Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim thinks he’s officially hit rock bottom. Though, to be fair, it’s not the first time he's thought this.

He thought it when he tried to clone Kon—when grief hollowed him out so completely that reality stopped making sense.

He thought it again when Robin was taken from him, when the entire superhero community turned on him for going too far.

The third time should’ve been the charm, right? That time he lost his spleen and found himself at Ra’s al Ghul’s mercy—Ra’s, who had both a civilian hostage for leverage and the certainty that no one was coming to save him.

Turns out he’s wrong; there are lower places to fall.

Being chained up and sold to a kingdom he didn’t even know existed until five minutes ago is one of them.

A glowing green portal rips itself open in the middle of Ra's throne room before he's even done reeling over what he's been told is happening to his soul. Ra's takes one last look at him and says, “If only you’d been a woman. What magnificent things we could have done, had you chosen my side and given me a heir. As it is, you now serve a higher purpose. Goodbye, Detective.”

Then he shoves Tim through.

The portal spits him out onto a freezing floor that looks like cracked ice. His wrists are chained to the collar biting into his neck; his head hangs low under the weight, a gag cutting off his voice. Every weapon is gone, every piece of intel useless—he’s been thrust into a new reality where, apparently, his soul no longer belongs to him.

Others kneel beside him—how many, he can’t tell. Shapes linger in his peripheral vision, unmoving, statuesque.

The click of heels echoes down the line. A woman’s voice follows, cool and decisive, dismissing each kneeling figure one by one. When she stops in front of him, silence drops heavy and suffocating.

“Yes… this one has potential,” she says at last. “Take him to Frostbite.”

Hands seize him immediately, jerking him upright. Before he can grunt through the gag, they shove him into another portal.

The cold on the other side is worse. Biting, sharp. His teeth chatter as they force him down onto a slab of ice, the frozen surface leeching away what little warmth he has left through the thin clothes Ra’s dressed him in. A faint tingling creeps through his limbs, alien and unsettling. A massive, fur-covered figure looms at the edge of his vision.

“He is damaged,” a deep, rumbling voice says. “It will take time to heal him.”

Panic flares white-hot. He makes a muffled noise, thrashing against his restraints, but no one spares him so much as a glance.

Something presses into his mind—a soft, smothering weight, like a blanket drawn over his thoughts. Darkness sweeps in, and he’s gone.

When he wakes, the ache in his side is gone. So is the bone-deep exhaustion he’s carried since Bruce died—maybe even before that. He feels… good. Rested. Whole. Painless in a way he hasn’t been in years.

It’s so alien, so startling, that he just sits there blinking, quietly taking stock of a body that no longer hurts.

“Greetings,” the same growling voice from before he fell asleep rumbles.

Tim’s eyes shift toward the source—and land on a giant yeti. The creature is massive, fur thick and white, one arm sculpted entirely from ice. Startling, yes, but not the strangest thing Tim’s ever seen.

“You should be feeling much better now,” the yeti says. “Your body is healed of its ailments, and what you lost is now returned. The Great One deserves nothing but the best.”

Tim still can’t speak.

A sudden yank on his collar forces him upright. The hand belongs to a woman in centuries-old clothing. She’s beautiful, but wrong. Her skin carries a faint blue hue, her eyes glow faintly in the dim light, and her smile is edged with too-sharp teeth. Each of her nails curve into lethal points.

“Thank you, Frostbite,” she says. “I will take him to the castle now.”

“I wish you luck,” the yeti replies. “You will need it if you are to convince the Great One to finally take on a Consort.”

Tim goes pale.

The woman’s smile widens. “He will. This one has promise.”

A portal yawns open before them, shimmering like liquid glass. She tugs at the chain at his neck and drags him forward. “I’ll see you at the next meeting,” she calls over her shoulder.

The other side is slightly warmer—still cold enough to sting, but less brutal to human senses. This time, Tim is led into a room with a roaring fireplace, the heat washing over him in lazy waves. He’s pushed down onto a thick fur rug beside a plush couch.

“You will stay here while I fetch the King,” she says, as if he has a choice.

When she leaves, Tim tries to stand—only to find he can’t. His body refuses the command, an invisible weight is holding him in place. He’s trapped, waiting for whatever fate is about to step through that door.

He can admit, at least to himself, that he’s terrified.

An unknown land. Unfamiliar faces. No weapons. No way to call home.

He’s worse than flying blind—his wings are broken, and he’s lying crumpled on the ground.

He has no plan.

Batman would be disappointed.

Tim hears it before he sees it—something sliding into the room.

No footsteps. No creak of weight on the floorboards. Just a sound like silk dragging over stone, smooth and continuous, accompanied by the faint hiss of displaced air. Whatever it is, it doesn’t move like anything human.

The movement is fluid, deliberate, and carries a heavy presence that makes the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He feels his stomach clench, a quiver running through him that has nothing to do with the cold.

"What the—"

The voice doesn’t just speak. It coils around him, vibrating in his bones, threading through the air like a low chord in an endless song. “Who… is this Dora’s doing?”

Tim freezes, holding his breath.

The presence halts directly before him, a shifting shadow towering in his peripheral vision. Slowly—carefully—he drags his gaze upward.

The thing before him is huge. Easily twice his height, its silhouette shifting like smoke caught in a breeze or shadows flitting in and out of the light. The outline keeps changing—limbs multiplying, dissolving, re-forming—like it can’t decide on a single shape.

“What’s your name?” the creature asks.

Tim’s instincts scream at him to lie, or at least keep his mouth shut. He steels himself, jaw tightening as his chin lifts. "Shouldn’t you give your name first? It’s only polite.”

The creature goes utterly still. Then, unexpectedly, it laughs—a deep, resonant sound that rolls through the air like distant thunder.

“Fair enough. In short, I am High King Phantom, Ancient of Balance.”

Tim blinks. Ancient of—what now? His brain trips over the words, and then another thought bulldozes in.

“You’re Balance?” he says, incredulous. “Doesn’t immortality go completely against that? I’ve got an entire list of Lazarus Pits memorized that you should probably be dealing with, if you’re so into keeping the scales even.”

King Phantom tilts his head. Instead of offense, Tim catches a ripple of pure amusement radiating out from his shadowed figure.

“Well,” King Phantom says, smoke curling upward like a grin, “aren’t you a mouthy little mortal.”

For reasons Tim can’t explain, that faint glimmer of humor feels far more dangerous than outright anger.

A long, shadow-made arm unspools from King Phantom’s shifting form. Claws glint faintly within the haze—too solid to be an illusion—as they hook into the iron ring at Tim’s collar and pull him forward like he weighs nothing.

Tim stumbles, but uses the momentum to get his feet under him. The chain between them goes taut as he straightens to stare up at the towering figure with as much defiance as he can muster for someone still effectively on a leash.

A low, rumbling purr rolls out of Phantom, strange and resonant, causing the air to seem to vibrate. “Bold,” he murmurs. His shadows curl lazily around Tim, like a cat trying to decide whether to toy with its prey or keep it. “Most mortals kneel.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve had enough people trying to make me kneel lately,” Tim says dryly. “I’m not here to be anyone’s ornament.”

The King’s many eyes—or maybe they’re just shifting points of light—gleam. “Then what are you here for?”

“Right now? To survive. Preferably by convincing you to send me back home in one piece. You’re Balance, right? I’m pretty sure ‘human trafficking’ tips the scales in the wrong direction.”

The purr deepens into something akin to a laugh. “You ask much of a stranger, little one. Collared like a dog, caged like a bird.”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, deadpan. “But you’re in a position to help, and I’m betting you don’t get that many visitors who can tell you exactly where the Lazarus Pits are. That’s leverage. We can make a deal.”

Phantom leans down, the shifting smoke bringing that alien face—or whatever approximation of a face he’s wearing—close enough Tim can feel the unnatural chill radiating off of his body. “And what would you offer in return?”

He swallows, but doesn’t look away. “…Depends what you want.”

There’s a pause, then a slow, satisfied curl of vapor around them both. “Court is… tedious,” King Phantom says at last. “Petty disputes. Endless politicking. My advisors are fractious, my nobles unruly. I require someone with a mind for patterns, a talent for strategy, and… a tongue sharp enough to cut through the noise.”

“You want me to play ghost court politics for you?” Tim says skeptically.

“I want you to win them for me,” Phantom corrects, that seemingly ever present amusement thrumming through his voice. “Do that, and I will see to destroying these pits you seem to dislike so much. Then we can discuss you returning home.”

Tim’s mind is already working three angles ahead. “…Fine. But if I’m going to play your game, I’m not doing it in a collar.”

The King’s purr turns into a slow, approving hum. “Negotiating already. You may do well here, after all.”

Phantom studies him for a moment, then the claws at his collar retract. The iron ring clatters to the floor between them.

The chains at Tim’s wrists remain.

“So sad,” Phantom muses, shadows reaching out from his form to curl lazily around Tim’s shoulders, “you looked gorgeous in a collar.”

Before Tim can bite out a retort, the shadowy claws return—two of them settling firmly at his waist. Another arm, long and wreathed in mist, unfurls from nowhere, raking through the air. Reality tears open like fabric under a blade, the edges glowing an unnatural green.

“Wait—” is all Tim gets out before Phantom manhandles him straight through.

They land on cold stone, and Tim blinks against the sudden scent of rot and minerals. His brain catches up just in time to register Ra’s al Ghul waist-deep in a Lazarus Pit, eyes closed, head tilted back like he’s enjoying a long soak.

Ra’s opens his eyes; they go wide.

“Your Highness?” Ra’s says, disbelief sharp in his voice. And then, "Detective?"

Phantom doesn’t answer—he looks at Tim instead. “Is this the one you wanted me to get rid of?”

Tim meets Ra’s’ gaze, lets the silence hang a beat too long, then nods once.

King Phantom snaps his fingers.

The Lazarus Pit shudders, then starts to boil. Steam hisses upward in great, sulfurous clouds. Ra’s gasps, then screams, scrambling to get out. The water clings to him like molten metal, burning straight through the arrogance in his expression. He collapses onto the stone outside the pool, smoking, clutching at his blistering skin. His skin sloughs off in disgusting smelling piles, exposing burnt muscle and charred bone.

Tim can’t move—half because of the chains, half because his brain is still catching up to the casual violence.

Phantom leans down, smoke coiling close until Tim feels that inhuman chill ghost against his skin. His voice drops to a low, pleased hum. “That was ten years working for me.”

Tim’s heart is still thudding against his ribs, but it’s not pure fear—it’s something sharper, hotter, tangled up in the dizzying realization that the King just boiled Ra’s al Ghul alive without so much as wrinkling his metaphorical sleeves.

Oh god. What have I gotten into.

Ten years puts him nearly into his thirties. Before this, Tim hadn't thought he'd even make it to twenty.

But panic isn’t going to get him out of this alive. And, honestly, fear has never been the best part of his survival toolkit—he’s always been better at weaponizing it. In for a penny, he thinks, shifting his stance so the chains clink softly between them.

Tim tilts his head up, just enough to catch Phantom's many-glinting eyes. “You know,” he says, voice low and steady, “if this is how you handle all your problems, I might just have a few more names for you.”

Phantom’s smoky form ripples, that deep purr returning like the roll of distant thunder. “Careful, little detective,” he murmurs. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to seduce me into murder.”

Tim lets one corner of his mouth lift. “Almost?”

Phantom's laughter is a soft, dangerous hum. A swirl of mist coils around Tim’s wrists, sliding up his arms in a way that feels far too deliberate to be just smoke. It feels like a caress, and it leaves a path of goosebumps that have a lot to do with fear. “You are intriguing,” he says. “Tell me the next one.”

Tim leans in—well, as much as the chains will allow—and names another Lazarus Pit location, voice deliberately smooth. “That one is bigger than Ra’s'. If you think his was worth ten years, you’ll love this one.”

Before Tim can blink, the world twists. The cold bite of Phantom's grip is at his waist again, and reality shreds open with that same unnatural green glow.

They step out into a dim, torch-lit cavern. The Lazarus Pit here glimmers an eerie emerald, the faint sound of movement echoing off stone.

Phantom glances down at him, his smoke curling like a smile. “Shall I destroy it for you?” The question is leading. It's laced with a promise Tim isn't entirely sure he understands; a contract he hasn't been given the time to read in full.

Ten years, echoes in his mind like a gong.

Tim meets his gaze, pulse spiking for reasons he doesn’t have the time—or nerve—to unpack. “…Yes.”

His grin turns feral, and the air begins to boil.

The torches flicker as he moves to open a portal as soon as Tim names a new location. Tim is guided through first, almost like he is a princess being escorted to her first ball.

Phantom isn't walking—more like gliding, smoke spilling outward to fill the cavern until the edges blur into nothing. At the new location, the Lazarus Pit starts to hiss, tiny bubbles breaking the surface as if it’s holding its breath.

Tim keeps pace at King Phantom's side, chains clinking with every step. The cold mist curling around him is almost a touch—brushing along the backs of his knees, coiling against his wrists, trailing up the curve of his spine. It makes his whole body hum, equal parts adrenaline and… something else.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Tim says, watching the green glow intensify.

Phantom glances down at him, smoke shifting to reveal a flash of sharp teeth. “And here I thought I was giving you my full attention.”

He arches a brow. “This is your version of full attention? I’m flattered. And maybe a little concerned.”

“You should be,” he purrs, voice like velvet over steel. One clawed hand—solid this time—rests lightly at Tim’s hip, guiding him forward a single step. The touch is cool, firm, and sends an uninvited shiver through him.

The Pit’s water churns harder now, sending waves lapping against the stone.

Tim leans slightly toward him, careful to keep his tone dry. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Phantom’s other hand appears—out of the smoke, from nowhere—ghosting up Tim’s arm until cold claws brush his jaw. “So are you.”

The Pit suddenly surges, a column of boiling green water shooting upward with a roar. The ground trembles beneath their feet, and the cavern fills with the sound of cracking stone. Somewhere beyond the steam, someone—or something—screams.

Tim’s pulse spikes. “That one was… fast,” he says, watching as the water collapses in on itself.

“I’m eager to please.” He leans down, so close Tim can feel the cold radiating off him, and breathes his words against his skin. “Where next?”

Tim swallows. He fixes his gaze on the largest eyes beside his face and holds eye contact. “If I give you another location, are you going to keep touching me like that while you work?”

Phantom’s grin is pure sin. “Try me.”

The next location leaves Tim’s lips before he can second-guess himself. King Phantom’s arm winds around his waist again, reality rips itself open—and they’re gone.

The portal spits them out into a temple hollowed from black rock. The Pit here is carved into the floor like an open wound.

“Three,” Phantom says, like he’s counting down a game, and the water begins to recede—not spill; it vanishes, sucked away into nothing as the stone hisses and steams.

Tim’s breath catches. It’s so quiet. So final. King Phantom glances at him, and his smoke-wreathed hand brushes deliberately across Tim’s lower back, pressing him just close enough to feel the unnatural cold radiating out from his form.

The next location is a cave glowing faintly green from the inside out.

“Four,” Phantom declares, dragging the claws of one hand through the air. The glow fractures—literally—like glass, shards of light scattering into the mist until the water below is nothing but black sludge.

Tim’s mouth is dry, but his pulse is pounding. He’s doing this for me. Not for Balance, not for some grand cosmic law—each destruction is a deliberate offering.

By the fifth Pit, in the basement of a crumbling fortress, Tim doesn’t flinch when Phantom’s claws settle on his hip.

By the sixth, in a rainforest temple choked with vines, Tim is leaning back against him while the Pit explodes into a violent geyser of green steam, his face half-turned toward Phantom's voice when he murmurs, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

It is.

By the seventh, Tim has stopped pretending he’s not affected by the way Phantom’s smoke curls around his legs like a living thing, or how the cold press of claws against his ribs makes his stomach flutter in ways he’s not going to examine too closely for now.

The eighth and final Pit lies in a mountain pass, where wind shrieks through jagged stone like the parting call of vengeful spirits. Phantom grips him by both hips this time, holding him steady while he tilts his head back and drinks the Lazarus water out of existence in a whirl of smoke and frost. Tim can feel the power thrumming through King Phantom’s form, can feel his own heartbeat tripping in response.

Before Tim can even catch his breath, they’re stepping through another tear in reality—back to where it all started.

Only, now that Tim can really look, it’s not a cold interrogation chamber. The space is warm, almost decadent. Deep blue walls. A thick, plush carpet underfoot. One corner piled high with pillows and furs, like a den built for lounging… or for holding court in a very different way.

The chains at his wrists clatter to the floor. Phantom turns away without a word, moving toward the nest of furs and settling into them like a cat claiming its throne.

Tim stands there, breathing hard. His body is still keyed up, his mind buzzing. In for a dime, he thinks, pulse leaping. If he's going to play this game, he's going to play to win.

As Batman would say, review, assess and execute.

Here is what Tim knows: he is alone in a world he knows nothing about. His soul is no longer his own. The being that rules this place is called Phantom and he has shown interest in Tim as a whole. Tim is to work for him; to help him win in court, whatever that may mean. When his sentence is complete, he may be able to return home—but will there be anything left for him by the time it occurs? This, he doesn't know.

Here is what Tim can do: he can learn about this world and its strange ruler. He can perform his duties and make himself useful. He can increase his own standing by solidifying his relationship with Phantom.

He starts toward the corner, slow steps sinking into the carpet, letting his hips sway just enough to be noticed. When he glances up at King Phantom, it’s from under his lashes—an invitation wrapped in something that might just be a dare.

