripts or the high priests.
He trusted what the gods gave him. He knew they could punish on a whim; when Caracalla had cursed their father despite the brute that he was the gods gave him that horrible illness. They put him in the position to look after him, to look after do what was right by Rome.
“Geta, you have to eat something.” Came the soft, yet stern voice of Aelia reached him.
He turned. “Much has to be done.” He paused. “Prepare some food, I am sure once they rouse Caracalla he will be screaming for some food.”
She nodded.
******
He nodded to the guard and entered their chambers. One of the girls who worked closely with Aelia was working on your hair.
“Sire.” She placed the calamistrum down and immediately, dropped and kneeled respectively.
You opened your eyes and smiled. “Hello, my emperor, my husband.”
“My wife.” He returned the smile. “My empress.”
He looked at the bowed girl’s head. She was on her way to being as good as Aelia. She kept close to the shadows, carried out her duties and was just as pleasing. She had not fallen for any of the poisoned words that Tertia.
A few had been removed from Rome. Some had been bittersweet but he did not wish to look over his shoulder whenever he could hear a footfalls nearby. He had to keep his domus, safe and secure.
Aelia, raised her and the little ones who always brought in the fresh flowers and fruits. He was grateful to the gods placed her in his family.
“Finish the empresses’s hair then you may leave.”
“Thank you, sire.”
*******
He softened as he felt your hands on him. “Geta, you rose early this morning. Why didn’t you rouse me?”
He turned from where he looked out on the balcony. He was about to upset you. Not something he ever wanted to do, even less since you were carrying their child. But he had to protect the two of you. He pressed his lips together.
“I had things that needed attention.”
As he looked you over; the sight of you before him stole his breath.
Your cheeks flushed.
“A messenger came on horse back, General Acacius is on his way back. When the sun is at its highest, he will be arriving in Rome.”
“Oh? What a good day for the empire. You can begin to celebrate the victories he has made in your name.”
“Yes.” He nodded.
He felt your warm hand on his cheek, startled he stepped back. Regretfully, he murmured an apology. Pressing his lips together he wondered if he was letting old worries rule him. But as he looked back at you, seeing the swell of your stomach, he knew he was right.
“Though, you will not be in attendance to usher in his victories and return to Rome.”
He saw your mouth open and close. Your words which usually flowed easily didn’t come. It upset him but also gave him comfort. Perhaps, you had learned to remain silent and agree with how he handled aspects of their life and that of Rome.
“Near dawn, I woke from terrors that filled my dreams only to not get relief but see and be stricken with the fate of an eclipse.”
Confusion, wrinkled the beauty of your face. Perhaps, your people had never heard of the ill tidings one brought. Perhaps, he thought for a moment, it would not be as bad on him and you if you were not aware. He pressed his lips together.
“Geta my love, my emperor what we have…”
He stopped you.
“No! Stop! We don’t know that!” He raged.
It all finally erupted from deep within him. An emptiness came over him. Blinking, sadness replaced the sadness. He saw how you had stepped back from him. He drew wordlessly closer, and you drew further back.
He took a shaky breath. “The gods, could take this opportunity to hurt you, our child. I will not let that happen. You are staying here till I feel it is safe once again.”
“You can’t keep me prisoner, I am not a senator. I am your wife.”
“And as my wife, you are supppsed to submit. Or I will send you away.”
“No wheels, no horses’ gallop could keep me away from you. We need to be with you.” Tears wet your now flushed cheeks.
“We’ll see about that.” And as ill as it made him to do so, he turned and walked away.
Hearing a broken cry from you. He glanced. He knew you’d listen now. You had to.
Aelia, met him half way to the throne room.
“Go check on the empress. Make sure she doesn’t do anything rash.”
He then poured himself a glass of wine, finishing it he had a few more. He had to dull the pain it caused him to be this way to you.
Summary: Robotnik finds a way to deal with two Hybrids in heat
Warnings: scratching, fighting, restraints, mild sexual content, ABO heat
Part 1 Part 25 Part 27
--
Robotnik's head was slowly starting to pound from the whines and whimpers coming from his feet. Stone's claws were starting to dig through his trousers and poking his skin. Reaching down, he flicked one of Stone's ears.
"Ah!" Stone flinched away, a look of hurt taking over his face. Robotnik grimaced at Stone's wet eyes.