The smoke shifts around Phantom like he’s leaning forward to watch more closely.

Phantom's head tilts, the faintest curl of amusement ghosting over what Tim can see of his mouth. His words come like silk over a blade; a low rumble that makes Tim’s stomach tighten. “What are you doing, little mortal?”

He stops just within reach, his voice steady despite the way his pulse drums in his ears. He's done honeypot missions before and Phantom is not… awful to look at. The parts that he has seen, anyways. “I’m thanking you.”

A slow blink. Then a smile—not kind, not gentle, but indulgent in a way that makes Tim’s breath hitch. “And how, exactly, do you intend to thank me?”

“That,” he murmurs, taking one last step forward until the air between them is nothing but shared breath, “you’ll have to see for yourself.”

And then he lowers himself to his knees. The plush carpet swallows all sound as his gaze holds the sharp, knowing eyes above him.

He lays his hands on his knees, palms upwards in quiet supplication. He knows how to make himself look good. Knows to keep his shoulders back, back arched just so, chin lifted and knees spread. Ra's put him in silk harem pants with slits down the sides. The matching top is just enough to cover his chest, leaving most of his belly and hips bare. It's a suitable outfit for his intentions.

"I thought you said you'd had enough of people making you kneel?"

"You're not making me." Tim wets his lips, more out of nervousness than in seduction, but he can feel Phantom narrow in on the gesture.

A claw hooks under his chin, tilting his head up further. Phantom bends over him, shadows billowing out to obscure his vision. All he can see is those green eyes, pupil-less and lacking a defining sclera.

"This does not change our deal," Phantom warns.

He can feel his breath, like the breeze between glaciers. It brushes over his lips and makes his face feel numb. "I know," he whispers.

He is kissed. The mouth that presses to his own feels shockingly human; the teeth that hide behind it do not. He finds himself struggling to keep up as a mortal with the need to breathe. Teeth worry at his bottom lip, drawing blood and blooming pain that is dulled as soon as it occurs. A tongue slides into his mouth, dipping deeper than it should, until Tim chokes from the surprise of it.

Phantom withdraws to dip a finger into his gasping mouth. His claw alone is the length of Tim's finger. "Ah, I forget how delicate humans are. It wouldn't do to break you. Dora would be cross."

Tim blinks dazedly. He makes a muffled sound behind the finger in his mouth; he hopes it conveys that he's very much on the side of not breaking him.

"You're so small," he muses. His finger pulls back to trail down Tim's jaw. His claw is sharp; he doesn't make him bleed but the threat is there, making Tim swallow.

"Can I touch you?" Tim asks.

A second set of eyes appear above the first, focusing on his face while the others follow the path his claw takes.

"So polite," Phantom rumbles. The shadows around his eyes dip, as if he's given a nod of his head. "You may, little spitfire."

He doesn't let himself hesitate. He pushes his hands into the darkness. For a moment, it feels like he'll find nothing but cool mist; then there's a sense of solidity. He touches skin—or what he thinks is skin. He explores, mapping out what he can't see as Phantom touches him with gentle strokes of claws and smoke. It leaves him shivering. It's also very distracting.

Tim slides his hands down, searching for something familiar to aid him in figuring out Phantom's body. He thinks he comes across hips; the jut of bone feels familiar and if he follows it down—ah.

A low growl rumbles through the room, vibrating Tim's very bones.

He freezes; his eyes fly up to meet one of Phantom's many. "Okay?" he asks cautiously.

A hand settles on his head, claws caressing his hair. "Yes."

Still, Tim moves slowly. His hands are wrapped around what he thinks is Phantom's arousal. It's monstrously thick—his hands can't wrap fully around—and almost spongy. It moves in his grip, malleable and alive. There are little bumps up the shaft and a swelling at the base Tim isn't sure the purpose of; he just knows that when he touches it, Phantom's form stutters like static. The tip is tapered, and wet. He uses that wetness to slick his way as he shuffles closer.

The shadows close in around him, cutting off the rest of the room. It's a strange sensation; Tim can't see what he's touching even though he knows it's right in front of his face. All he can see are the dozens of eyes, blinking in and out of existence at all angles.

"Will whatever you're made of hurt me if I put it in my mouth?"

Phantom's hand slides to the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Tim's face bumps against his arousal. "No, it will not." There's a pause and then a flash of fang. "No more than you being here in general will harm you."

Tim has questions about that but questions can wait until after he's solidified his place here. He opens his mouth and turns his head. His tongue drags up the side of Phantom's cock. He suckles at the head and hums at the taste. It's definitely not human; it's almost like static on his tongue. There's no specific taste, just that strange sensation and a faint warmth. He… doesn't hate it.

There's no way he can fit the whole thing in his mouth. Just the head stretches his jaw; a couple more inches and he's straining around the girth, eyes watering as he tries to fight back his gag reflex. Tim prides himself on control but he's never thought he'd have to train to take something Phantom's size. He doesn't think it's physically possible without dislocating his jaw.

Claws tear through the fabric of his clothes. Tim pulls his head off with a gasp, suddenly bare and apprehensive as to where this could be going. He hasn't had sex in a depressingly long time. Trying to take Phantom is going to take a lot of prep.

"I've finally scared you, I see." Phantom rocks himself against Tim's front, running the length of himself over Tim's bare torso. There are so many hands on Tim he can barely keep track. They're in his hair, scratching his scalp; on his thigh, teasing up towards his own evident arousal; on his shoulders, pulling him closer; on his back, petting down his spine; on his arms, guiding them up to wrap around Phantom's arousal in a mock embrace.

Tim's face flushes when he realizes he's essentially become a cock sleeve.

"You've scared me from the beginning," he says. "I'm just… apprehensive about the logistics of making this work."

Phantom laughs like glaciers breaking apart. "I said I would not break you. No, just stay like this. You're beautiful."

He shudders. He tells himself that it's because one of the hands has curled around his arousal and not because that voice purring praise resonates with something in him.

Growling purrs fill his ears as Phantom fucks into the embrace of his arms—because that's what he's doing, Tim realizes with a rush of heat. He's rocking his hips like he's fucking up into someone instead of just rubbing himself against Tim's body. The power behind it nearly jolts Tim's position and he moans imagining what it would feel like if it were inside him.

The many hands on his body pull him closer still. He's vaguely aware of eyes flickering in and out of the smoke as he does his best to keep his arms locked in a tight seal for Phantom to fuck. He laps at what he can, kissing and sucking on Phantom's arousal as his own cock is stroked.

He comes whimpering and is shaken at just how hard it courses through him. He nearly gets a face-full of come for his inattention, as Phantom follows him over with what sounds like a curse. The cock against his chest twitches and undulates, covering his chest and arms in waves of seed. It drips down his body in warm streams and splatters against his face. Tim barely gets a chance to loosen his grip before he's thrown into the nest of furs.

A tongue descends on him, licking between his legs and over his belly to clean his skin. He pushes weakly at what he thinks is Phantom's head, gasping with overstimulation. There's a rumble of a laugh and the gentle scrape of teeth before it moves higher, bathing his upper body in warm licks that he would probably find gross in another setting. Phantom settles beside him, still clothed in smoke but sporting only two eyes.

A clawed hand cards through Tim's hair as his body relaxes. The last of the spend is licked off his cheek and a tongue pushes into his mouth to kiss him, lazy and deep. Tim is half asleep and dizzy by the time Phantom pulls away.

The last thing he hears is Phantom's quiet rumble: "Sleep, little caged bird, I'll guard your dreams."

Chapter Text

Tim wakes with a start, not from an alarm or the prickle of danger, but from the deep, vibrating purr rumbling against his chest. For a breath he can’t place it—then the sharp glide of something distinctly not human traces down his back in slow, deliberate strokes. Pointed claws. Careful, precise. Teasing.

He shivers before he can stop himself, and the claws still immediately.

His eyes shoot open. The room is still drenched in shadows. The nest of pillows and furs holds an intoxicating warmth that leaves him loose limbed and heavy eyed. Above him—close enough that Tim can feel that impossible hum reverberate through his bones—Phantom is watching.

Not with the swirling storm of eyes from last night; this time there are just two. Two burning, sea-deep green eyes set where a face should be but isn't. There is only the deep black of space, as if a black hole has been made manifest.

For a moment, Tim forgets how to breathe.

Phantom purrs again, the sound low and indulgent, before speaking, his voice curling into Tim’s ear like velvet smoke. "Court begins soon, little bird. We’ll have to go."

Tim blinks, dragging himself back into reality. “Court?” His voice is scratchy, still raw from sleep—and other things. He coughs into his hand, pushing upright. “Right. Okay. Yeah. Just… one problem.”

Phantom tilts his head in a way that is far too amused.

Tim gestures helplessly at himself. “Clothes. I don’t suppose you’re planning on parading me around like this?”

The laugh that comes from Phantom is light, lilting, mocking in its sweetness. It sends a tremor racing down Tim’s spine. "Your royal garments will be prepared, pet. But for now… you may wear something of mine."

King Phantom reaches to the side, pulling from the shadows a garment that looks like it has been stolen from another century—an old-fashioned robe, long and heavy, its fabric thick and faintly shimmering in the dim light. He holds it out with a flourish, as if it's a coronation cloak.

Tim takes it, unfolds it—and nearly drowns in the thing. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The robe is massive. It swallows him whole the moment he pulls it over his shoulders. It pools at his feet, sleeves so long his hands vanish. He looks like a child that has snuck into his father’s closet—something Tim has never once in his life done. From Jack, he'd definitely have experienced the lecture of all lectures, no matter his age—and that was if he'd been lucky. From Bruce… the thought isn't even a possibility.

Immune to his thoughts, Phantom’s purr deepens. His claws brush down Tim’s shoulder as if to settle the robe in place, voice dropping down into a near growl. "Perfect. Mine looks good on you."

Tim fights the heat creeping up his neck. He's a shapeless blob beneath all the fabric, there's no reason why Phantom should be so pleased. When he was at the mercy of Ra's, Ra's put him on display any chance he got—and that was without Tim agreeing to be his Consort or heir. “…You’re enjoying this way too much.”

"Endlessly," he rumbles, leaning closer. "Now come. Let them see who you belong to."

The robe trails behind Tim like a shroud, swallowing every step he takes. It's similar enough to a cape that it leaves him feeling nostalgic. The silk is heavy; weighted with a strange chill that clings to his skin even as Phantom’s hand presses, possessive and unyielding, against the small of his back.

The great doors of the throne room open with a groan, the sound echoing through vaulted stone. Conversation dies instantly.

Dozens of eyes fix on him.

Not kind eyes. Not welcoming. He feels the aggression radiating from them like static—disdain, hunger, outright hostility. The kind of attention that would have promised dismemberment were it not for the figure at his side.

Tim forces his spine straight anyway. He was Robin once. He survived the Joker's torture and the many attempts on his life from both friend and foe. He took over WE when no one else would. He led the League of Assassins and lived through training that boasted a five percent survival rate. He's walked into worse than this.

Everyone bows, low and shallow, murmuring as one:

"Your Majesty."

"Your Majesty, a pleasure to see you in court at last."

"Majesty."

Phantom does not acknowledge them. His purr only deepens, the low vibration carrying through Tim’s ribs in a reminder of exactly who holds the leash in this room.

And then, out of the sea of hostile faces, one stands apart—the woman who had chosen him. Her smile is sharp and feline, satisfaction glittering in her eyes like she's just won the bet of her afterlife. Tim’s stomach twists.

The room waits, breath held.

Finally, the great yeti from his initial arrival to the realms lumbers forward, towering above the crowd. Its voice rumbles like an avalanche as it drops to its knees. "Oh, Great One, we are pleased to see you."

The others lower their heads further at that, the reverence stark.

Phantom’s claws tighten against Tim’s back in subtle warning. His voice slides through the air, velvet and steel all at once: "Pleased to see me… and my Temporary Consort."

The word lands like thunder.

Tim freezes. Consort. It's exactly what he was aiming for when he propositioned Phantom the night before and still, to hear it out loud feels final. He's taken a step out into the unknown and has yet to find if there's something there to actually support him.

The shift in the air is immediate—murmurs, restrained outrage, a spike of cold hostility that presses in from every side.

Phantom only smiles wider, lowering his head until his lips brush Tim’s ear. His whisper is a growl, a caress, a threat all in one. "Stand tall, little bird. Let them look… and know you are mine."

The rest of Court passes in a haze of polished cruelty. Every time Tim tries to speak—every time he even dares to lean forward as though to contribute—someone cuts across him. Drowns him out. Dismisses him with a flick of words, or worse, a flick of their eyes, as if he is a child underfoot. He hasn't gotten that look since he left Gotham and Damian's sneering face behind.

He is ignored when he asks about the supply routes. Laughed at when he asks about the borders. Outright waved aside when he presses on strategy.

He doesn't have a title, they sneer. He isn't even a ghost. What is he doing here?

By the end, he can feel the heat under his skin; the familiar burn of fury gnawing at the base of his throat. He knows this game. It's WE and the LoA all over again.

When the last bow is given and the courtiers slither out; when only the echo of their derision remains, Tim stands frozen at Phantom’s side until the great doors seal shut.

Then he turns, every ounce of restraint gone. His voice cracks through the silence like a whip. “You set me up to fail.”

Phantom leans back lazily against his throne, still smiling with that haunting maw, as though the rage rolling off Tim is nothing more than a delightful perfume. “I let them see you,” he purrs, claws drumming idly against the armrest. “That is not failure.”

Tim stalks closer, oversized robe flaring out around his legs in yet another reminder of just how ridiculous a farce this whole thing has been. If his mother could see him now, she'd disown him. He didn't sit through all her lessons just to become the laughing stock of another Realm.

His jaw clenches so tight it aches. “No. You threw me in there like bait. You made me look weak—your Consort, your so-called equal—laughed out of your war council. Do you want me useless? Decorative?”

Phantom tilts his head, amused. “They already think you are.”

Tim glares at him, every instinct in his body screaming fight, fight, fight. But instead of breaking, he straightens his shoulders. The cold calculation his mother was known for settles in. “Then they’re wrong. If I’m going to war, I’m going to war.” He leans down and jabs a finger into Phantom’s chest, right where his ribs would be if he were even remotely human. “I need a tailor. And a library. Immediately.”

The throne room goes silent again, and for one terrifying second, Tim thinks he’s overstepped—until Phantom’s grin widens. Wide enough to show fangs. Wide enough to be dangerous.

“Oh,” Phantom purrs, voice dropping low, “there is fire in you.”

He barely has time to register the flicker in Phantom’s expression before cold claws curl into the hair at the back of his head and yank him forward. Tim stumbles, arms coming up to catch himself on Phantom's shoulders before he completely falls.

The kiss is brutal. All-consuming. Phantom’s mouth presses hard against his, parting his lips to slide his tongue inside; invasive, possessive—down his throat in a way that shouldn’t even be possible—wouldn't be, if Phantom were human. It's fire and ice all at once, and Tim’s brain short-circuits under the assault. His knees buckle; heat flushing through him to pool low and hot in his stomach, leaving him unsteady.

He clutches at Phantom’s arm, nails digging in to the skin he finds there. He whines despite himself as his body betrays him. By the time Phantom finally pulls back, Tim is panting, lips wet, legs trembling.

He's Timothy Drake, though; former Robin and CEO. So he still manages to rasp out, voice hoarse and defiant, “...is that a yes?”

Phantom laughs, rich and indulgent, before waving a lazy hand, as if Tim’s fire amuses him more than anything else.

“Yes. You will have your tailor and your library,” he purrs, releasing his grip and sinking back into his throne as though the entire exchange has been nothing more than idle entertainment.

"Krims."

A ghost appears at the name, clothed in a smart uniform that reminds Tim of Alfred. She bows, her dark black hair artfully braided back into a high bun without a single hair out of place. "Yes, your Majesty?"

"Take my Consort to Lawrence. Tell him to make him whatever he wishes. And little spitfire?" Phantom holds his gaze. "Try to behave."

Tim's eyes roll. "You're the one causing all the problems," he mutters, turning on his heel to follow after Krims.

There's a moment of trepidation when they get to the door and it comes time to leave Phantom behind. Tim forces himself not to hesitate or look back. Phantom put a target on his back by presenting him the way he had in Court; is leaving him to fend for himself a test? Ra's had certainly pulled similar schemes. The only problem is, Tim doesn't know how to harm a ghost.

As soon as Tim slips out of the throne room, Phantom is no longer alone. Dora appears with Frostbite by her side, her expression alight with satisfaction. “I am pleased, Phantom,” she says warmly. “It seems you’ve secured yourself a very cute Consort.”

Phantom tilts his head to the side, lips twitching, but before he can respond Frostbite lumbers forward.

“Great One,” he rumbles with his usual reverence, “I am glad the small human fares better. When I first examined his body, I saw the missing spleen—and scars… scars much like the ones you bore after protecting the human world from our invasions.”

Phantom’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Dora waves an elegant hand, dismissing his confusion. “You should already know, since you now own your Consort’s name. His past should be no mystery to you.”

At that, Phantom’s composure cracks. His fingers fidget against his throne restlessly, betraying his discomfort. Dora, ever perceptive, catches the movement and arches an eyebrow.

“Do not tell me,” she says slowly, amusement heavy in her tone, “that you have not even asked for your Consort’s True name.”

Phantom coughs into his hand, suddenly very interested in the far wall. “We were… preoccupied.”

Dora smirks. Her laughter is soft and sharp all at once. “Preoccupied, indeed. How very royal of you.”

Phantom scowls at Dora’s smirk, leaning back in his throne with forced dignity. “At least my Consort is smart,” he shoots back, unable to stop the small curl of pride in his voice.

Dora’s eyes glitter like polished gems. “Of course he is. I would not have chosen otherwise.” She lifts her chin with mock haughtiness. “You think you found him? No, no, dear Phantom. I picked him. You are welcome.”

Phantom blinks, crosses his arms and pouts.

She only smiles wider, thoroughly pleased with herself, as if she has orchestrated the entire thing for her amusement alone.

Before Phantom can decide whether he’s been manipulated or blessed, Frostbite clears his throat, his massive presence gentling with concern. “Great One,” he says gravely, “do remember—the Consort is still human. He is adapting to our world. Please, do not break him.”

Phantom’s mouth drops open, scandalized. “Break him? What am I, a dog with a new toy?”

“Yes," they answer in unison, without a beat of hesitation.

He stares, caught somewhere between indignation and betrayal. “I… what—?!”

Dora pats his arm as if he is sulking. “Do not pout, dear King. You’ve always been the type to chew on the things you like.”

Frostbite’s icy breath mists as he leans in closer, voice low but firm. “Great One, the little one is a human. And as a human… he has human needs.”

Phantom blinks, tilting his head like he isn’t sure where this is going.

Frostbite’s brow furrows. “Have you given your Temporary Consort a place to rest of his own?”

Phantom opens his mouth confidently—only for the words to catch. His pride falters, and his shoulders slump the tiniest bit. “…Not… exactly?”

Dora gasps dramatically, one jeweled hand flying to her chest as though scandalized. “You didn’t?” She steps forward, her eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “Oh, Phantom, you forgot something so basic! Humans require sleep. They require sustenance. They require clothing, and warmth, and books to fill those clever little minds of theirs.”

Phantom’s shadows twitch as he slowly begins to shrink into himself, his tall frame curling just a little smaller under her relentless enumeration.

“And let us not forget,” Dora continues mercilessly, ticking each point off on her fingers, “they require privacy. Conversation. Affection.” She leans in, smirking. “A consort cannot thrive on dramatic kisses alone, you know.”

Phantom covers his face with one hand, muffling a groan.

Frostbite adds gently, though no less reproachful, “He is not like us, Great One. You cannot simply leave him to drift. To him, this court is as familiar as the Far Frozen is warm.”

"Have you at least given him liquids? What about food?"

"I... Forgot he needed that." Phantom's voice comes muffled through his hand.

"Phantom! Have I need to remind you of how much of that Burger you and yours ate when you moved in in the first few decades?"

Phantom peeks through his fingers at the two of them, visibly wilting under the chastisement. His voice comes out quiet, almost sheepish. “…You’re both enjoying this far too much.”

Dora and Frostbite exchange a knowing look.

“Yes,” they say, in perfect harmony once more.

Phantom straightens abruptly; shadows flicker around him as he snaps his fingers. “Staff! Attend me!”

The nearest cluster of ghostly attendants scrambles over, bowing low as if the air itself has grown heavier. Phantom puffs up like a bird, his kingly tone rolling out like thunder. “My Consort requires everything. A full royal suite prepared at once! Ten attendants on rotation, no less! A mountain of books to rival Clockwork’s tower! A lifetime supply of—” he pauses dramatically, eyes glowing brighter, “—burgers!”

The attendants freeze, uncertain if they should write this down.

Dora pinches the bridge of her nose, fighting a laugh. “Oh, for Ancients’ sake.” With a flick of her wrist, she waves the wide-eyed staff back from Phantom’s grandeur. “Cancel that absurdity.” She turns to the nearest attendant, voice sharp but warm with authority. “Instead, prepare the studio next to His Majesty’s chambers. Make it comfortable, private, and human-sized. Bring in books from the mortal realm—history, science, perhaps some romance novels, we don't know what the Temporary Consort likes. And open a direct portal from that chamber to the library. He will need easy access.”

The staff nods eagerly, clearly relieved by her clarity.

Dora isn’t finished. “Arrange a careful spread of food and water—real food, not ectoplasmic concoctions. Vary it, but don’t overwhelm the poor thing. He is still adapting. And for Ancients’ sake, no parading in groups. Two attendants at most.”

The staff scatters to carry out her orders.

Phantom, who had been braced for his demands to stand, deflates with a groan. He mutters, “Whatever she says,” under his breath. His glow betrays him, a green halo radiating out from under his shadows until he looks less like a king and more like an embarrassed lantern caught red-handed.

Dora smirks, victorious. “Wise choice, Great One. A Consort is not impressed by grandeur. He is impressed when you remember his tea.”

"I will come by every week to ensure the little one is thriving." Frostbite adds. "He will need ectoplasm supplements while his body adjusts to regrowing his spleen. Have you explained what he will become?"

Again, Phantom shrinks lower in his throne. "…No."

He sighs. "I will explain, as his physician. Best not to overwhelm."

"I will stop by tomorrow, to begin his lessons." Dora's smile glitters with satisfaction. "Do try not to chase him off. He's special, I could tell when I first saw him. His soul is… unique. Surely you weren't so distracted that you missed that much?"

"No," Phantom says quietly. "I noticed."

Krims doesn't speak once on their way through the winding halls. This is just as well for Tim, who is busy mapping out their route in his head. When she finally comes to a stop outside a set of doors, she knocks briskly and drifts inside without waiting for a response.

Tim has to use the actual door, which is much heavier than it appears. Inside is a tailor's dream. There are shelves from floor to ceiling full of stacked rolls of fabric. They're color coded in every shade imaginable and stretch back into the depths of the room. A ladder you'd normally see in a grand library is set up on a track to allow access to the upper levels. Similar shelves dot the interior of the room, holding ribbons, lace and all other manner of embellishments. A huge table sits at the innermost center, where measuring boards and razor sharp shears sit ready to cut. Half dressed mannequins dot the landscape; any bits of wall that are exposed are plastered in skilled drawings of all manner of fashion.

"Lawrence!" Krims calls into the back. "New task from the King!"

There's a sound like something being knocked over and then a male appears who looks no younger than Tim. He's got a boyish face and a mop of short brown curls that extends into two long braids on either side of his face. His wide brown eyes take the two of them in before he breaks out into a beaming smile. "What're the orders?"

"His Majesty has instructed you to make his Temporary Consort whatever he wishes." She gives a sharp nod and spins on her heel, disappearing through the door before either of them can so much as open their mouth.

"Don't mind her," Lawrence says, floating close to offer a hand to shake. When Tim takes it, he leans in uncomfortably close. "Oh wow, your eyes are naturally that color? I can't sense much liminal energy on you yet, so they must be. Not a lot of ghosts with that shade. We can use that to our advantage."

He spins to grab a sketchbook off of the table, flips open to a new page and begins frantically cataloguing his ideas.

"So," he adds, without looking up, "what were you thinking?"

Tim takes a breath. He's used to excitable brunettes. He ignores the pain of loss at the thought of Bart and pushes forward. "I need a wardrobe fit for both a Consort and an advisor. Flattering silhouettes. Muted, tasteful colors that mean business. Silks and lace. Heels to match."

"Something that says 'I fuck your King and you'd better respect me'?" Lawrence says knowingly. He grins when Tim's eyes widen. "Yeah, I heard about the Court meeting. Tough crowd, especially for your first showing."

"How could you possibly know about that? It only just happened."

"I have ears everywhere. Trends change constantly and I have to make sure Phantom is always at the top, even if he prefers to be more of a floating cloud of eyes these days."

Tim zeroes in on the information immediately. "What did he look like before?"

"The way most ghosts look. Human, but not. Pure white hair that's great for making things pop. Freckles. Long legs—like, slightly longer than human long, you know? Pale skin." Lawrence looks back at him. "Wait, does that mean you became his Consort by having sex with him the way he looks now? As a human? That's brave. And stupid." He wiggles his hand side to side. "They're about even, honestly."

Tim flushes. He wouldn't call himself a prude exactly, but he's never been very explicit about his love life either—not that he's had much of one. Being a Drake and then Robin, he's had to live a very private life to keep his secret identity intact. Having everyone know him specifically due to his sex life is… jarring.

He tries to focus on that over the lick of jealousy he feels over not having seen what Lawrence describes.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it." At Tim's confused look, he adds: "Ghosts are empaths. The stronger the ghost, the more powerful the ability, but even baseline Ghostlings can sense your general emotions."

Thankfully, Tim is given time to digest that in peace.

He's humiliated all over again. That means Phantom felt it every time Tim was drawn to him, even during their first meeting. No wonder he always seems to be laughing at him. And then to put him in front of his Court without any warning…

Tim drags a hand down his face. "That motherfucker," he says darkly. He'd known everyone would be able to read him and he'd still sent Tim in blind. Tim had thought he was safe if he was outwardly put together; now he knows every single one of those ghosts felt his starting fear and boiling anger.

Spools of fabric fly around him, ignorant to his inner strife. Lawrence examines and dismisses a couple dozen before more move in to take their place. Eventually, they're left with two distinct groups. One in blues, grays and white and the other in greens and blacks.

Tim eyes the greens cautiously. He taps a shade that's much too similar to Joker green and shakes his head. "Absolutely not." He does the same with a darker tone that resembles Ra's colors. Now that he thinks about it, what's with villains and the color green?

Lawrence sends the two offenders away before pointing to the first pile. "Phantom has an ice and snow theme going on in the castle. He prefers the cold, I think it has something to do with Frostbite. They've got a close bond. He's also got a thing for space. So, blues, grays and white for the ice. Green and black touches for his personal colors."

"Personal colors?" Tim repeats.

"Every King has their own colors. Pariah—the King before him—liked red. Phantom likes green. If you want people to see you and think of Phantom, these are the colors to use. Plus, it'll make your eyes and skin pop. You're as pale as a ghost." Lawrence smirks at his own joke. "So! Let me take your measurements and we'll talk silhouettes. You'll have to take the robe off, though."

He takes a deep breath. Lawrence has been nothing but professional and Tim doesn't have much modesty left after years of close quarters with various teams. It's more the fact that he has no means to defend himself here and he's still raw from what Ra's tried to take from him.

"It's okay," Lawrence tells him, face gone soft and sincere. "This is my Haunt and no one can come in without my say when I lock everything down. Not even Phantom would trespass without an emergency."

"Haunt?" Tim says, jumping on the distraction like a starving beast. He disrobes and tosses the fabric aside. He feels strangely bereft as the chill that had accompanied it leaves him.

"It's what ghosts call their territory. It's a big part of politics—you'll hear a lot about it sitting in on Court meetings. It's pretty unusual for a ghost to share their territory but Phantom made an exception for me. This room connects to my coremate's castle, where my full Haunt is located."

Lawrence pulls out a measuring tape and looks up at him. "Ready?"

Tim nods.

This, he is used to. The familiarity helps settle his restlessness as Lawrence maneuvers around his body, a notebook and pen floating in the air beside him to jot down measurements as he goes. He measures everything. From the length of his neck to the circumference of his ankles and wrists. He even goes so far as to take the lengths of his fingers and their circumference, as well as his toes.

Tim focuses back on learning what he can.

"What's a coremate?"

"Oh, it's like the ghost equivalent of marriage—but much more binding and sacred. Ghosts don't have the same biology as a human. Our life force isn't based on organs and blood like the living. When a ghost forms, they form from a core." He points towards his chest. "If we're injured, no matter how bad, we can reform so long as our core is intact. A coremate is someone that you trust with your soul. Generally, ghosts will swap cores to show their devotion and to solidify the bond. I can feel my mate at all times and he can feel me too. We can communicate through it and we'll always be able to find one another. Not everyone swaps for good, sometimes they just do it for the ceremony and to form the bond. The longer you swap, the deeper the bond. But don't ask anyone if they're swapped. That's super rude—and grounds to get mauled."

"Phantom doesn't have one?"

Lawrence snorts. "Not for lack of everyone trying. You're the first person he's taken an interest in in centuries."

The confirmation that Phantom is much older than him is not unexpected but it is a bit startling. Tim isn't entirely sure why he keeps attracting ancient powers. He also doesn't want to tackle why the knowledge only further increases his curiosity where it might make others recoil.

"He needs a queen?"

"Ghost politics aren't like human politics. It's not nearly as rigid. The concept of kings and queens and heirs doesn't really apply—not to Phantom, anyways. The King is crowned when the previous is defeated. The strong rule over the weak. Thankfully, Phantom is a much kinder ruler than Pariah was—or so I've heard. I wasn't around when he was in power."

"So you—formed here? Don't take this the wrong way, you just seem a lot more human than any of the others I've seen."

Lawrence grimaces. He picks up Phantom's robe and holds it out to Tim to put back on. "Okay, clearly Phantom hasn't told you anything. Let's go back to my sitting room and I'll give you a run down before you end up causing a scandal. Honestly, he's as bad as Mal."

Tim wraps the fabric around himself. Instead of feeling cumbersome and huge the way it did the first time he put it on, it feels comforting. It covers him from the neck down and feels almost like armor. He follows Lawrence deeper into the room on quiet feet and sits on a plush green sofa when instructed.

Lawrence sits beside him, turned with his back to the armrest to face him properly. "Okay," he says, chewing on his bottom lip. "So, there are some things you need to know if you're going to succeed here. First, don't ever ask about a ghost's death. Ghosts are beings of emotion and whether they like you or not, the question riles them up with a lot of negative emotions. If they share on their own that's fine but if not, don't ask.

Second, don't ever give a ghost your True name." He must sense Tim's confusion because he goes on. "True names give ghosts power over you. They reveal your past and everything your soul has been through. They're also used for summoning—if someone uses your True name in a summoning, you can't refuse. A True name is who you are. For humans, it's your full name. And it doesn't count if they find out some other way. The soul itself has to give their name away in order for it to work. That's why titles are so important here."

Lawrence points to himself. "For example, I'm High Consort to the King of Briar, Tailor of Kings, Curse Breaker, Friend of Dragons, Fabric Weaver, Many Ears, and Secret Keeper. These titles can be used by anyone who wishes to speak to me in a respectful manner. Phantom and the staff here know they can just use Lawrence because I've given them permission."

"So my title is Temporary Consort?"

He laughs when Tim's nose wrinkles. "Yeah, not very flattering is it? You'll earn titles as you go. How would you like me to address you?"

"Tim," he decides, after a pause. Lawrence has been kind to him and Tim does not feel the need to demand respect.

"Okay, Tim," he says easily, "I'm going to ask you a question now."

"Okay?"

Lawrence's face grows serious. His eyes begin to glow green around the edges, skin taking on more of a green sheen as his hair moves as if underwater. For the first time, he looks truly otherworldly. "Do you intend to hurt Phantom?"

For a moment, Tim is left speechless. Hurt him? He hadn't even known that was an option.

"I… don't understand the question. If you mean physically, I don't think I could—or, I'm at least unaware of any way to do so. He's been—kind to me, I think. Or as kind as someone like him can be? I don't really have any desire to hurt him, past earning my freedom back. If you mean emotionally," Tim scoffs. "We hardly know one another. He doesn't even know my name and so far he's only treated me like a toy to parade around. There's nothing there to harm him with."

"And your intentions?"

"To earn my freedom," Tim repeats.

"By climbing into his bed?" It's said without judgment, but he bristles all the same.

"I'm a human at the mercy of a world of beings much more powerful than me, who as far as I know, cannot be harmed by a mortal," he says harshly. "Phantom owns my soul so yes, I'll fuck him if it means I'm in a better position."

The glow recedes from Lawrence's eyes. It's as if a spell has been broken.

Tim realizes that he hasn't blinked once throughout the entire conversation. There are tears rolling down his cheeks from where his eyes have strained. He sucks in a breath and tightens a hand around the front of Phantom's robe. He feels untethered; he doesn't know why he said all of that.

"Sorry," Lawrence says, holding out a tissue. "I had to make sure you told me the truth. I won't do it again."

"You—compelled me?"

"Not a lot of people can do it and I'll make sure to put enchantments into your garments to make sure you're protected from it. It's just—you have to understand that Phantom is beloved. He's kind to us and though he is powerful, his nature makes him easy to take advantage of. He doesn't understand humans anymore. You'll probably get annoyed with him when he forgets that you're different and don't follow the same rules; or when he thinks something is obvious that really isn't. He doesn't think the same way that you do. I needed to make sure that you're not a part of a bigger plot."

"You worry for him," Tim realizes.

"Yes," he admits, "we all do. That's why I'm glad you're here and why I hope you'll consider staying once your service is up."

He cleans his face and takes a deep breath. He doesn't have the time to sort through everything he's learned here. But he does still have questions.

"You mentioned a bigger plot. What did you mean?"

Lawrence's eyes drop. His hands twist as he takes on a more melancholic tone. "It wasn't always like this. Phantom used to prefer his more human form but it's not as powerful as his shadow ones. After the last time the Observants tried to throw a Coup with Vlad, the King's godfather, Phantom ended up hurt badly. He decided to stop using his lesser forms then, to keep himself powerful and menacing.

In the beginning, I could still dress him, you know, but then he turned into his shadow form and there wasn't really anything I could do. I haven't made clothes for him in a long time; you're the first real request I've gotten in centuries."

"He turned into what he is now after one Coup?"

He scoffs. "One? Try one century of Coups maybe. It was bad back then, there was an assassination nearly every day. Phantom was hurt constantly and a lot of the staff was dismissed to keep any accidental casualties from happening. I refused to leave."