"Knock it off," he said gruffly.
Along with Stone's claws, Robotnik could very much feel something pressing against his ankle. For his part, Stone continued to whine before shoving his face into Robotnik's thigh.
Sighing, Robotnik rubbed at his temple. Neither Stone nor Rockwell were in there right minds, but that fact did nothing to stop Robotnik's irritation.
For the last half hour, he had to put up with both Hybrids making some of the most sexual sounds he had ever heard. Worst of all, they couldn't keep their hands still.
Stone's hands continuously tried to reach for Robotnik's belt while Rockwell's hands kept moving across his own body. While Robotnik kept his gaze off her, Stone very much couldn't.
She must have been giving off an inviting sight and scent since Stone kept trying to move across the mobile lab to get to her. Using his own high frequency, he was able to stop Stone from leaving his place at his feet.
However, it was obvious both Hybrids were at the ends of their ropes.
Neither were listening to his commands and the high frequency noise was only doing so much to keep their attention.
They still had over an hour until they got back to the base.
Still rubbing his temple, his eyes closed, Robotnik was relieved to hear Stone's whining stop, even for a moment. He could feel the Hybrid's chin digging into his thigh, but his claws had retracted, even if only slightly.
Suddenly, Stone's weight disappeared entirely. A grunt and thud followed.
Blinking, Robotnik frowned as he looked down.
Only to see Rockwell pinning Stone to the ground. She was fully straddling him, her bottom half grinding down on him unmercilessly. Her hands were wrapped around Stone's wrists as he laid underneath her, completely boneless. He tipped his head back, revealing his throat.
"Rockwell! Get off him!" Robotnik yelled.
She ignored him.
One of her hands left Stone's wrist to begin pulling at the waistband of his sweats. Stone moaned.
"Stop it!" Robotnik hissed. Without thinking, he jumped from his chair and lurched forward. With Rockwell distracted, he was able to shove his shoulder into her chest. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her hips and flung her over his shoulder.
Grunting, he stood with her full, wiggling weight.
While Stone's claws merely poked at him, Rockwell's weren't as gentle.
A vicious growl filled his ears as searing pain raced down his back. Rockwell had cut through not only his coat, but shirt as well. From his mid back to his shoulders, burning pain flared. Clenching his jaw, he ignored her attacks as he walked back to the bed.
He was about to drop her onto the bed when he screamed in pain.
"Fuck!"
Rockwell missed the bed entirely, instead she fell to the floor with a yelp. Stumbling forward, Robotnik gasped as he leaned against the wall.
Reaching his arm up, he could feel hot blood pouring from the back of his neck. Luckily, she hadn't been able to dig her claws in too deep from her angle, but it was enough for Robotnik to drop her.
Seething, Robotnik turned hateful eyes to where he had dropped her. Instantly, guilt took over his anger.
She was curled up, clutching her left wrist to her chest.
Breathing harshly through his nose, Robotnik leaned his forehead against the wall. He needed this whole thing to end. Quickly.
Taking his hand off the back of his neck, he swallowed down the pain radiating from his back. Hopefully his coat had kept her claws from making any scratch deep enough to require stitches.
Glancing back to Rockwell, he saw her still curled up and nursing her wrist.
Stone was slowly crawling towards her.
"Back!" Robotnik snapped, freezing Stone in his place.
This can't keep going on, Robotnik thought.
"Stone, corner. Now!"
Ears down and tail tucked between his legs, Stone reluctantly crawled the opposite way from Rockwell.
Robotnik didn't want to turn his back on the two, but to execute his plan, he needed to get his toolbox. Rockwell had finally sat up and slowly pulled herself up into the bed. Her wrist was red and angry looking.
As quick as he could, he sprinted towards the back of the lab and threw open a cabinet. There! The toolbox was well organized as he grabbed out what he needed.
Duct tape.
The silver spool sat innocently in his hand as he turned back to Rockwell. While it was clear from her ears that she was in pain, her eyes were still trained on Stone.
The sound of tape ripping was loud as Robotnik approached her.
"Stay still."
Rockwell did not stay still.
As soon as he was close enough, she turned her head towards him. Eyes widening, she snapped her teeth at him in warning. If possible, her teeth appeared sharper than her claws.
Pouncing, Robotnik tried to grab her, but was met with a kick to his chest.
"Oof!"
Lucky for him, Rockwell stayed on the bed as he nearly toppled backwards. No more Dr. Nice Guy!
Once more jumping towards her, Robotnik grabbed Rockwell's injured wrist and squeezed. Hard.
Rockwell howled in pain.
Using this to his advantage, Robotnik worked quickly. Keeping Rockwell's arms pinned to her sides, he wrapped the tape around her chest and upper arms.
She continued to wiggle the whole time, but by the time he had finished, she was out of breath. Seeing her exhaustion, he moved to her calves.
Robotnik was being conscious of the bruises and cuts on her ankles and wrists. He didn't want to hurt her any further.
By the time he was done, her legs and arms were restrained.
Looking down at her, she was flat on her back, her hands clenching in anger. She tried to pull her legs apart, but it did nothing. After a minute of struggling, she accepted her fate and relaxed.
Her wrist was now swollen.
Shaking his head, he knew she would be fine until they arrived.
warnings: this chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.
twenty-five | twenty-six | twenty-seven
Lando didn’t need to think.
What he needed was movement.
Work—harder than ever, more ruthless, more efficient, and god help anyone who stood in his way. The weight of her arms around him, that moment of weakness—it couldn’t linger. Not in this world.
Because whatever that had been—whatever she was starting to mean to him—it was a weakness, a slow bleed in his armor. And in this world, a slow bleed was fatal.
So he compensated, overcorrected.
Within two days of returning from Brazil, he had doubled his hours at the warehouse, demanding updates from his suppliers and chemists with a level of scrutiny that bordered on manic. He started showing up to every quality control check himself, watching the men sweat under his gaze. Some of them cracked. Some of them bled.
He picked more fights. Took on riskier shipments. Approved operations that even Verstappen raised an eyebrow at.
When Carlos knocked on his office door late one night to ask if he was going home, Lando didn’t even look up from his screen. “Didn’t realize I paid you to ask stupid questions,” he said coolly.
Carlos didn’t ask again.
The next morning, Lando was in the ring by six.
The gym was still dark when he unlocked the door himself. No music, no trainers, no echo of voices. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the steady thump of his own heartbeat, already too fast for how early it was.
He didn’t wrap his hands. Didn’t warm up.
He just went for the bag—let his knuckles split open on the leather, again and again and again. Raw, purpled arcs blooming beneath the skin—split open in one place where the wrap had come loose, the tape sticky with half-dried blood. It stung when he flexed his hand, but Lando welcomed it.
Pain was clean. Simple. Honest in a way people never were.
It had been three days since the coffee, three days since her arms wrapped around his neck and made him feel like something other than a weapon.
He hadn't seen her since.
Instead, he buried himself in the only thing he knew how to trust: work. There were meetings now—double what he used to take. Late-night negotiations with men whose eyes darted too fast and hands trembled as they signed. More territory, more leverage. Deals struck with hard eyes and a gun under the table. Lando sat through it all like a statue, cold and unreadable, like the chair beneath him was a throne carved from bone.
Fewtrell was the first to notice, of course.
“You haven’t slept,” he muttered, after one particularly brutal morning, watching Lando wipe blood off his hands like it was nothing more than smudged ink. “And you’re bleeding again.”
Lando didn’t even look up. “It’s handled.”
Max didn’t argue. He knew better.
Because if Lando got like this—tight-lipped, volatile, spiraling inward like a storm—it meant someone had gotten too close. And Max had seen what happened to people who got too close.
The fights came next.
They existed with no purpose, no rules. There was just the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline and the sound of fists meeting flesh in the underground ring he rarely visited these days—until now. There, under flickering fluorescent lights, sweat mixing with blood, Lando could forget and slip into something primitive. A machine of bone and instinct and rage.
He stopped pulling punches.
He didn’t stop until the man he fought stopped moving. Even then, it took two of his own men to pull him back, their voices distant over the ringing in his ears. His breath came in harsh, wet gasps, his shirt soaked through.
“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Max muttered after Lando took a particularly ugly hit to the jaw and spit blood into the sink like it owed him something.
“I am,” Lando said, jaw tight. “I’m just done pretending to be soft.”