Tim's stomach twists. He tries to imagine Phantom weak and bleeding but finds himself shying away from the image. Phantom has his soul but he hasn't been needlessly cruel to him. Tim doesn't want him hurt, regardless of how infuriating he can be.

"I don't know how much help I'll be, but he gave me a task and I'm going to do it." His chin lifts, eyes flaring with defiance. "No one gets to treat me the way his Court did."

Something small and fast appears. It zooms over to Lawrence to pause by his ear; he tilts his head to the side to listen before it vanishes just as fast as it came. He grins. "Seems Dora is whipping Phantom into shape and reminding him about human care. Let's finish up while she works."

His sketchbook appears out of thin air. "So, I'm seeing lots of eye motifs; reminders that Phantom is watching and you're under his protection. Constellations; birds?" He squints at Tim. "Robins? Huh, okay. Everything will be armor grade, of course. Lots of silver accents; mostly white jewels."

"How can you tell?" Tim asks. "About the, uh, Robins?"

"It's my purpose. Every ghost has one. I can look at people and just kind of see what would best represent them. Then I translate that into clothes." He hums to himself. "Tasteful cutouts. Very eye-catching. The Jewel of the Court. We want everyone to see why Phantom covets you. There's nothing more enticing than something that's beautiful but off limits."

He looks over his notes and gives a satisfied nod. "I'll have a catalogue of designs over by tomorrow. Once you give me the okay or any changes you want made, I'll start production. By the time Dora has walked you through etiquette and you've gotten some hard hours in at the library, you'll have a wardrobe fit for a High Consort. We're gonna wow them all."

It's a lot, put like that, but Tim didn't become Robin by shying away from heavy workloads.

"Thank you, Tailor of Kings," Tim says sincerely.

"Oh, call me Lawrence." He beams over at him. "We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, after all. Now, let me walk you back to Phantom's room."

Chapter Text

The door to Phantom’s quarters swings open with a dramatic creak. Lawrence leans against the frame, grinning with a glint in his eyes that suggests nothing good.

“Here you are, Temporary Consort,” he says with far too much cheer, “Phantom’s room. Do come see me whenever you’re free and want to talk. It’s so nice to finally have someone here who understands.” His voice drips with faux-innocence, the kind that promises gossip, conspiracies, and endless teasing. Before Tim can even open his mouth to respond, Lawrence pokes his head inside Phantom's chambers and yells, “Your Majesty! I brought your Consort back safe and sound!”

The shout echoes; Tim barely has time to wince before he's ushered inside.

The door shuts neatly behind him.

In the middle of the chamber, he finds Phantom, not sitting on the elaborate throne-like chair by the hearth or even pretending to look busy. He's just… there, stock-still, every shadow around his body betraying the sharpness of surprise. His clawed hands hang awkwardly by his sides, shadows curling and uncurling around him like restless smoke. The green glow of his eyes flickers in thousands of different directions where a face should be, betraying nerves that his carefully blank expression can't quite mask.

For a long beat, he looks exactly like someone who has been caught practicing a speech in front of a mirror.

Phantom clears his throat, the sound low and rough like stone grinding against stone. “I… hope your time with the Tailor was everything you wished for.”

Tim’s lips press together, holding back the urge to smirk. The formality of his words sits on Phantom like an ill-fitting costume—he looks less like a King and more like a person trying desperately not to look startled.

“It was,” Tim answers softly. "Thank you."

He takes a long, steady breath then, when Phantom seems no closer to relaxing. His shoulders ease as if he is about to approach a startled alley cat—every step measured, slow, deliberate. His gaze stays steady on Phantom, open but careful, broadcasting one simple message: I’m not here to scare you.

Phantom’s glow brightens despite himself, and the faintest twitch of his shadows betrays how much effort it's taking not to fidget, however that might look for a ghost.

Tim tilts his head to the side, studying Phantom with open curiosity. The eyes on Phantom's 'face' track the motion like a cat following a thread, luminous and unblinking.

"You're nervous," Tim observes, though the words carry a hint of surprise. He's not sure why Phantom is the one nervous in this situation. "But why?"

The words are enough to get Phantom blinking again. He draws in a breath that seems to serve to settle his whole frame. His hands sink into the swirling shadows at his sides, shoulders stiffening with forced composure.

“I have been made aware,” Phantom begins, voice carrying the tone of someone repeating a lecture word for word, “that humans like you require certain accommodations… which I have failed to provide until now.”

The words taste like defeat on his tongue, but he delivers them with all the solemnity of a royal decree. Then, without waiting for a reply, he drifts toward the far wall. The air shimmers faintly, and with a sound like cracking ice, a door appears where there was none before. Phantom places his hand on the handle, hesitating just a fraction of a heartbeat, and then swings it open.

Tim’s eyebrows raise as he steps forward, curiosity overtaking caution. One glance inside makes his lips part in disbelief.

The adjoining chamber looks less like a king’s afterthought and more like something out of a luxury catalogue. A proper bed—a real bed, large and plush, sheets spilling over the edges in pristine folds—commands the center of the room. A low fire crackles in the hearth across from it, painting the walls in warm light. A small sitting area is arranged with cushioned chairs; the kind that invites reading until you fall asleep mid-page.

In the corner stands a desk ringed by bookcases, its shelves already laden with volumes in different bindings and sizes. Another door rests beside it, suggesting even more space beyond this unexpected suite.

But what catches Tim’s attention—and makes him snort before he can stop himself—is the long table off to the side. It's set with chairs and lined with food in a strange but generous spread: plates of fruit gleaming with frost; platters of meat steaming faintly in the cold air; pitchers of jewel-colored drinks. And sitting proudly among the offerings, like a crown jewel, is a familiar six-pack of Zesti.

Tim blinks, then glances sidelong at Phantom. “You… gave me a room?”

Phantom’s glow flickers again, betraying the nerves beneath the stiff mask. “It was… suggested.” He fidgets, the smoke curling around him a touch defensive. “You are human. Humans need… things.”

Tim steps across the threshold, but the moment his boots hit the polished stone, suspicion prickles down his spine. No one gives gifts freely—ever. Not in Gotham, not in the League, and certainly not in a place like this.

Phantom doesn't follow him inside. Instead, the King lingers in the doorway, his presence filling it so completely that Tim has the unsettling impression of a wall. Too large, too still, too final. A predator blocking the only exit. The thought creeps in unbidden: a gilded cage is still a cage.

His eyes flicker toward the far side of the room. Another door, its dark wood gleaming faintly in the firelight. He lifts his chin. “Where does that one take me?”

Phantom inclines his head, slow and deliberate, as though even that gesture carries weight. “That will lead you to my private library.”

Tim’s throat goes dry. No door to the outside. No hallway. No escape but back through him. If he wanted to leave, he’d have to walk through Phantom’s chambers first, past that impossible figure standing sentinel. The room is generous, yes, but generosity can still be a leash. He catalogues details, looking for hidden traps, while his mind supplies a dozen worst-case scenarios.

He circles slowly, fingertips brushing the surface of the desk, the spines of the books, the back of a chair. His steps are careful, deliberate, like testing for tripwires.

Behind him, Phantom clears his throat—a sound almost hesitant, almost human.

“I would also desire,” Phantom ventures, voice low but carrying easily across the chamber, “to know your name.”

The words slam Tim into high alert. Every instinct screams danger. Names carry weight, Lawrence had said. Names have power. He turns sharply, chin lifting in defiance.

“I was told,” Tim says evenly, “of the customs and power names hold.” He isn't going to hand over leverage that easily.

To his surprise, Phantom actually flinches. The glow in his eyes dims; shoulders dipping as though struck.

“No,” Phantom says quickly; urgently. “Nothing like that.” He raises both bony hands slightly, in a strange gesture of surrender. His voice softens, low and raw. “I just… want something to call you that is not ‘Temporary Consort.’”

Tim presses his lips together, but decides that he might as well try and trust the creature who is holding his new reality hostage. The alternative is too bleak to consider right now. "You can call me Tim."

"Tim," Phantom says carefully, like he is trying a new dish and deciding whether it is to his taste. A small smile creeps across his face before it's swallowed by darkness once more. "You are… displeased. It is not to your liking?"

Tim stares at him. This is the being that currently owns his soul; the one with unimaginable power, who rules over this strange new world. And yet, he has not hurt him. He did not even expect sex until Tim came on to him.

He remembers Lawrence's words, about misunderstandings and empathic abilities. He supposes that should Phantom prove to be cruel, he should find out now.

"You have given me a room with no exit or escape. The only way out is through yours and we both know that I cannot overpower you." He gestures to the generous spread of food and furniture. "You have given me gifts with no defined cost. I would like to avoid waking up chained to a wall again, so I would have you name the terms before I accept. Not to mention the fact that you have not explained what being your Consort means, past warming your bed."

There are more things, of course. But these are the most pressing and Tim can't bear to reveal himself further, no matter what Phantom must read in his emotions.

Tim is scared and still repressing the trauma he suffered at Ra's hand, among other things. He is exhausted, physically and emotionally and just once, he would like something to be easy. He would like someone to tell him the truth; to not play games or perform tests.

Phantom does not move for a long while. The shadows at his feet curl and uncurl, restless, as though reflecting his thoughts. His head tilts, green eyes glowing like foxfire in the dim light.

Finally, he exhales—a sound like wind through hollow bones.

“You speak as if I mean to bind you,” Phantom says slowly. His voice is careful, not cold, though it holds a weight that makes Tim’s skin prickle. He sounds... dejected, and ashamed. “As if I do not know what chains cost.”

Tim swallows, keeping his chin high. Don’t flinch. Don’t show weakness.

The High King lowers his gaze— making him look weakened and something disturbingly close to uncertain. It startles Tim; even if he doesn't know the specific rules of this world he does know a King, a High King at that, should never lower his head to others. “I thought to give you safety. Warmth. Food that will not turn to ash in your mouth. I thought these things would ease you.” His hands flicker out of the shadows again, clenching and unclenching like someone trying to remember how to hold. “I now see you think them a trap.”

“I think everything’s a trap,” Tim answers, sharper than he means. The words bite, but they’re true.

Phantom studies him, still as ice. “Then I have failed you already.”

Tim blinks. He expected anger, maybe even mockery. Not this.

Phantom lifts a hand, hesitates, and lets it drop before it can reach him. “The terms are this: you are free within these rooms. You will never wake chained by me. You may eat and rest as you wish. If you desire company, you need only ask. If you desire solitude, I will honor it.” His gaze flickers, faint light sparking at the corners of his eyes. “And should you wish to leave, I will not hold you here. Not by force. The only thing keeping you in the Realms is the deal you have with me.”

The words land heavy, but not cruel.

Tim searches his face, desperate for a lie, some sign of the trick. Something to make Phantom's kindness make sense. “And being your Consort?”

Phantom’s throat bobs. For a moment, he looks like a boy trying to remember how to explain something obvious. Then:

“It means you are… mine.” A pause, then softer, rushed, “Not as in owned. Never that. You are the name I call beside my throne, the soul who steadies my crown. In time, it means partnership, not as lovers but as a trusted advisor. But here, now…” He falters, a King left unsure on his own dais. “It means safety. Even from me. Calling you the Temporary Consort gives you enough leverage to keep yourself safe in the Court, as my subjects will have to respect you as they respect me.”

Tim’s breath stutters. He doesn’t know if he can believe him, but the sincerity tastes different from Ra’s sweet poison.

For the first time, Tim realizes Phantom is almost as lost in this arrangement as he is.

Again, he remembers Lawrence's advice. Again, he is forced to acknowledge the fact that Phantom is one of the only beings here who is trying to be an ally. His gaze flicks back to the spread of food.

He makes a decision.

"Do you eat?" he asks quietly.

Phantom's eyes flicker in and out of existence for what seems to be a couple of minutes. It almost feels like he's blinking in confusion before only two eyes remain in the general location of his face. "I can, though I have no recollection of when the last time I ate was. Probably a century ago," he answers tentatively.

Tim nods to himself.

He turns but cannot quite allow himself to give Phantom his back; he approaches the table at an angle, keeping that shadowed figure in his peripherals. He picks up a Zesti instantly and cracks it open to take a sip while he examines the spread. It's all human food, from what he can tell. No blatant smell of poison, not that that means much. The drink doesn't have any immediate effects that he can tell.

"Will you eat with me then?" Tim looks up at him. "I can't eat all this by myself and—I think we should have a discussion. A further discussion, I mean."

Phantom looks around before he nods, pushing into the room. To Tim's absolute surprise, his form seems to condense around him. He is still the shadowy monster he's always been, but for some reason his shadows seem to remain closer to himself, rather than spilling into the room to fill the space. He almost seems to be mindful of how much room he takes up; a fact made obsolete considering his sheer size. It's like an adult bear approaching a kitten; there isn't any way to truly mask their size difference, no matter how much he hunches in on himself.

He remains in Tim's line of sight as he settles close to the table. A long tendril of shadow reaches out towards Tim and pulls the chair closest to him back. Phantom gestures to it. "If we are going to talk, we shall do so sitting."

The corner of Tim's mouth twitches. In the spirit of cooperation, he doesn't tease Phantom for his attempt at manners. Instead, he sets a plate in front of them both and takes the offered chair, adjusting the folds of his cloak until he's comfortable. He waits until they've both filled their plates and eaten a few bites before finally forcing himself to speak.

"You knew what I was doing last night; Lawrence told me you're all empaths. Which means you know exactly why I did what I did and you still let it happen." He doesn't do either of them the disservice of asking why. He can guess easily enough and that's not the point of bringing it up.

He lets that sit between them for a moment, before continuing. He hopes Phantom can see the parallels he's about to make without having to spell it out for him.

"The man you boiled alive was named Ra's Al Ghul. He claimed to be immortal and has been running an eco-terrorist group called the League of Assassins for centuries. I was looking for someone I lost when I showed up on his radar. He was my only option at the time, so I made a deal. I ran his organization and took down the competition in exchange for his resources.

Eventually, he decided that he wanted to name me his heir and Consort. When I refused both positions, I woke up chained to a wall with the purpose of being a sperm donor. Unwilling, of course."

He chews on a piece of chicken as he lets the truth of that statement settle into the silence of the room. Huh. Perfectly seasoned; he'll have to give his compliments to the Chef.

"I escaped. Lots more happened." He waves a hand dismissively, as if to say 'trauma, amiright?' "I think he planned to kill me and throw me in a Lazarus Pit—it wouldn't be the first time some mad man has tried to fuck with my brain—but then he realized his pits were drying up. He sold me off to gain favor, I assume. His last words to me were lamenting my lack of a womb." He finally looks over at Phantom. No matter the emotions inside, he forces his face to remain blasé. "So. I hope you can understand my hesitance here."

The silence stretches only a beat before it shatters—Phantom’s growl rips through the chamber like a crack of thunder, startling him. The sheer, visceral sound is aggressive and makes the presence of the High King seem menacing until words, low and seething, fill the space.

“Should’ve made him scream longer,” Phantom mutters. His shadows are no longer still; they curl like smoke against the walls, as if restless. “Should’ve boiled his Pits dry with him inside.”

Phantom sounds almost disappointed he didn’t get creative with Ra’s.

The tension in Phantom’s frame shifts and softens as he seems to remember that he's not the only one in the room. His glow dims until only his eyes hold light, both focused wholly on Tim. For once, his voice gentles, cautious in a way Tim hasn’t heard from him before.

“…May I touch you?”

Phantom’s jaw flexes, as though weighing each word before he releases it.

“Dora says humans need affection,” he continues carefully—almost shyly, even. “That reassurance matters. When I was small, my sister’s arms around me meant… safety. Warmth. The kind of happiness that doesn’t fade, even in the dark.” His hand hovers, claws dulled back into a faintly human outline despite the skin looking like they are made from scales rather than flesh. “I would like you to feel that. To know you are safe here. That you are wanted.”

Tim's ears feel like they're ringing. He stares at that hand, both hearing Phantom's words and somehow not. He can't remember the last time he was held by someone he actually wanted to be held by. He can't remember the last time he felt actually wanted, let alone safe. Has he ever?

"Okay." His voice comes out hoarse, as if he's been screaming for a very long time and has only just stopped. "You can... okay."

Phantom extends his hand and catches Tim’s, his grip gentle, almost reverent, before drawing him forward out of his chair. Shadows rise around them, thick and soft, obscuring the room in a cocoon of black. Before panic can take root in Tim from the blindness, something else presses against him.

Arms. Careful. So careful, as if they're holding something delicate.

Phantom wraps him close. The darkness folds over them both until Tim is pressed against a broad, solid chest. Except—solid isn't the right word. The hold is tight, yes, but there is give beneath it, similar to being pulled against a warm cushion. Phantom has been cold this entire time—corpse-cold, the kind of chill that seeps into marrow. But this… this is startlingly warm.

Almost human.

The steadiness of the embrace; the faint thrum against his ear like a heartbeat but more of a purr; the quiet stillness in the air, as if even the Realms themselves are holding their breath. It all feels like a quiet reassurance that he can relax.

He is being held. Tight and safe.

Tim isn't sure who's more surprised by what comes next.

He learned silence from a very early age; from forgotten dusty halls and shushing hands to nannies that were ordered not to come at his cries. His parents used to always boast that he was such an easy child but the truth of the matter was that Tim was simply a fast learner. Noise was scolded; silence was praised. Tim learned to cry silently fast.

He can't seem to find the skill now.

Ugly, wretched noises spill free from his lips. He clutches at the warm skin beneath his hands like it's the only thing tethering him in a storm. His knees give out but Phantom is there, keeping him secure. His arms tighten, anchoring him, cradling him with a steadiness that feels undeserved, terrifying and desperately needed all at once.

Tim cries for his dead friends. He cries for the loss of Robin and the relationships that were torn apart. He cries for Bruce who he'll never see again but who he gave everything for. He cries for Z and Owens who deserved better. He cries for himself and the cruelty he endured under Ra's hands. He cries for his lost soul.

Phantom holds him through it all. His embrace doesn't falter, even as Tim shakes apart in his arms. The shadows curl close, soft instead of suffocating, until the rest of the world is nothing but a muted blur beyond their cocoon.

Tim feels it then—a soft breath ghosting against his ear, almost imagined, like Phantom is trying to soothe without daring to speak. A hand slides up, cool fingers brushing against his cheek with uncharacteristic care, wiping away the salt of his tears as though each one matters.

It takes a long time before the sobs quiet, breaking down into hiccups and shivers. The silence that follows is thick, not empty but full of the ache of release. Finally, Tim shifts slightly.

Phantom notices. Slowly—carefully—his grip loosens, easing just enough to give Tim space. An unspoken offering: You can pull away if you want. I’ll let you.

And Tim should, is the thing. It's what is proper. His dignity lays in tatters on the ground and he should get to work on stitching it back together. But Tim is so tired. He's been strong for so long; has kept a mask in place for what feels like his entire life. He is, after all, only human.

He rests his forehead against what he thinks is Phantom's shoulder and closes his weary eyes.

"I'm going to be very embarrassed about this tomorrow," he tells him. "But—"

I don't want you to go, lingers on his tongue unsaid. He is touch starved at best and so tired of being alone. He doesn't know Phantom, should not trust him, but in this moment of weakness he wants to be stupid enough to try.

Phantom huffs—something startlingly close to human—and shifts Tim in his grasp. The motion is smooth, practiced, until suddenly the ground is gone and Tim is fully lying against him. Shadows fold around them like a blanket, muting the world to nothing but warmth and the steady hum beneath Tim’s ear. Horizontal, weightless, he can do nothing but cling.

Then he hears it: not the eldritch growl or the chorus of a thousand voices he has come to expect, but a single sound. A voice. Low, human, achingly kind.

“It’s fine,” Phantom murmurs close to his ear. “Everything will be fine. You don’t have to worry. I'm here. I will protect you.”

A hand traces slowly up and down Tim’s back, steadying his breathing, grounding him with every pass. Beneath it all, Tim can still feel the vibration of Phantom’s purr, a rhythm in his chest that soothes the ache like a balm.

He thinks someone said something similar to him once. Maybe Nightwing, or Batman, in one of his rare shows of affection. The thought hurts like a wound lanced to let out infection; the relief comes with the knowledge that Phantom has the ability to follow up on his words, should he need to.

He sighs, long and heavy and feels years of tension flee his body. It's sure to return in the morning but for now, he can bask in this. He can soak up Phantom's attention like a starving flower without feeling guilty. After all, Phantom is much more powerful. If he wants to leave, Tim can't stop him.

It's the first time the thought is comforting. He can accept the excuse to spare his own pride and sense of self flagellation.

He falls asleep with that voice in his ear, promising his safety and the warmth of a human embrace.

He sleeps deeper than he has in years.

Chapter Text

There is a knock on the door.

At first Phantom ignores it, but the sharp sound pries its way into the quiet, and he blinks awake with a start.

Awake; that in itself is strange—he hasn’t slept in over three decades. The sensation of drifting back from unconsciousness, of the heaviness in his limbs and the sluggish pull in his core, is almost alien. His last sleep had been the day Jazz set out on her crusade to unite the earthbound ghosts, when she'd sworn she’d return for a rest before tackling Reality NF-1935. She's still somewhere in NF-1934 with Fright Knight, her promise dangling like a ribbon tied across time.

The knock fades, replaced by silence.

Phantom shifts, then stills. There is weight on him. Warmth. Breath against his collarbone. He looks down—and panics, just for a second—because he's still in his human form. Skin and bone, lungs and heartbeat, a fragile body he hasn’t worn without thought in years.

And yet… the weight is Tim.

The boy is curled close against his neck, still fast asleep, one arm hooked loosely around Phantom’s middle. His lashes brush his cheeks, the faint crease in his brow smoothed by slumber. Human. Mortal. Trusting.

Slowly, carefully, Phantom lets the tension ease from his chest. He exhales, shadows slipping like ink across the floor. With a ripple of intention, he begins to shift—his form unraveling, replacing fragile flesh with something older and truer: scales that gleam faintly with spectral light, a body of ectoplasm threaded through with starless void. The weight does not slip away; Tim remains cocooned in his shadows, shielded from the transformation.

Phantom is about to gather him up and set him gently on the bed when the door slams open.

“Phantom!”

Dora strides into the room, arms piled high with scrolls and books, her cloak flaring dramatically behind her. She looks like she’s just raided a forgotten library and is prepared to weaponize every single tome. “I do not care if you are brooding or sulking or… whatever this is,” she declares, stomping across the threshold without hesitation. “I have a schedule, and as your appointed temporary big sister, I demand respect!”

Any hope of keeping Tim asleep is promptly lost in the wake of her arrival. Vigilante instincts yank him into alertness. Weeks of dodging assassination attempts have him throwing himself backwards even with his eyes still closed. He hits the floor and rolls automatically, coming up crouched and ready, weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet, the sides of Phantom's cloak clutched in his hands like it's his normal cape. He has no weapon, no hidden blade, but he can do a lot with just his body.

Assess, distract, disarm runs through his mind as he zeroes in on the assailant. He's left frozen in place as he takes in Dora and her armful of scrolls. His head turns slowly to look back at Phantom, who he has unconsciously placed at his back, as if he can protect him better than Phantom can protect himself.

Dora’s eyes find him immediately, slit pupils narrowing with unmistakable draconic interest. Smoke curls from her nostrils as though even his very existence delights her, faint scales ghosting across her skin before she turns her attention to Phantom.

Tim straightens with a flush, pulling the cloak back around his body.

“You were cuddling with the mortal while the Observants languished in court?” she demands, her voice carrying the weight of centuries, imperious and sharp as the scrape of steel on stone.

“The Observants can wait a bit once in a while.” Phantom’s reply vibrates with the chorus of a thousand voices, the inhuman timbre erasing all illusion of frail mortality. “And have you not heard of knocking? Were this my Haunt, I would have mauled you for your insolence.”

“Were this your Haunt, you would be too busy zipping about in hyper excitement to consider sleep,” Dora counters without missing a beat. She spreads her arms and lets the scrolls and books tumble to the floor in a neat collapse of knowledge. Then, her posture straightens, regal and commanding, as she inclines her head toward Tim.

“Good day, Temporary Consort,” she intones. “It is only proper I introduce myself. I am Queen Dorothea, Matriarch of all Dragons, Keeper of Diplomatic Fire, Advisor to the High King, Mediator between Realms, Guardian of Ancient Pacts, and Instructor of Consorts. There are more titles besides, but you may choose any among them to address me—for now. I have already informed Phantom that your education must begin swiftly, for—”

Phantom’s voice cuts through hers with abrupt finality, sharp enough to still the air. “Not today.”

Dora tilts her head, bowing slightly, though her golden eyes gleam with challenge. “My King?”

“Not today, Dora.” His glow flares faintly, shadows trembling like smoke. “Assist the Consort instead in choosing something suitable for Sam’s gardens. He will be visiting there today.”

Dora’s eyes narrow. Smoke curls from her lips. She turns to Tim, arms crossed over her armored chest, assessing him with the slow scrutiny of a predator.

“What does the Consort desire?” she asks, the regal tilt of her chin daring him to stammer. “You should not bend yourself to Phantom’s wants simply because he is King. A Consort must speak his own will—or risk being nothing but decoration.”

Tim meets her gaze. He is wary of the woman; he still remembers her voice deciding his fate as he knelt in that chained line.

He's sure he looks a mess, but he pulls his shields up around himself all the same and responds unflinchingly, "I desire your instruction, Advisor to the High King. However, I am not fit for it at the moment. A day in the gardens will clear my head and ensure you have my full attention the next time we meet."

Dora lets more smoke curl out from her nostrils before she smiles, all sharp teeth and satisfaction. It's the kind of smile that promises she has already calculated five possible ways to test him and has decided to allow his answer to stand—for now. “I knew you would know how to handle the etiquette faster. I will accept it. Now, please—let us find you appropriate clothes to meet Mother Nature.”

Phantom groans and collapses back into his heap of pillows and blankets, his eldritch edges blurring until he looks more heap than monarch. The shift is almost comical—one moment he is all scales, green flame, and terrible gravity, the next he is sulking into the sheets like a teenager refusing to get up for school.

Dora’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, pupils narrowing again before she turns smoothly. Her footsteps are soundless as she approaches the adjoining door, the one that separates Phantom’s bedchamber from the dressing rooms beyond. She stops just short of it, spine straight as a spear, and inclines her head toward Tim.

“Consort,” she says, the word heavy with formality, “may I enter?”

The question is polite. The tone, however, makes it clear that she is not in the habit of asking permission from anyone but the King—and only because tradition demands it. Her eyes fix on Tim as if weighing his soul, smoke whispering from her nostrils with each slow exhale.

Behind them, Phantom makes a muffled noise into his pillow, something between ‘just kill me already’ and ‘please ignore her, she’ll talk herself to death eventually.’

Tim ignores him. Instead, he gives a short nod and crosses the room to follow after her. "You may. I would appreciate your help in finding something less... unwieldy than what Phantom gave me to wear yesterday." The words are more exasperation than criticism. He's starting to see what Lawrence meant about Phantom not understanding things.

Dora sweeps ahead of him into the dressing chamber, tall and regal, her claws clicking faintly against polished stone. She opens the vast wardrobe with a single pull and begins shifting through rich fabrics, humming a low tune under her breath that sounds more like an old battlefield song than anything sweet.

“You will want something that is not heavy,” she says, her voice floating back toward him as if she is addressing the room itself. “The Goddess’ garden is quite warm during this season. Something not too long, as cloth dragging will catch on the branches. Something regal for your first presentation… and something that cements your status as Temporary Consort.”

She turns her head slightly, one eye gleaming at him, sharp and assessing. “Lady Sam is Phantom’s oldest and closest friend. You must impress her if you want the support of the Spring nobility in court. She is also one of his Saviors. Her approval weighs heavily on him.”

Her claws finally still. She draws out three garments, each draped across her forearm like the weapons of a general. She turns and presents them with a predator’s smile.

“The training starts now, even if Phantom will not allow me to take you to the training chambers,” she says smoothly. “Which garment would best serve this moment? All three are good. But only one is right.”

Tim's smile is as knowing as it is tired. She reminds him of Bruce and Janet both and it makes what might otherwise be irritation turn into almost amused resignation. He steps closer to look at her choices, taking each garment from her arms, one by one, to examine each critically.

There is a cloak, shorter than the one he currently wears with red laces. He immediately dismisses it.

The second is a black dress shirt made of loose, flowing fabric. He holds it up to his body and determines that the hem of it would fall around his thighs.

The third is some kind of jacket. He flushes when he realizes it would leave a good portion of himself bare.

"The cloak features one of the old King's colors. The jacket, while breathable, is also revealing and while I do not know your fashion I am not quite ready to bare myself to the world. The shirt is similar to Phantom's color palate and short enough not to catch on anything. I choose that one."

Dora sighs in what can only be described as weariness. "The Tyrant King did love his reds." She passes him the shirt before putting the other two back into the closet again. "Do you need help getting ready or shall I leave you to it?"

"I should be able to manage. Thank you, Instructor of Consorts. I appreciate your time."

Her smile is sharp. "I chose you for a reason, Temporary Consort. Do not make me regret it." She sweeps out of the room then, closing the door gently behind her.

Tim exhales a sigh. He looks around the room wearily and then down at himself. He needs a shower.

A door materializes on the other wall as if answering his thoughts. He approaches cautiously and finds that it leads to his rooms. When he steps through and closes it, it disappears as if it was never there.

"Huh," he mutters.

Across the room he finds his bathroom behind another door, with what appears to be normal running water. There are human products inside, all in various languages. He turns on the shower and sniffs out his favorites before taking the first hot shower he's had in ages. The LoA didn't bother with heaters. The desert meant most of the water is lukewarm as is and Ra's didn't pamper his pet assassins.

It takes genuine effort not to linger. He washes quickly, examines his face critically in the mirror for any residual effects of his breakdown the day before and gets dressed. He finds sturdy boots and a pair of stockings waiting for him. Where they came from, he doesn't know. They're comfortable though, and the stockings give his skin some protection.

He hesitates at the door that joins his room to Phantom's, aware of just how much of a wreck he must seem after the night before. He'll have to apologize and prove that he is more than a weeping mess.

"Phantom?" He calls, stepping through the threshold gingerly.

No longer in his nest, Phantom stands in the center of the room like a statue left behind by some forgotten God. Shadows pool unnaturally around his figure, as if the stone floor itself has bent inward to cradle him. His eyes are closed, almost like he has fallen asleep standing there. But no—there is no rise or fall of breath, no shift of weight, nothing. It's as if he has gone so deep into thought that his body has become an anchor point, tethering something vast and endless far away.

The air feels heavier near him.

Tim reaches the edge of his shadows and—without warning—Phantom’s eyes snap open. For one dizzying heartbeat they are startlingly human: wide and blue, warm with a boyish confusion.

The moment shatters.

The blue flickers out like a candle flame, replaced with a slow, creeping bloom of green with no sclera and no pupil. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of glowing green eyes surface from the shadows around him, layered atop one another, crowding the shadows, spilling across the floor like dropped jewels.

Phantom’s gaze—or what passes for it—turns toward him. Multiple eyes blink open all at once, overlapping and folding in on themselves, as though the universe itself has turned to give him a once-over. One particularly bold eye opens directly in the stone by Tim’s boots and slides upward, crawling through the shadows with languid inevitability until it aligns with his face.

Tim doesn't flinch and he owes his training for that. He stands firm in the face of such an unsettling image and instead of horror finds himself weirdly flattered by just how much of Phantom's attention he seems to hold. He's never made someone's eyes literally fight to focus in on him first.

“Tim.” The word is not a word, but a chorus. A thousand voices layered over each other—high, low, whispering, roaring—yet every one of them nervous, stammering.

“You look…” the voices hesitate, as though conferring with themselves before reaching consensus. “Good. You look good.”

The shadows shift, curling like smoke around Tim’s outline, and every eye seems to narrow in on him at once.

“You feel nervous, though. Ashamed.” The voices soften, curious rather than accusing. “Is something the matter? Did Dora do something?”

Tim directs his gaze to the singular eye by his face and offers a grimacing smile.

"I want to apologize for my behavior last night. I'm not normally so... emotional. It's been a stressful few years and I did not intend to make you deal with it. I appreciate you asking the Instructor of Consorts to give me time to regain my composure and what little dignity I have left. If you have more important things to be doing, I would understand."

All but four of the eyes blink out at once, leaving them hovering on the vague outline of Phantom’s face. They don’t blink—just stare, uncomfortably steady, before tilting in unison as if the entity itself is cocking its head like a curious cat.

“I thought your behavior last night was… more than justified,” Phantom says, his voice soft but still threaded through with overlapping echoes, like a choir murmuring in a cavern. “You were placed in a situation of extreme duress and survived. Such conditions heighten mortal reactions. Your emotions were logical.”

He pauses, and the eyes narrow—not unkindly. It's as if they're trying to squint their way through a concept. “And we have important things to do. The Goddess of Nature’s Garden is expecting us. Unless you do not wish to spend your day there. Or with me.”

The phrasing is blunt, so guileless it almost comes across as insulting, but there is a strange sincerity under it. Phantom’s hands twitch at his sides, restless, as if he doesn't quite know what to do with them.

“In that case,” Phantom continues, “I can summon the Tailor of Kings to… occupy you. Or the Instructor of Consorts, if you would rather begin training. Or—” his voice dips oddly, as if he is unsure if this is the right suggestion, “you may remain in your chambers. The library is open to you. You have permission to go there.”

Another beat. The last four eyes hold fast to Tim as though his answer carries the weight of worlds.

It is mystifying. It has to be mystifying, because the only other word Tim can come up with is endearing and he isn't capable of dealing with what that particular revelation means about himself just yet.

It's also particularly strange to suddenly deal with a Phantom who seems cautious. Before Tim demanded a tailor and a library, Phantom never hesitated in laying a possessive touch to his body, or in teasing at his skin with shadow. The new behavior makes Tim wonder where they stand now.

"No. I know it's a bad idea to cancel on a Goddess." A small sad smile curls Tim's lips as he thinks back fondly on Cassie, even despite the hurt of her turning him away when he needed her the most. "I would like to accompany you."

"I would appreciate that too."

Phantom lifts his hand, and the shadows bend to his will. A portal rips itself open in the center of the room, edges hissing faintly as if the air itself objects to the sudden tear in reality. He reaches out to rest his palm against Tim’s back, long fingers spreading until it feels like he could curl them around his waist in one effortless motion if he wanted. The touch is steady, guiding, almost identical to how he had directed Tim through the cave the night before.

"Sam does await us," Phantom says, his tone measured, as if repeating instructions he’s practiced. "She can be prickly, so please do not feel discouraged by her spiky behavior."

It's so clearly meant to be a joke. Phantom seems pleased with himself for making it, the corner of his multiple mouths twitching like he has almost mastered humor.