And when he looked in the mirror in the locker room after—blood on his cheekbone, lip split open, eyes dark and hollow—he saw a ghost staring back.
Not her ghost. His own.
The boy who had slept in gutters and stolen fruit from markets. Who’d gone cold inside long before he learned how to make others afraid of him. Who once told himself he’d never need anyone again.
So why did it feel like something had gone missing the moment he walked away from her?
He’d spent too long feeling the afterburn of her hug—the way her arms had felt around his neck, the clean warmth of her skin, the easy trust in her body language that made something in him splinter. He hated that part. That human part. He thought he’d killed it off years ago, buried it beneath piles of money, blood, and the reputation he’d built out of nothing but brute force and raw intelligence.
But she had reached it. Worse—she had awakened it.
So now he had to kill it all over again.
One night, after leaving the ring with bloody hands and a bruise already blooming across his ribcage, he sat in the back seat of his car, staring out the window. The city was loud—horns, shouting, flashing neon light against the rain-slicked pavement—but all of it felt muted.
He thought of her again.
Of course he did.
He thought of her – not the hug, not the coffee, not the smile. No – what haunted him was the look in her eyes right after he said no.
That flicker of confusion, followed by the quick mask of understanding. The way she shrank back—not physically, not dramatically, but just enough. Like she realized she’d overstepped. Like she’d made a mistake thinking he was someone warm. Someone she could reach for.
She’s better off, he told himself, dragging a dark red smudge across his cheek. She’s better off bein’ away, better off not knowin’ what I really am.
Because the truth was, if she knew—if she saw him like this—she’d never look at him the same again.
And maybe that was the point. If he couldn’t be touched, he couldn’t be hurt. If he kept himself cold, kept the world afraid, then nothing could break through again.
He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, letting the ache settle into his bones.
At night, he didn’t sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how it felt to have her fix his collar absentmindedly, to have her scold him for eating pastries before lunch, to hear her say she’d miss him.
He hadn’t even responded properly. Hadn’t said he’d miss her too, because he wasn’t supposed to.
She was light. He was built from soot and steel and ruin.
So he leaned into the ruin. Drowned in it. Let it take him under like it always had before. Let it remind him what he was made of.
Because if he let softness rot in his chest any longer, it would only get worse. And he couldn’t afford worse. Not in this line of work, not with this name. Not when people were always waiting to find his weakness—and use it to end him.
So he burned the part of himself that missed her.
Or at least, he tried. But the bracelet was still around his wrist, tight and handmade. And no matter how many times he tried to untie it, he never quite could.
He boxed until his knuckles split and his ribs ached, until his fists were slick with sweat and someone else’s blood. Until he couldn’t feel anything except the burn in his lungs and the pounding in his ears. Until he remembered who the fuck he was.
Lando took the pain like he deserved it.
He was colder, crueler. Faster to bark orders, slower to forgive mistakes. The men around him started noticing. They stopped making jokes around him, stopped asking if he’d eaten. Even Daniel, loyal and annoyingly perceptive, had gone quiet.
"You're running yourself into the ground, mate," Daniel finally muttered one night, leaning against the ropes of the ring as Lando stripped off his gloves, hands raw and red.
Lando didn’t even look at him. Just said, flatly, “Ground’s not deep enough.”
It wasn’t about her. He told himself that often. It wasn’t about missing the way she grinned at him when he brought her coffee, or how she’d made studying feel less like drowning. It wasn’t about the way she said his name like it wasn’t something to fear.
It was about control. About reminding himself that he didn’t need softness to survive.
But alone in the dark, shirt clinging to his back, jaw clenched so tight it ached—he wondered. If he wasn’t careful, would he even remember how to come back from this?
Would she still recognize him when he did?
Or worse—what if he didn’t come back at all?
Somewhere in the middle of all of it—between a broken tooth and a dislocated thumb—Daniel cornered him again in the backroom, fists clenched and voice low.
“You think this makes you stronger?” he growled. “You think turning yourself into a fuckin’ animal is gonna fix whatever’s wrong?”
Lando didn’t answer, just stared at himself in the cracked mirror. His face bruised, blood caked on his jaw, eyes gone hollow and dark.
He looked like something dangerous. Something empty.
Good.
Daniel tried again. “You were doing better. A week ago, you—”
“Drop it.” Lando’s voice was a knife. Sharp, final.