Tim offers a soft sound of amusement and steps through the portal.

Immediately, his lungs fill with damp, fragrant air so fresh it nearly stings. The other side opens into a rain forest oasis, more alive than any place he's ever seen. Towering trees arch overhead, their canopies a cathedral of green. Vines loop down in glistening braids, heavy with flowers in impossible shades—cobalt blue, molten gold, soft violet that seem to shimmer if Tim tilts his head.

The underbrush is thick with bushes flowering in wild abundance, petals larger than his hand glowing faintly, as if some carry a light of their own. Rivers wind between the trees, their surfaces scattered with floating blossoms like living constellations. Birds with long, jeweled tails sweep past overhead, their calls weaving music into the air.

It's a dream given form, the kind of living paradise that might’ve tumbled straight from Ivy’s most extravagant fantasies. And yet, instead of being threatening, it feels… benevolent. Almost as if the garden knows it's being seen, and approves.

Phantom’s hand remains steady at his back, anchoring Tim as he guides him into the forest.

"Wow," Tim breathes, unable to contain his awe. He's been to all manner of places, including several planets, space and that one notable time where the universe almost broke and he saw several different realities. He's seen a lot of things, but he thinks this might be one of the most beautiful. He longs for his camera, shooting finger twitching for the familiar capture button.

"When Ra's said he was sending me to the Land of the Dead I figured there wouldn't be anything living," he admits. "But this is... incredible."

Phantom growls low at the mention of Ra’s, a rumble that vibrates through Tim’s ribs as he pulls him closer, protective in a way that is comforting and intimidating all at once. “Don’t mention him in my presence.”

The words come out sharp as a blade, but after a heartbeat, Phantom’s shoulders ease, though he doesn't loosen his hold. Instead, he keeps Tim pressed to his side, as though proximity alone steadies him.

Tim leans into his body almost unconsciously. The return of previous behavior is a relief; it tells him he hadn't ruined things last night.

After a moment in which he seems to ground himself, Phantom lets out a breath and lifts his head. His lips curve into something between a smirk and a smile, a flicker of pride cutting through the earlier edge. “The Land of the Dead is not a wasteland,” he tells him, voice carrying warmth and gravity in equal measure. “It is a kingdom. Life and death are not enemies here—they are threads in the same tapestry.”

His hand spreads a little wider at Tim’s back, fingers flexing once, deliberately; a grounding touch. “The plants you see here are all extinct. Gone from the mortal plane, yes—but here? They remain. Death is not the end. It is continuity.”

And indeed, the rain forest shimmers around them, a dreamscape of impossibility. Pale orchids glow like lanterns beneath the canopy. Trees tower; their leaves a silver-green that catches ghostlight instead of sunlight. Vines cascade down in shimmering waves, coiling and unfurling as if alive with their own will. Strange flowers burst open in slow motion, as though the forest itself is breathing.

The air is heavy with fragrance—jasmine and loam, rain and ozone. Somewhere in the distance, water trickles like laughter. It is lush, alien, and achingly beautiful; a place that feels eternal.

Not far ahead, the soil shifts. A figure rises seamlessly from the ground, her body woven of bark and branches, her skin a lattice of polished wood shot through with veins of green fire. Her hair falls in a cascade of foliage so dark it borders on black, the leaves shivering though there is no breeze. She carries herself with the lazy confidence of someone rooted in the land itself, every step echoing like roots splitting stone.

Phantom’s entire frame vibrates with something close to a purr. “Sam.”

“Phantom!” she greets, her voice crisp as crushed leaves, tone fond and exasperated all at once. “It’s been a while, you absolute disaster of a man.”

Then her gaze shifts, and the flowers that make up her eyes turn toward Tim. Their petals dilate, sharpening focus, and her mouth curls into a thorny grin.

“Is this the Temporary Consort who dared to fuck you the second he met you?” she asks, voice lilting with scornful amusement. Her head tilts, leaves brushing against her shoulders. “Huh. Thought he’d be taller.”

If she expects him to be insulted, she is left disappointed. Tim lets out a soft laugh before he can help it, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners in his amusement. "I've been called worse," he admits easily, before bowing his head low. He doesn't know the customs here yet, but he saw the way everyone bowed to Phantom. He isn't sure where he falls as far as status goes but regardless of whether he is not meant to lower himself, he knows this decision is the right one. "Greetings, Goddess of Nature. I have heard many great things about you already in my short time of being here and I am honored to be allowed to see your gardens. They are... Well, words do not do them justice. I would be honored if you would call me Tim."

His eyes are bright as he lifts his head once more, eyes shining with the curiosity that has haunted him since he was a little boy.

"I know someone from my world who would kill to meet you, were she aware of your existence."

Both Phantom and the Goddess of Nature freeze at Tim’s small action. Her eyes—those strange blossoms that bloom where pupils should be—remain fixed on him, while Phantom’s shadows ripple as a dozen more eyes blink open, all staring in astonishment.

Then she turns back to Phantom, her entire form thrumming with sudden excitement, leaves trembling like laughter. “Like him. How much for him?”

Tim's breath catches in his throat. For the first time, it occurs to him that Phantom can give away his soul. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t considered it until now—of course souls can trade hands. He knows of the Hells; souls are basically currency there.

The thought of being given away like livestock terrifies him.

He steps back away from her, moving further into Phantom's shadows even before they move to protect him. He doesn't know what it would mean to belong to the Goddess of Nature but he knows he doesn't want it. As stupid as it is, he wants to stay where he is, where he's starting to find his footing and make tentative friends. He wants to learn more about the strange being that has named him Temporary Consort and why he's so kind.

Beside him, Phantom bristles instantly. “No.”

She steps forward, branches creaking with the motion. “You’ve given me others before. Come on, name your price.”

“I don’t share.” His voice is sharper now, edged with static. He pulls Tim closer, until he's half-hidden against Phantom’s chest. Tim allows it and grips him like a child trying to keep their favorite teddy bear after being told they're too old for it.

“I can give you Kryptonians,” she presses, smiling like vines winding toward sunlight. “Didn’t you want Kryptonians? A whole race—it seems fair.”

“He is mine.” The words rumble out in something deeper than speech. His shadows curl protectively around Tim while their edges sharpen into jagged spikes aimed squarely at her. The growl that follows isn’t human—it's the sound of something ancient baring its teeth.

Unfazed, she leans in closer, her foliage shifting with eagerness. “What about your own forest? Know you always wanted one in the library gardens. Could make it grow—make Haunt beautiful.”

“BACK. OFF. SAMANTHA.” Phantom’s snarl rips through the air, the force of it rattling the ground. Three ghostly arms wrap around Tim, hauling him firmly against his chest and off the ground as if daring her to try again.

For the first time, she pauses. Then she huffs, leafy hair shaking as if in a breeze, and steps back with a pout. “Fine. Keep human, stupid ghost boy.”

The words deflate the moment. Phantom’s shadows ease, the dangerous spikes withdrawing, though his hold on Tim remains fierce.

Calm and apparently in good spirits again, she turns her back on them and starts to glide into the forest as if nothing insurmountable has just occurred. "Come, I'll give you both a tour."

Tim does not share her sentiment.

He's breathing hard and shaking minutely. He hates himself for the weakness, hates that he is so powerless. But more than anything, he hates Ra's Al Ghul for putting him in this position in the first place.

He closes his eyes and ignores his pride. He ignores his mother's voice in his head, screaming to get himself together. He has no leverage and no real power here yet. This is his only choice.

"Please," he whispers, forehead pressed to Phantom's shoulder. "I'll make another deal, I'll give you more years, just don't—don't give my soul away to anyone else."

“Not giving you away. Never giving you away,” Phantom growls, voice rough with static. He lowers his head until his crown of shadows brushes Tim’s hair. He rubs his cheek against him with a low, vibrating purr meant to soothe.

Frowning at the two of them, the Goddess of Nature finally turns away, foliage rustling with her disappointed huff.

Phantom’s growl follows her retreat.

“Stupid high-king killer… thinks she can take my Consort. You're mine. I’ll tear her garden apart if she so much as lays a finger on you. She can try to kill me as many times as she wants, she won't succeed in taking mine.”

His purring deepens, a thrumming tide that tries to steady Tim’s heartbeat, while his many arms curl him close—holding, hugging, caging him in warmth and shadow. Yet, still those bright green eyes track the Goddess’ every step until the forest itself parts, opening a path for her departure.

Tim shudders. It should feel suffocating surely, being held so tightly by so many arms, but instead it feels safe. Then again, Dick used to joke that nothing about Tim is normal. He thinks this entire situation is probably proof of that.

He forces himself through one of the breathing exercises B ingrained in him. Phantom's touch, the resonate overlay of his voice, the way his chest vibrates, it all helps to ground him. Cats purr to self soothe and comfort others, Tim remembers. Is that what Phantom is doing?

...Tim's always wanted a cat.

He lifts his head to look up into Phantom's face. It's close, due to the way he's folded in on himself to hold Tim. Their faces are only inches away, those green eyes glowing faintly.

"I need your word," Tim says hoarsely. "I need—" His breath shudders in his chest; his fingers tighten their grip as he grimaces as if in pain. "Please."

Phantom’s purring deepens until it shakes through every shadow coiled around him, wrapping him up in a cage of warmth and possession. Two hands cup his face with almost reverent care, tilting it upward, while others roam greedily—tangling in his hair, stroking his sides, mapping every inch of exposed skin like he can’t bear to leave any part of him untouched.

A guttural growl reverberates low in Phantom’s throat, primal and certain. “Promise… my Consort. Only mine. Your soul is mine. I will never give you away.”

The words are like a chain settling around both their wrists; the forest shivers and sighs with recognition before falling still once more.

Then his mouth is on Tim’s, crushing, hungry. The kiss breaks past every boundary. Phantom’s tongue thrusts forward, long and insistent, sliding into Tim's mouth with a heat that sears. It presses past his lips; deeper and deeper, filling his mouth, curling into his throat with a claiming intimacy that is both suffocating and intoxicating. Warm and slick, it moves against him in deliberate strokes, possessive and unrelenting, as if Phantom is trying to root himself inside him through the kiss alone. Every caress of shadows only heightens the sensation, holding Tim in place while the Ghost King devours him whole.

Tim shakes under the attention, overwhelmed by Phantom's onslaught of affection. It hurts to be wanted so blatantly after years of always being ignored and forgotten. The aching, lonely thing in his chest cries out where have you been?

His knees would send him to the floor if Phantom wasn't already clutching him to his chest. One set of hands wraps around the backs of his knees while another supports his thighs, lifting him further into the air and holding him tight to Phantom's body. Tim wraps his legs around him on reflex, though instead of hips he finds himself higher, closer to his chest. His hands clutch at Phantom's wrists, following his arms down to clutch at his shoulders for support.

His head is dizzy, both from lack of air and from the sheer proof of Phantom's want. He threatens to choke on the tongue down his throat as the angle shifts, as he is made taller than Phantom, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his chest heaves once before simply giving in. His noises are eaten by shadows and mouth alike; involuntary tears roll down his cheeks before they're wiped away by one of many gentle claws.

He is drowning and finds that he has no desire to reach for a life raft.

After what feels like hours—but is most likely no more than a few minutes—Phantom finally relents. His tongue withdraws with a slow, deliberate drag, leaving Tim’s lips wet, swollen, and aching from the relentless claim.

Tim immediately gasps for air. He coughs once, twice, face flushed from both lack of oxygen and sheer surprise. His eyes stay closed as Phantom uses the same inhuman length of his tongue to lap at his cheeks, gathering the salt of his tears up with languid strokes. Each motion is tender, almost feline; each content little purr vibrating through Tim’s body where they're pressed together. Gone is the aggravated edge; these purrs are soft, pleased, indulgent—like a predator that has finally caught what it's been craving and now has no intention of letting it go.

Phantom’s many arms remain curled around Tim, not in aggression but in shelter—an unyielding cocoon of strength and shadow meant only for him. He can breathe again, but only because Phantom permits it.

And then—because the universe clearly has no sense of timing—the bark of a nearby tree groans, splitting just enough for a face to emerge. From the twisting arc of its trunk, Sam’s sharp green eyes and scowling mouth take shape, her expression dripping with exasperation.

“Have you finished fucking your Consort?” she snaps, voice as dry as rustling leaves. “Because I would very much like to show him the plants now.”

Phantom stills, green eyes narrowing in faint irritation, then slowly, deliberately, he sticks out his tongue in her direction—long, obscene, and still glistening. A low, mischievous rumble comes from his chest as he tucks Tim tighter against him, arms drawing in close like he's sealing a treasure away.

She scowls even harder, bark crinkling into a frown. She mimics the gesture, sticking out her own tongue with the same childish defiance, before the wood creaks, swallowing her visage back into the tree’s trunk.

Phantom makes a smug sound, brushing his cheek against Tim’s damp one again. He was not giving up his prize—not now, not ever.

"You—" Tim finally opens his eyes to find dozens of Phantom's focused up on him, watching avidly, as if he is the most interesting thing they've ever seen. He flushes darker. He is suddenly aware of just how achingly hard he is; he thinks, with horrified embarrassment, that he might have orgasmed from Phantom's hands and mouth alone if he hadn't stopped.

How do you look away when the being before you can have as many eyes as he wants? The answer is you can't.

Tim tries again, using all his control not to arch into touch like a cat. "You've got to stop with the—hands. I can't concentrate."

Phantom’s eyes seem to tilt, like a head cocked in silent amusement; watching, waiting. His voice rumbles low, vibrating through Tim’s ribs.

“Do you wish to be put down?” he asks, deceptively gentle.

The question should be merciful, but every syllable is wrapped tight, cloying and impossible to slip from.

The hands stop moving, no longer stroking his hair, tracing his sides, caressing the soft skin under his borrowed shirt. Now they only hold him—everywhere at once. The weight of their stillness presses into Tim’s nerves like shackles. He can feel them at his back, his waist, the bend of his knees, his thighs, like Phantom can't bear to let go but can't decide which part of him to claim first.

It isn't fair, Tim thinks. It isn't fair that Phantom can be so obviously inhuman and yet still make Tim want him. It is especially unfair that he's all too aware that Phantom can sense this. Can he see how touch starved Tim is? Can he read the desperate words etched into his heart? Hear the wailing voice that says please, just a little longer, don't go—

“Do you need help?” he asks, quieter, though no less intent. Half of his eyes fix unwaveringly on Tim’s face. The rest—far too many—drop, sharp and consuming, toward the heat pressing against both the fabric of Tim's make-shift dress and Phantom's chest.

Tim, still lifted and held in place by all his hands, shudders from the pure weight of those eyes.

He's used to being a living ghost. He is frequently ignored and forgotten; that is just how he's learned things work. He takes the spotlight when no one else wants it and then slips into the shadows like a tool put away until its next use. He is not used to being seen; not by something other than cameras or enemies looking for weaknesses.

When Phantom looks at him like this, it doesn't feel like he's wearing clothes. It doesn't even feel like he's wearing skin. It's as if Phantom is looking right into the center of him, at his—well. At his soul. The fact that he seems to like what he sees is astounding. Horrifyingly baring. Embarrassing.

Tim has to resist the urge to hide behind his hands like a child.

"Do you want to help?" He counters weakly. "Or are you just enjoying embarrassing me?"

Phantom’s many eyes blink all at once—unnerving, synchronized—and then a mouth appears where shadow should be. It stretches wide; glowing green and curling into something that can only be described as a smirk.

“Both,” he intones with a disturbingly playful lilt before leaning forward, hauling Tim closer, his legs nearly thrown over Phantom's shoulders. His face presses against Tim’s stomach, nuzzling in, a deep rumble vibrating through flesh and fabric alike.

“Frostbite said… be mindful of human humanity. To remember what it feels… to be human.” His words are halting, stripped down, as if meaning itself is difficult to hold onto. Each syllable grows simpler the more insistently he buries himself against Tim’s belly, cold breath puffing over sensitive skin.

“I don’t remember,” he admits in a low huff. “I ask.”

Another exhale. Another purr pressed into Tim’s hips.

“Humans like touch,” Phantom murmurs, “but you feel nervous. Feel… ashamed.” His claws flex, careful, trembling on the edge of restraint. “I can give touch. I can help. Let me help?”

Part of Tim's heart breaks for this strange, lost creature, who speaks like he was once human but has forgotten who he was. He remembers Lawrence's words, about how Phantom used to appear human, and then thinks back to the warmth he'd felt the night before and the voice that had sounded singular and all too mortal.

He threads careful fingers into the shadows that drift off of Phantom's head. They act almost like hair, so he treats them like it, stroking gently.

"I'm not ashamed because of you," he says quietly, insistently. "I'm not... most of my life, I've grown up suppressing my emotions. It's what I was taught. And now I'm here and apparently everyone can tell how I feel, regardless of how I act and look on the outside.

I'm a liar, Phantom," he confesses, feeling the weight of the confession leave his shoulders, "I'm known as the Robin Who Can Lie to Batman. I know that that doesn't mean anything to you but—it means I'm good at it. Or was. Now I have to... deal with my emotions. Because other people see me. And that terrifies me."

He tugs gently on Phantom's hair, lifting his head up so he can look down at that face of watching eyes. He runs a careful finger under one of them and swallows.

"It scares me, thinking of what you must see when you look at me. I don't understand why you would want me, seeing all you do. But I... I want to be selfish. I want to let you touch me."

Most eyes disappear, as if responding to Tim's words. Only the one under Tim's finger remains, as well as its twin. It gives Phantom's face an appearance almost human, as there are now two eyes in the general area of where eyes are normally found and a maw opening slowly to let his long tongue out.