And for once, Daniel did.
Because it wasn’t grief they were dealing with, it wasn’t heartbreak. It was a man tearing out the piece of himself that could have one day known love—before it got him killed.
So Lando kept going – more jobs, more blood, more shadows.
Until the boy who’d smiled at fresh lemon biscuits didn’t exist anymore.
Monday morning came with a faint chill in the air, the kind that clung to her sleeves and nipped at her skin as she locked the apartment door behind her. Her boots hit the pavement with their usual rhythm, but her eyes—almost by reflex—glanced toward the curb.
His car wasn’t there.
The spot where Liam usually parked was… empty.
She hesitated, just for a second. Long enough for a frown to twitch at her mouth. Long enough to consider that perhaps she’d been looking forward to seeing him—though she hadn’t let herself think of it that way until now.
It was objectively a stupid thing to be upset about, she told herself. It wasn’t like they had a schedule. He didn’t owe her anything. She knew that.
There was no real schedule per say – no routine set in stone. But still… it had been there last Monday. And the one before that. And—if she was honest—most days she hadn’t even realized how much she’d started expecting him.
She shook it off and kept walking, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
It doesn’t mean anything.
He had a life. A busy one. She knew that. Important meetings, complicated logistics, probably jet lag from Brazil. Maybe the trip hadn’t gone well. Maybe something came up. Maybe he had the flu. Maybe he just—
Still, her footsteps felt slower as she walked past the spot. Still, she checked her phone—nothing. No text. No update.
Maybe he just forgot.
No. That didn’t sound like him. For all his strange hours and sharp edges, Liam didn’t forget things. He remembered tiny details she only mentioned once. He got her the exact brand of coffee she liked, for god’s sake. He noticed when she was too quiet, brought her pastries when she didn’t ask, made sure she always had a way home—even when she said she didn’t need one.
Maybe he’s just tired. Brazil was a long trip. Maybe he slept through his alarm. Maybe he’s busy, or catching up on work, or—
The list of maybes was longer than it should’ve been.
She forced herself to keep walking, ignoring the twist in her stomach that had no business being there. It was just a ride. Just coffee. Just a guy doing a favor.
That’s all it had ever been.
She sat through her morning classes, half-present, highlighting case law she’d have to re-read later. Her thoughts kept drifting—uninvited, unrelenting—back to him.
This whole drop-off and pickup thing had started months ago, after the string of weird feelings that she hadn’t quite been able to shake. Like someone was watching her, following her. Nothing solid, nothing provable, but just enough to put her on edge.
Back then, she’d been jumpy. Paranoid, maybe. She couldn’t explain it, not exactly—just that lingering feeling that someone had been watching her. Following her from across the street, lingering too long near her building. It was probably nothing, she’d told herself.
And then, things changed. Liam would just show up, leaning against the hood of his car like it was the most natural thing in the world, coffee in hand, eyes already on her. He would say something casual about “sketchy corners” and “shit lighting.” He would lie and say he was heading that way anyway.
And the funny thing? She hadn’t felt unsafe since.
She hadn’t asked questions. Something about his tone had made them unnecessary.
Since then, he’d been a steady, if unpredictable, presence. Not every morning—but enough. Enough that she noticed the difference today. Enough that she’d started associating his voice with the beginning of her day. His car, parked just slightly crooked. The quiet calm of his presence beside her, never demanding, never pushy—just there.
And now he… wasn’t.
She tried not to overthink it, but she did. Of course she did.
It could have been any of a thousand different things, right?
Maybe Brazil didn’t go well. Maybe the time zone shift was hitting him hard. Maybe he caught something on the flight back. Maybe he was swamped with work. Or maybe—
Maybe she had crossed a line.
The thought crept in slowly, but it stuck, solid and uncomfortable.
She’d hugged him, without thinking and without asking.
Her stomach turned.
God, what if that was too much?
He hadn’t exactly pushed her away, but he hadn’t welcomed it either. He’d gone stiff in her arms, like he didn’t know what to do with the contact. And then he left. Fast, like he couldn’t get away quick enough.
She shouldn’t have assumed. Just because he bought her coffee. Just because he remembered the brand and hunted it down in a foreign country. Just because he stood in her doorway like he wanted to be there.
Liam was...busy. He was a businessman. He moved through life with detachment, calm and unreadable. He probably did this for lots of people. She was just another name on a long list of good intentions.
Still, the quiet this morning had felt louder than it should’ve. His absence clung to the edges of her day like smoke. It trailed her through campus, followed her into the library, haunted the space in the corner that night when she closed up at Books & Brews.
She hated how much she noticed.
They didn’t text much. Instead of making any real conversation, she’d just send him little things.
A picture of a dog in a tiny raincoat on her walk to class.
A blurry photo of latte art she’d been practicing, captioned don’t laugh.
A random quote from a book she thought he’d like, even though she knew he’d probably roll his eyes and skim it at best.
Nothing heavy, and certainly nothing that demanded an answer. Just enough to keep a line between them—thin but steady.
But then, she saw him.
She was on her lunch break, standing in line at the corner market by the office, when she glanced through the fogged-up window and caught a familiar profile by the far register. She knew that posture. Even from a distance, she could recognize the casual indifference, the way he held himself like nothing in the world could touch him.
Liam.
There he was, dressed in a sharp coat, collar turned up, half a scowl pressed into his jaw like it had been carved there.
Her eyes dropped to the cup in his hand. Paper, stamped with the logo of his old café. Not the familiar emblem of Books & Brews. Not the little tucked-away place with the fresh cinnamon buns he had pretended not to like and then ordered three days in a row. Back to the place he used to swear tasted like “burnt incompetence.”
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But god, it did.
He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t explained this new distance, hadn’t replied to her last few messages except for a thumbs-up and a vague “lol.” No more wry comments or late-night one-liners. No more smirking emojis that didn’t match his tone but always somehow made her smile anyway.
And now—he was back at the café he’d once claimed to hate. Like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t happened.
She stepped out of line and left the store without buying anything.
She stopped texting after that.
Not all at once. It was a slow fade, the kind that almost didn’t hurt until you realized it had already disappeared.
No more pictures of dogs. No more awkward selfies with whipped cream on her nose. No more texts saying, this book made me think of you, don’t ask why.
Just... silence.
Lando’s mornings got quieter. His phone stayed dry, empty but for meeting reminders and business alerts. No dumb memes at 2AM. No pink hearts next to her name lighting up his lock screen like it meant something.
It pissed him off more than it should’ve.
Wasn’t this what he fucking wanted?
He’d made the choice. He’d stepped back. He’d pulled the plug before it could get messy—before she could start expecting things from him that he didn’t know how to give.
So why the hell did his car still smell like her perfume?
“She ghost you?” Fewtrell asked casually, leaning against the doorframe of Lando’s office, sipping on a drink he hadn’t paid for.
Carlos looked up from the couch where he was half-asleep. “Did you finally scare her off?” “‘Bout time,” Daniel added from the armchair, flipping a stress ball in one hand. “We were beginning to think you had a soft spot.”
Lando didn’t look up from his laptop, jaw tight. “I’m busy.”
“Busy being miserable?” Verstappen quipped. “Mate, your car still smells like a goddamn rose garden. Not exactly inconspicuous.”
“Seriously,” Carlos chimed in. “You used to smell like leather and rage. What happened?”
“Shut up.”
“Come on,” Daniel said, pushing. “You think we haven’t noticed? You vanish for hours at a time. You smile at your phone like a bloody idiot. And then all of a sudden you’re picking fights with everyone. Even your punching bag looks scared.”
Lando’s eyes flicked up, cold. “Drop. it.”
“Look, I don’t care who she is,” Max said, his tone softening slightly, “but if she made you less of a dick, I kinda liked her.”
That got a muscle ticking in Lando’s jaw. He stood up, abruptly enough that the chair screeched.
“She’s not your business!” he bellowed, heading for the door. “None of this is.”
“Then why’re you acting like you lost something?” Daniel mumbled after him.
The room was empty by then, but Daniel said what everyone was thinking anyway.
“You’re the one who let go.”
Logan’s voice cut through the radio later that week, giving an update on her security detail. Something about her late-night shift. The building entrance. A guy lingering too long near the stairwell.
Lando snapped the button to put the call through.
"She doesn’t need you anymore," he said flatly.
Logan paused. "...Sir?"
“She’s off the list. Effective immediately.”
And just like that, he cut the thread.