"Soul is beautiful," Phantom murmurs, as two hands pull Tim's borrowed shirt up around his hips. "Blue."

He leans forward once more to press his tongue against the soft skin of Tim's belly. Tim's breath hitches when it traces over his splenectomy scar; a scar now made obsolete, due to Frostbite's healing. It's still sensitive in its newness, nerves not quite settled. Phantom growls lowly at its existence before he travels lower.

His tongue traces over the bone of Tim's hip before it pushes against the top of his underwear and slides beneath the fabric. It moves slowly, almost waiting for Tim to call a stop to the whole thing. It's so different from how sure Phantom was that first night that Tim isn't sure what to say to reassure him.

Hands have gone back to holding him. Restraining him from moving too strongly; keeping him safe and contained within Phantom's embrace. The ones at Tim's forearms squeeze a little; the ones at his hips are definitely leaving fingerprints with how hard he's being gripped. Tim, who has always loved the bruises given through passion, moans and shifts his hips just to feel those long fingers tighten and adjust.

Phantom's tongue curls, far more flexible than it should be and leaves a wet trail up the length of his dick, causing Tim to jerk in his grip.

"Oh!" he gasps, hands fumbling to get at the band of his boxers. "Wait, I need to—these are the only clothes I have with me."

Phantom withdraws; Tim's stomach goes hot as he watches the impossible length of that tongue disappear back into his mouth. Something like a question rumbles in Phantom's throat when he catches Tim looking; Tim flushes and turns back to his task.

Phantom's hands help him pull his briefs down. He seems to lose patience with the stockings and rips right through them with a claw, leaving a hole that bares him from his ass to his inner thighs; Tim gasps, pupils blown wide at the simple show of deadly precision.

He's pulled back in as that tongue returns to wind around his arousal. It ripples over him like a snake and Tim tugs at Phantom's hair with a loud moan, hips bucking before he can help it.

More clawed hands join the fray, sliding up Tim's thighs to grip his ass. A knuckle brushes against his entrance, whether on purpose or not and he whimpers, suddenly struck with thoughts of Phantom's cock stretching him wide. He took Kon once, and he was huge by human standards. Maybe Tim could—it would take time but—maybe he could ask Lawrence, or the Instructor of Consorts? Surely there are toys in the Ghost Realm. If he could get something to practice with…

"Excited," Phantom rumbles. "What?"

Tim blushes so hard it reaches his chest. Hands chase after the color, stroking over his collarbone before dipping lower to run over his nipples; Tim bites his lip and arches into the touch.

"Just thinking," he gasps out, as Phantom's tongue ripples up his length.

"About?"

"I—oh fu—" Tim nearly bends double when claws pluck at his nipples at the same time that Phantom turns his head to bite marks into his inner thigh. The hands on his body tighten, keeping him in place.

"Tim," Phantom says insistently, eyes glowing bright from between his legs. "About?"

"You!" He gasps out, hips twitching with how close he already is. His eyes nearly cross when Phantom presses a knuckle up against his perineum and rolls the pressure. "I just—I was—I'm close! Please!"

His tongue lets up; his knuckle eases back despite Tim's desperate sob. "Tell."

Tim tries to throw a hand over his face only for it to be caught; his fingers tangle with clawed ones. He's not allowed to hide from this.

"I was thinking about you inside me," Tim confesses, words heavy with defeat. "And how I could make it happen."

Phantom purrs, so loud it feels like distant thunder. It vibrates his tongue and has Tim sobbing out a moan, eyes slamming closed as his mouth drops open. That knuckle is back, rocking against his perineum before sliding further back to press to his entrance. Tim comes like that, to just the ghost of pressure and Phantom's tongue wound around him.

"Good," Phantom rumbles, as he licks Tim clean. "Good Consort. Mine."

Tim is dimly aware of being lowered onto a flat surface. He thinks it might be the forest floor but he doesn't feel any leaves or sticks poking into him; just the familiar kiss of shadows. At some point, a pair of hands pull his shirt over his head as Phantom leans down. He catches Tim's ankles in a hand and pulls him closer, until he can rest Tim's legs against his chest.

It takes him a second to open his eyes and register the world around him; by that time Phantom is holding his thighs together and pressing his cock into the tight space between them. He looms over him, wreathed in shadows with eyes glowing so bright they light up the space around them.

When he slides forward he brushes over Tim's cock, making him twitch with overstimulation.

"Can't break you. Promised. Safe here." Phantom sighs, eyes slitting with pleasure as he gives a testing rock of his hips; Tim's entire body moves along with him. "Too small. But like this…" He gives another thrust, harder this time, using Tim's body like a toy. He grins wide at Tim's answering moan. "Compromise."

He sounds far too victorious, almost like a child, but there is nothing childish about what he does next.

Tim is helpless to do anything but hang on to the hands offered to him as he is jerked back and forth by Phantom's powerful thrusts. The drag of their skin together has his cock stirring again in interest. It has to be magic, how ready he is to go again. Tim is young but he's not that young.

And then Phantom practically folds him in half and leans down to purr right into his ear, "Would fill you up. Keep you in my nest until you're full of me. Until everyone can smell that you're mine. No one would dare ask to take you then."

Tim goes shivery and weak all over.

"Mine," he breathes, like an order, like a prayer, teeth nipping at Tim's neck and shoulders, leaving behind bruises in the shape of his teeth. "Mine, mine, mine—"

Tim comes to that chant in his ear and Phantom follows shortly after, painting Tim's stomach and chest in his spend. The amount is just as much as last time; it drips off of him and into the shadows, painting his skin a pale sheen of green.

Phantom finally lets Tim’s legs slip down to the shadowed floor. One clawed hand slides deliberately over Tim’s stomach, spreading the mess across the flushed skin of his back as well. The motion isn't hurried—it's ritualistic, almost reverent. A deep, satisfied rumble reverberates out through his chest, vibrating against Tim's body like a purr with teeth.

Claws trail upward, teasing at the peaks of Tim’s nipples just to savor the way his Consort shivers; just to watch him squirm and swat weakly at hands that are too many, too persistent, too unwilling to leave him untouched.

Phantom’s eyes glimmer with unearthly satisfaction. He has fed, he has given, he has marked. His Consort is pleased. Dora cannot lecture him for this—not when the bond is honored and fulfilled—and Sam… Sam will surely understand her boundaries now.

When at last he is satisfied with how much of himself he has managed to soak into Tim’s skin, Phantom bends low and laps up the excess with a long, slow drag of his tongue. His care is almost practical, as though he wishes to spare Tim the discomfort of stickiness, though the sound he makes while swallowing betrays a far darker satisfaction.

Shadows peel away from him in sheets, like mist torn from the night. They curl outward and reform into what can only be described as a cape of stars—each pinprick of light is scattered in the folds like a sky gathered into cloth. Phantom holds it out towards Tim with all the ceremony of a knight offering treasure.

“For you,” he murmurs, voice rich with static, thrumming with want. “Wear it. Or clean yourself. Or—” his grin splits wide, full of teeth and too much delight— “wear it and clean yourself.”

He doesn't wait for an answer before crowding closer again, unable to resist the gravitational pull of his Consort. His hands—too many hands—remain restless, brushing Tim’s hair back, cupping his jaw, circling over his hip, his thigh, his ribs. Never still. Never sated.

“Do you wish to explore the garden still?” he asks, though his focus is entirely on Tim. Then, as if the thought has just occurred to him, Phantom’s eyes narrow, a dozen of them glittering sharp. “I can tell the goddess to fuck off.”

The words should be crude. They come out like a purr, possessive and promising, as if nothing in the world—or beyond it—can stand between him and Tim’s next desire.

Tim does his best to breathe.

It's—a lot, all at once and his head is still spinning, legs still shaky. He's not used to this much attention and touch.

He pushes gently at Phantom's chest, careful to keep his voice soft so that it's clear he's not rejecting him. Just asking for a moment.

"Humans need to breathe," he reminds lightly, "and I can't get dressed when you're touching me everywhere.

Don't think I don't know what you're doing with the marking, either. You said people would be able to smell you. How much of an insult did I just participate in, having sex with you in the Goddess of Nature's garden?"

Phantom’s laugh is low, pleased, curling around Tim like smoke. “Sam can’t complain. She killed me twice—I get to fuck in her garden.” His words are unrepentant, though his hands finally withdraw, shadows slipping off Tim’s skin like silk.

Dozens of eyes linger, unblinking, drinking him in. Some fix on his face, soft and indulgent, while others trail over his bare chest, his thighs, the mess Phantom has rubbed into his skin.

He tilts what could be called his head, a grin stretching across the shifting shadows. “Besides… she grows flowers. I grow stars. If she didn’t want them to watch, she should’ve closed her petals.”

Phantom spreads his hands—or perhaps his shadows—wide, offering Tim the cape of starlight once again, though his voice drops low with mock solemnity. “As for insult? You are my Consort for the time being. You are above her. You are above everyone. Let her smell it. Let them all smell it. They’ll know you're mine.”

The last words rumble with dangerous satisfaction, though his gaze softens immediately; a clawed finger brushes against Tim’s cheek. “But breathe, little human. Dress. I’ll wait.”

Tim can't help the way he leans into that touch, cheek turning to press into it like a cat, even despite his previous words. It's been so long since someone has touched him kindly.

"I have so many questions," he mutters, taking the cape from Phantom's hands at last. It's beautiful, magical, and he can't bring himself to dirty it. Instead he sacrifices his boxers to scrub at the come still on his skin, grumbling all the while about "it not being sexy when it starts cracking off his skin like a bad paint job."

Finally, he dresses—sans the underwear—and finds himself at a loss as to what to do with the dirty cloth. A shadow takes it before he can open his mouth, vanishing it into the darkness as if it never was. He wraps Phantom's cape around himself next, relaxing into the familiar almost-chill he's starting to associate with Phantom's influence.

He looks up then, taking in a deep breath as he meets Phantom's many eyes. He's starting to think privacy is going to be a hard won thing outside of his room; good thing he's had most modesty trained out of him.

"Thank you," he says, gesturing to the cape. He takes a half step forward before his eyes narrow as a thought occurs to him. "Wait, if you could do that from the beginning why did I wear that awful cloak to Court?"

Phantom tilts his head, eyes blinking out of sync, confusion radiating from every angle. What comes next is said with the certainty of someone pointing out the sky is blue, utterly baffled that Tim would think otherwise.“What awful cloak? It was mine. You looked beautiful wearing mine.”

A hand presses lightly to Tim’s lower back, steadying, guiding. The garden seems to shift in response, vines curling aside and blossoms bowing open as though welcoming them deeper. The path unfurls ahead of them in a slow, deliberate reveal, each flower exhaling scents too rich to be natural, daring them to touch.

"I looked like a child playing dress up with the King's clothes!" Tim says hotly. "None of your Council could even pretend to take me seriously!" He huffs, crossing his arms even as he allows himself to be guided. "You might think I look good in your clothes but the rest of the world certainly doesn't."

Still, it softens something in him to know that it wasn't a deliberate sabotage on Phantom's part.

"...if you like it so much, maybe I can wear them when we're in your rooms. But not outside, where people can see, unless it's something reasonable like this. I'm going to have a hard enough time fixing my image as is."

Phantom’s many eyes glitter, and his smile multiplies, appearing all over his face, split wide, fangs glinting. “In my Haunt, I want you naked,” he purrs, bending to say the words warm against Tim’s ear, “but wearing mine is a good compromise.”

Tim flushes hotly. He shoots Phantom a glare, despite the smile trying to break through his facade. "You're not charming, you know." He informs him, even as he lets himself be guided through the forest.

Chapter Text

The garden shifts around them. Lush greenery sinks into shadow, bright blossoms curl in on themselves. Vines thicken — barbed and heavy — their flowers black as ink. Skulls gleam faintly where stone lanterns once stood, and the air is perfumed with the sweetness of rot.

Tim isn’t sure if this is meant as a threat display. If it is, he isn’t intimidated — not after Phantom held him like a jealous child refusing to share his favorite toy and promised not to give anyone else his soul.

The knowledge that he outranks her sits heavy at the back of his mind. He can pull rank if she becomes difficult — but does he want to? She matters to Phantom, clearly, and alienating Phantom’s people will not endear him to anyone.

He marks it as a last resort. He will avoid it at all costs.

Phantom’s hand stays steady on Tim’s back as he guides him across the threshold. The change feels like stepping into another world — or another graveyard — except this one pulses with life. Dangerous, predatory life.

At the center of it all, Sam sits with regal poise before a low spread of fruits and goblets, draped in vines as if the garden itself dresses her. Her expression hovers between amusement and irritation, her lips twitching with a smirk she hasn’t quite allowed.

“You took your time,” she drawls, eyes sliding from Tim’s face to Phantom’s utterly unrepentant grin. “He smells like you.”

“I fucked him in your garden,” Phantom replies without a beat, voice smug enough to curdle milk. He nudges Tim onto a seat beside him and flops down with the indolent sprawl of someone who has never once cared about propriety.

Sam arches a brow. Vines curl tighter around her wrists, like living bangles. “Rude.”

“Deal with it,” He shoots back, already reaching for something from the spread. His claws pluck up a small, shining fruit — red and perfect, like a jewel. He holds it out to Tim with mock innocence. “Apple.”

Tim accepts the offering with a dry, “Thank you,” and raises a brow when they simply stare. He takes a deliberate bite. Chews. Swallows.

Phantom practically beams. Tim resists the urge to pat him like an excitable dog. He lifts the fruit for a second bite just to see if the shadows will start wagging, but the garden shifts again.

He sets the apple down and looks up at Sam as she leans toward them, chin in her palm, her stare sharp enough to pry bone apart. The garden stirs around her, vines tightening, black flowers unfurling like carnivorous mouths.

“So,” she says at last, voice smooth as a noose pulling tight, “Temporary Consort. Tell me — are you a monsterfucker?”

Of all the interrogations he expects, that is not one of them. Maybe that is why it lands so directly in his sternum.

He barks a laugh before he can stop it — sudden, sharp enough that his shoulders tense, bracing for the familiar spike of pain. His vocal cords are supposed to be ruined — laughter used to mean knives. Except Frostbite healed everything broken in his body.

He didn’t heal his mind.

Tim’s hand flies to his throat as if he can shove the reaction back down. He clamps his jaw shut and bites his tongue until he tastes metal just to stave it off. He hasn’t had one of these since before Bruce disappeared — why now?

The apple rolls away as his other hand flies up to join the first. Laughter tears out of him like a faucet turned to full — not joyful, not ever. It is the sound of an animal caught in a trap, aware of its own imminent death. He has heard it before. It sounds like screaming more than laughing, which he always thought was a kind of poetic spite from the universe.

He can’t stop it. He can only ride it out. Can only fight to breathe through it with two people who have no idea what is happening to him.

They both panic.

“Hey, hey! Stop! Look! Flowers!” Sam blurts, snapping her hands out. Blossoms detonate from the ground in frantic waves, vines and petals blooming desperately as if beauty can smother a nervous system in revolt.

Phantom whirls on her, every single one of his eyes blazing. “You hurt my human!”

“I didn’t!” she cries, her own distress thick and trembling. It only makes him snarl.

His shadows flare outward before collapsing in close. He seizes Tim’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze. Blue eyes—glassy with tears—lock on to star-speckled green.

And then Phantom sees.

Just a glimpse, a surface-level memory that tears through him: Tim, staring into a mirror while he laughs that same broken laugh. His face is painted white, his hair dyed a grotesque shade of green. His mouth is slashed into a Joker’s grin with red lipstick and nasty jagged cuts. Behind him looms a man dressed the same way, a gas mask dripping pink vapor in his hands as he rasps out a name: Junior.

Phantom recoils, shadows rippling violently before he drags Tim forward, crushing him to his chest. He wraps around him in a cocoon of darkness, voice breaking into a guttural growl. The air splits with a soundless crack, and space itself bends. He tears open a doorway, ripping them away from the garden and the Goddess’s desperate cries.

They fall into silence.

The lush sounds of nature are gone, replaced with the suffocating quiet of Phantom’s Haunt. Shadows still press close, curling protectively around Tim as if daring the world to touch him again. Phantom holds him hard to his chest, not purring for once, but humming. A strange, fragile thing—human, low, a half-forgotten lullaby. The sound rumbles through Tim’s bones, soft where Phantom’s arms are iron.

For what feels like an eternity, Tim is stuck laugh-sob-screaming. It is comforting that it is in the dark, where none but Phantom can bear witness.

The first time he registers the hum, he tenses, expecting Harley’s voice to follow. When it doesn’t, he listens hesitantly between the waves, doing his best to focus on Phantom instead of the attack. Eventually, he manages to stop, voice hoarse and cheeks wet with tears.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he says, weak and barely there.

Phantom’s humming tapers off, the last note unraveling into silence. When he answers, it isn’t with one voice but with all of them—a thousand overlapping tones and volumes, whispers and roars, soft choruses woven into distorted echoes that scrape against the edges of sanity.

“Meeting who?” the chorus asks. “It is only you. Only me.”

The shadows loosen at last, retreating like an ocean tide. What they reveal is not the garden, nor Phantom’s room, but a vast hall.

Rows upon rows of shelves climb impossibly high, spiraling upward into darkness pierced through by stars. Tall arches cradle the room, their pillars carved into faces—some serene, some grimacing, some so lifelike they seem to breathe. The light is strange, a cold shimmer as if the Milky Way itself has spilled across the ceiling, casting galaxies in place of chandeliers. The space hums with quiet, as though every book pressed against its bindings is whispering knowledge meant only for the dead.