But sometimes, late at night, he still felt it—tight in his chest, like something he couldn’t un-pull. Something he’d let go of, only to realize too late that it might have been the very thing holding him together.
a/n: this one is my offering, especially dedicated to @oscobabe and @eclipsedcherry, whose every comment and ask makes me excited to post each chapter.
i hope u like it :)
and as always, please lmk what you think! i love hearing what y'all have to say
“You know, I think I’ve spent every single night this week here,” Deeks observes, trailing his fingers over Kensi’s shoulder.
It’s early in the morning, and they probably should be getting as much sleep as possible, yet Kensi can’t make herself be that responsible. Not when having Deeks in her bed again is so new.
“Is that a problem?”
Deeks lifts his head briefly to make eye contact. “Mm-mm.” He dips his head again, kissing the same spot his fingers had just traveled. “I couldn’t be happier. Though yesterday I almost fell asleep writing an email.”
“You could bring over more of your stuff. Then you wouldn’t have to leave so early,” Kensi suggests.
“That sounds suspiciously like moving in.”
“Consider it a baby step.” She shrugs, ignoring the slight increase in her heart rate. It’s not a big deal. She just wants Deeks to be comfortable when he spends the night. “I’m actually surprised you haven’t commented on the mess yet.” Resting her cheek on her fist, she gives him a suspicious look, hoping he doesn’t call her on the obvious change in topic.
“I think I learned a lesson about that my first time around,” Deeks jokes. “Actually, you’re a lot cleaner than you used to be.”
“Maybe I learned some things too. It’s definitely a lot easier to find things when I actually put them away,” Kensi admits.
“I’m not saying anything.”
Turning to face him fully, Kensi runs her fingers through his hair. “What do you have going on today?”
“I have an introductory meeting with a soon-to-be divorcee,” Deeks tells her with a small twist of his lips. “And then some follow up sessions.”
“Hopefully not another Melanie,” Kensi comments, then smirks. “Though I guess we do kind of owe her for getting back together.”
“Oh god.” Deeks groans and rolls his eyes. “The last thing I need is to be beholden to Melanie Richard. No, this one should be fairly straightforward. She’s not giving off criminal vibes and fortunately isn’t in obvious distress.”
“Good. You need a break every now and then from the hard ones.” She pauses a moment, then asks, “I know we decided to wait a while before telling anyone about us, but I feel like I, we, should let the team know. They’ll figure out soon enough and I’d rather announce it ourselves.” She hopes she isn’t pushing too hard; they keep talking about going slowly. They want to avoid making the same mistakes as last time.
Deeks’ eyes light up, and the tightness in Kensi’s chest eases. “I think that’s a fantastic idea. Are you going to do it today?”
“Actually, I thought we could have everyone over for dinner this weekend,” Kensi says, cupping his cheek. “Then we can do it together.” Deeks doesn’t say anything, but leans in for a kiss, which she takes as approval. “I probably will tell Jared before then. Is there anyone you want to tell?”
“Vicky clocked it the first day. And as much as we love my mom, I don’t think either of us are ready for the level of excitement she’ll rain down on us,” Deeks muses.
“I’ll follow your lead, but I’m also happy to include her, craziness and all. I’ve missed her.”
“She’s missed you too.” Deeks purses his lips. “I’ll test the waters.”
“I love you,” Kensi tells him, sneaking another kiss.
As soon as Deadman left, Phantom allowed himself to enter his Keep to further investigate the damages. The entire upper-right wing had been changed, as well as some of the colours in the throne room and the courtyard, though nothing more than that.
The Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep remained untouched in the crypt below the Keep, the traps in the surrounding maze of catacombs were still primed and unactivated.
The Crown of Fire and the Ring of Rage stayed on Phantom’s person at all times, so he didn’t worry about those. However, Fright Knight’s sword had been moved. Instead of the middle of the room, the pumpkin was sitting on the throne.
Hm.
Unfortunately, Phantom knew exactly who was behind this. How he hadn’t suspected earlier, he didn’t know, but the unnatural changes to his Keep were a dead - ha - giveaway.
While he’d be locked Outside Time, Plasmius’ human half had died, leaving him as a full ghost. He took residence in the Realms, not allowing even the vultures to enter his lair. The Realms had told Phantom that Plasmius spent time traveling, though most of his time was split between his lair and Ghostwriter’s Library. Now it made sense.
Being King gave Phantom a lot of passes when breaking rules. Pariah Dark had had and abused the same power, so he did everything he could to follow the same rules everyone else did. This was the exception.
Entering another Spirit or Ghosts Lair without a clear invitation was unheard of and only done with full expectation of retaliation. Kind of like signing and breaking a Non-Disclosure Agreement.
This is not one of those times.
Phantom left his Keep as it was. Fright Knight was there, so he wasn’t too worried about it. He was quick to fly to the door leading to Plasmius’s Lair, and even quicker to enter. Plasmius would know the second he opened the door, but he didn’t care.
At least he would’ve known about his company if he’d been there.
Phantom made his way into the empty Lair. It was almost an exact replica of Vlad’s basement lab, which was very unsettling. There weren’t any clones toddling about, but there was a cloning station. And in place of the perfectly functioning portal from the basement lab, the mere skeleton of the frame stood. It was a truly pathetic attempt to replicate the portal without the blueprints, but it made Phantom wonder why it was the way it was. Vlad had designed those blueprints with his parents, had built a portal with so many more limitations than he had in the Infinite Realms, so why?
The Realms pulled at him, urging him to go to Walker’s Prison. Plasmius wasn’t there but he’d undoubtedly get the hostile invitation to the Keep.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was him?” Phantom asked the Realms as She took him to the Prison.
“I was having fun,” She answered, though She had no voice.
“So putting the lives of hundreds of Living People in danger is fun to you?” He’d never been truly mad at the Realms until this moment. It was odd.
There was a frown in Her not-voice. “Should lives have been in danger, I would’ve told you.”
“Lives are in danger!”
“You forget that I am All, and therefore I know All. You and your heroes would have figured it out with or without mine and Lady Gotham’s help.”
“You put her up to her riddles?!”
“No. She’s just like that.”
Phantom sighed as the Prison came into sight, trying to calm himself as best he could.
Landing on the pale green island, Phantom knocked on the door and waited for the proper invitation to come in. When he was permitted entry, he followed the path to Walker’s office.
“Phantom,” the Warden greeted.
“Walker,” he nodded back, “You have on your list the name Ra’s al Ghul, yes?”
Walker paused for a moment at the name before he started rifling through the papers around the room. Eventually, he held one up, “Yeah, but he still ain’t here.”
“There’s a cell waiting for him, yeah?”
“Obviously.”
“Perfect! Because he’s on his way.”
Walker blinked. “Excuse me?”
“He’s been using excess energy that’s leaked into his world from the Realms as a kind of faux immortality. It’ll catch up to him eventually, but recently he’s decided to try and access the Realms themselves.”
“And you’re going to drag him here yourself?”
“Naturally,”
Walker grinned. “Why don’t you let me drag him through? I may not have your Kingly powers, but this technically falls under my Obsession.”
Phantom laughed with him. “Go right ahead, Warden, you may interfere with the Living Realms through the Lazarus Pits at this time.”
There was a crackle of thunder and the Realms seemed to shiver. The lavender glow in the room started to fluctuate between dim and bright as Walker concentrated, reaching through the leak and grabbing a hold of his target and pulling him through.
Two people came through the rip in reality just before it closed.
“Ra’s al Ghul,” Walker said, manic grin still in place, “You’re under arrest for crimes against the Realms. With her as my witness and King Phantom as your judge, you are to await trial for your crimes.”
“Talia al Ghul,” Phantom said, “You are not yet meant to be here.”
“A simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” she answered.
Phantom hummed. “You will be taken to Gotham to serve as parol.”
“Parol?”
“Your time will come. For now, you have a child to care for.”
The Realms was quick to take Talia away, giving her to the care of Lady Gotham.
Walker, meanwhile, was having the time of his life with Ra’s. He’d taken the man to his cell, reading the Realms equivalent of Miranda Rights and handing his sentence.
“For what crimes am I here!” Ra’s demanded.
“Crimes against the Realms and Her King,” Walker said.
“Which are?”
“I don’t have to tell ya a thing,” Walker leaned in close to the bars, “The Dead work by different rules than the Living. Learn ‘em.” He walked away then, reveling in the protests of his new inmate.