Phantom does not set him down. His arms lock tight around Tim, as though letting go might mean losing him back to that memory. The starfire in his eyes flickers low, almost pleading, even beneath the distortion of a thousand voices.

“You better?” he asks at last.

And beneath it all—under the thunder and the chorus, the echo of worlds ending—there is one note, quiet and trembling, unmistakably human. Deeply concerned.

Tim doesn’t fight it when a second pair of arms catches him behind the knees, scooping him up and pulling him fully into Phantom’s embrace.

“Define ‘better’,” he says, before sighing. Phantom doesn’t deserve his bitterness. “I’m okay now. I don’t really get attacks that often anymore—I was just taken by surprise. I did say I’m used to mad men trying to drive me insane, remember?”

Again, the humor falls flat. He blinks tiredly at their surroundings without really seeing anything, head leaned against Phantom’s chest.

“…where are we?”

“My Haunt,” Phantom answers. His thousand voices roll together like surf on a distant shore, but the cadence is deliberately soft, careful, as if too much sound might crush the fragile quiet between them.

Tim’s breath catches in his chest, but this time it’s in awe instead of panic.

Phantom moves slowly through the library, as if letting him soak it in, a quiet sound that is faint against the marble floor. The shadows bend aside with each stride, parting like respectful attendants until they reach what might pass for a sitting area. It’s strangely familiar—an echo of Phantom’s bed in his normal room—but stretched into something older, grander.

A wide nest of pillows and blankets lays pooled beneath two tall windows that arch like cathedral glass, except instead of stained panes, the cosmos spill through—nebulae drifting lazily, stars winking close enough to touch. Beside it stands an old brass telescope, greened in places with age. Its tripod is buried in a scatter of paper, charts littering the floor in every direction. Each one is hand-painted, constellations joined with careful lines, taped together into a sprawling map that reaches across half the room before abruptly stopping mid-pattern, like someone has abandoned the work mid-thought.

“The door there leads to your room,” Phantom says casually, pointing toward a carved archway where another door rests closed.

Then, with infinite care, he sinks down onto the mass of pillows and blankets, never loosening his grip. As though setting Tim anywhere but against his chest is still unthinkable.

“You give me access to your Haunt?” Tim finally breathes, eyes wide with wonder. He doesn’t know much, but he knows what Lawrence has told him. From what he understands, Haunts are a big deal. For Phantom to allow him access… Tim doesn’t know what it means exactly, he only knows the weight of that decision is not lost on him.

His eyes flicker from place to place as he becomes more alert, cataloging what his human eyes can see from Phantom's lap.

"It's beautiful."

“You need a safe place,” Phantom says quietly. His hand ghosts over Tim’s hair, carding gently through before settling into a slow, absent petting motion. The touch is tentative, like he isn’t sure if he's allowed to do it, but can’t stop himself either.

“You can’t—” he hesitates, his many voices stumbling over one another until they tangle. “You can’t create a Haunt to be safe.” His words come out clipped and rough, almost brittle, but the texture is more shy than sharp. “So… I give you mine. My Haunt. To be safe.”

He shifts just enough for Tim to feel the deliberate looseness of his hold. A careful invitation: you can leave if you want. But at the same time, Phantom’s hand never leaves him, the steady rhythm of touch anchoring Tim in place. A promise: you don’t have to go.

“No one can enter here,” Phantom murmurs. The words have the weight of law, not reassurance, like he is reciting a truth carved into the bones of the universe. His thousand eyes fix on Tim, all of them patient, unblinking, unyielding. “No one can touch you here.” He pauses, and softer, almost pleading, adds: “You are safe here.”

Tim lets the truth of that settle around his shoulders like the cape Phantom made him. He feels suddenly stupid for being afraid of his room not having any doors to the outer hall; he can see now that Phantom placing the only exit in his own room is a way to protect him, not trap.

He doesn’t know how to return the gesture. What can he give this being that he doesn’t already have?

Tim’s hands lift slowly, carefully, giving Phantom’s eyes a chance to move out of the way before he cups his face between his palms; then he lifts himself up to press a sweet kiss to where Phantom’s mouth hides in the darkness.

“No one’s done that for me before,” he admits, forehead pressed to Phantom’s own. “I don’t... I don’t know how to thank you properly. Tell me how your customs work so I can.”

Phantom goes very still. For a heartbeat, the whole library seems to still with him, like the stars themselves are holding their breath. Then the shadows around his face stutter—flickering, collapsing inward—until only three luminous green eyes remain. Every other eye winks out, retreating as though they have all been caught staring and are too flustered to be seen.

There is a glow under the shadows, pulsing faintly like a blush, betraying the storm of something not unlike panic. Or embarrassment.

“I—” his voices trip over themselves, collapsing into a warped hum that sounds more like static than language. “You… don’t… you don’t need to—” He shifts, words breaking and reforming, awkward in a way no eldritch being has any right to be.

Finally, he manages, in a rehearsed voice almost like muscle memory: “Custom says… gift does not bind. Whatever you think its worth, you can… return what feels equal. Or… what is within your reach.” His claws flex as if he is physically trying to hold the thought together, his voices drop to something low and intimate that rattles in the bones. “It is you who decides.”

And still, his three eyes don’t blink, don’t look away, as though waiting to see what Tim will choose.

Tim’s lips purse in thought. He stares up at Phantom thoughtfully, considering all that he’s learned in the short time they’ve spent together. Phantom is eager to please, as if he hasn’t had someone to take care of in a very long time. As soon as he touches Tim and Tim does not push him away, he seems extremely reluctant to part again. He is incredibly protective and possessive in a way that should ring alarm bells—but he is not human. Is it fair to hold him to human standards?

Tim runs his fingers over the slope of Phantom’s face; despite what appears to be a formless void, he can almost feel the outline of a cheekbone.

“Would you like it if we do this again?” he asks slowly. “Not the breakdown part—the spending time together part. We could share meals—or dinner, at least—and nights together, maybe visit your friends. And I will do my best to learn from the Instructor of Consorts as quickly as possible.” He offers a tentative, teasing smile. “Compromise.”

Phantom echoes the word back like he’s testing the weight of it. “Compromise.”

The shadows around his face tighten, the glow beneath them flaring sharp and bright for a breath before it pulses unevenly, betraying tension he can’t mask. His claws curl faintly against Tim’s body, as though he wants—needs—something to hold onto.

Then his voices fracture, rippling with a purr that hums through the space—half self-mockery, half desperate attempt at playfulness. “Compromise,” he rumbles again, the sound too low, too warm. “Like how I used your legs in the garden?”

Tim flushes at the reminder but doesn’t let it dissuade him. Bolstered by Phantom’s own flustered behavior, he smirks and leans up to press a testing bite to his jaw. “Exactly,” he purrs back, far less impressively than Phantom’s rumbling vibration.

Phantom freezes beneath, every eye going wide. Then, with a sharp poof, he dissolves into shadows, dropping him unceremoniously onto the cushions below.

Before Tim can blink, the shadows pull back together across the room—by the door this time. Phantom reforms there in a flickering mess of too many eyes, winking in and out like startled stars. Strange streaks of light that can only be described as blushes shoot across the darkness, glowing and vanishing like meteors.

“Well—look at the time!” he blurts, voice pitched higher than usual. “Dora’s waiting for me! Yep. Court. Frosty. Very important.” He fumbles with the door, trying to seem regal even as his hands betray him. “Stay here or don’t—if you need me I’ll… uh… be… not here!”

In his rush to escape, he smacks his head on the doorframe. “Ouchie,” he hisses, dignity dissolving entirely as he slips out and slams the door shut behind him.

Tim is bemused. He's never seen someone flee so fast from one of his advances. He might have let it hurt his pride if he didn't have bruises from an encounter that was a mere hour or so before. Which begs the question: is Phantom only confident being the aggressor, so to speak?

He finds it very hard to believe that no one has ever tried to make a move on Phantom, knowing what little he does of Ghost hierarchy and having been privy to seeing Phantom in all his glory. For an eldritch monster, Phantom is a very generous and well endowed—too well endowed, in the Tim's case—creature. He's strong and strangely beautiful. It's… kind of adorable that a simple bite would cause him to grow so flustered.

He debates staying where he is or chasing after Phantom but his curiosity wins out. He emerges from the nest to poke around, hoping to learn more about the High King.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize where he is.

Not geographically—he’s long since given up on that—but existentially. The place hums around him in a low, thrumming frequency that vibrates at the edge of hearing. Every brick and column glows faintly from within, like veins of light threaded through marble. The air itself smells faintly of paper and ozone, old dust and something like lightning.

 Tim knows this energy. It’s the same one that prickles under his skin when Phantom—the Great One, as everyone insists on calling him—looks at him.

He’s in Phantom’s Haunt.

A Haunt is the metaphysical reflection of Phantom's essence and territory—his everything. To be allowed unsupervised access is proof of how much Phantom is opening his world, his home, to him.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this.

Because standing before him, stretching out into eternity, is the goddamn Library of Alexandria.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

The sound echoes back in soft whispers from the endless rows of shelves. He takes a hesitant step forward, and the floor responds—patterns of light ripple out from beneath his boots like ink dropped into water. The air is alive with faint murmurs; words spoken centuries ago. He can hear pages turning themselves.

“Oh my god, it’s real,” he says, almost laughing. “Jason is going to be so jealous.”

Realization slowly melts his excitement, like ice left under the sun. He has to take a deep breath to steady himself. He doesn’t want to think of that, he doesn’t want to remember the life he has left behind. He needs to focus on the now, on the here.

He half expects the library to vanish into smoke for daring to believe in it, but it doesn’t. The scent of parchment and age-old ink deepens, and the whispers seem to come closer, as if curious about him in turn.

There are scrolls stacked beside bound manuscripts. Clay tablets arranged neatly beside codices that should have been lost before language as he knows it even existed. Shelves climb higher than his eyes can track, reaching into a ceiling lost in warm golden mist. Floating lights hover midair—spirits of knowledge, maybe—guiding him deeper inside.

One cannot be sad for long in a place like this. Tim’s hands itch. His brain lights up like fireworks despite the dragging exhaustion that comes after an attack.

He grabs the nearest scroll, and his breath catches. Greek. The script’s old, but his mind fills in the missing lines, years of training firing on all cylinders.

“This is… Aristotle’s Meteorologica? With commentary! Oh my god, with original marginalia—”

He sets it down carefully, reverently, before moving to the next shelf. Egyptian hieratic script. Then Babylonian star maps burned into bronze. Sanskrit treatises on medicine that predate the ones preserved in Indian monasteries by centuries. There is also a complete map of constellations made by NASA in 2020 that has been annotated with a green marker. He stumbles into a section of astronomical records and nearly cries.

“Phantom, you beautiful eldritch son of a—” he laughs breathlessly, dragging a stack of manuscripts into his arms.

He’s already planning on how to categorize this. Digitize everything. Translate the lost languages. Reconstruct what was lost to time. He’s grinning like an idiot, darting from shelf to shelf, muttering half-formed theories about cultural diffusion and mythic parallelism.

“Okay, this one’s Mesopotamian. This one’s proto-Coptic. This one’s—oh my god, that’s pre-dynastic Egyptian! You shouldn’t exist!”

He cradles the book like it’s made of glass, heart pounding.

Somewhere between a shelf of Atlantean water-bound texts and a stack of Mayan codices perfectly preserved in crystal, Tim has what can only be described as a full-blown nerd meltdown. He laughs out loud, delirious with glee, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by scrolls, clay tablets, glowing shards of what he thinks are memory archives encoded in pure ectoplasmic light.

Every few seconds, something else catches his attention. A celestial map that doesn’t match any known sky. A treatise on “soul resonance harmonics.” A handwritten note, signed simply “Hermes.”

“God, Bruce would have lost his mind.” He says it softly this time. And maybe a little sadly.

For a moment, he imagines showing this place to the League—the collective gasp, the sheer academic riot that would follow—but the thought burns out fast. This isn’t his discovery. It’s Phantom’s Haunt. A living extension of the ghost’s being. He’s a guest here.

Still, the itch to know won’t let him go.

Tim gathers his armful of treasures and starts the trek back toward the cozy corner Phantom calls his “nest”—a massive circular space piled high with furs, books, pillows, and blankets that look like they were stolen from every era of human history. It feels safe here. Warm, even in the spectral chill of the realm.

He spreads everything out in neat piles, already cataloging them in his head. He’s halfway through deciphering what looks like a Sumerian grimoire cross-referenced with modern quantum theory when there’s a knock on the door.

He freezes.

The sound echoes strangely here, dull and deliberate.

He blinks, glances down at the book in his lap, then at the light coming in from the windows. It’s… dinner time.

Of course it is.

He had promised Phantom to eat together—promised—to spend time knowing each other.

And Tim wants—god, he wants—to ignore it. Just an hour more. One more discovery. One more scroll, one more lost text, one more secret pulled out of eternity’s ashes.

But he doesn’t. Not this time.

Because it’s the first night. And the promise matters.

He sets the grimoire down with care, brushing his fingers across the faintly glowing surface. The words shimmer under his touch, alive, almost aware.

“Later,” he whispers to it, as if it’s listening. “I’ll be back.”

The knock comes again—polite, but firm.

“Coming!” he calls, standing and brushing off the dust that doesn’t really exist. He half expects Phantom himself to be on the other side, that lazy smirk in place, but when the door swings open, he stops dead.

Two figures stand there.

Both humanoid. Both clearly not human.

The first is tall and elegant, dressed in robes that shimmer like water, their eyes twin stars behind translucent lenses. The second is shorter, broader, armored in what looks like obsidian glass and frost. They both bow.

“Temporary Consort,” the taller one says. Their voice is musical, like a dozen echoes layered in harmony. “Dinner is prepared.”

Tim blinks. “Thank you?”

“By decree,” the armored one says, tone matter-of-fact, “we are your attendants. You may call me Ardan.”

“And I am Lys,” the other adds with a faint smile. “We are honored to serve.”

Tim just stares at them. There’s a part of his brain—the tired, overworked, Gotham-raised part—that snaps into place at the phrase attendants.

“Thank you, I’ll be in your care.”

“Yes, Temporary Consort.”

Chapter Text

Phantom isn't given very long to recover his dignity in peace. In too little time, Tim barges into his rooms—a fact that pleases him, deep down; his Consort is becoming more comfortable, is treating the space like he belongs—looks at his collapsed, sulking form and declares: "I'm changing Plan Alpha 164 I've found where I want to die."

His eyes blink from the center out, like ripples in a stream. Phantom's head jerks upright to stare at him. "What?"

But Tim is already moving on.

"Were you planning on telling me the Library of Alexandria is only two doors away or was that just not something that occurred to you as important?" He demands, moving closer to the nest. The shadows crawling over the floor move out of his way, making room for his every step as his star laden cape swishes behind him. His eyes are alight with fire, body still clothed in Phantom's things, smelling like him. He is beautiful. His. "Also, how do you have it? Why are none of the scrolls degrading? And why are you here sulking like I told you your shadows are tacky?"

“The Library is part of my Haunt,” Phantom admits, lifting one long fingered hand from where he sprawls. He offers it out, not imperious but steady, so Tim can catch at his fingers or the folds of blanket as he crosses. The shadows smooth themselves flat like a carpet before Tim, eager to guide him closer.

Phantom’s core thrums, a low, pleased purr that leaks into the walls, into the air itself. His Consort moves through his nest with no fear at all—draped in his clothing, breathing in his scent, trailing starfire like he belongs here. It makes something fierce and tender uncurl inside his chest.

“They don’t degrade because I keep them timeless,” he continues, voice landing somewhere between boast and confession. His eyes gleam brighter, the sulk unraveling as he leans toward Tim. “It’s a deal I have with the Ancient of Time. I get the Library eternal, he gets to drag me into his dumb little time wars.”

The last part comes out muttered, almost sulky again, as if the very thought of it embarrasses him compared to the pride he holds for the treasure he’s given sanctuary. Being told what to do by the Ancient has always been a bittersweet pill. Phantom loves Clockwork but he hates the amount of times his plans result in bad situations for everyone but himself.

Tim takes his hand and settles on his knees beside him, among the many cushions. His head tilts to the side with obvious curiosity, distracted from his previous line of questioning. "Time wars?" he repeats. "Is that another topic I need to add to my list?"

Phantom huffs, shifting until he's eye-level with Tim, the cushions sighing beneath his bulk. “No,” he says, tone dry. “They’re quests the Ancient of Time sends me on. Most of the time it’s just—” his mouth quirks, humor flickering like starlight—“dropping into some specific moment, fighting people to the death. Good thing we’re all already deceased, right?”

The joke curls off his tongue easily enough, but the rumble in his chest tells a different story. In truth, they are far more tangled than he’ll ever admit aloud. The so-called time wars aren’t wars at all, but fractures—moments where the flow bends the wrong way, where decisions can split entire futures into ruin. More often than not, he is forced to face people who have sharpened their entire existence into a shape made for killing him. Other times… other times it's worse. Moments where someone’s death has paved his survival, and the Ancient presses the choice back into his hands. He always finds a way to take the cut himself instead.

But none of that can be said. Tim won’t understand Clockwork’s endless remarks, or the cold way the Ancient treats lives as commas and corrections, no different from shifting ink on a page. Phantom swallows it all down, letting the silence stretch, and meets Tim’s gaze with a flash of teeth that pretends at levity.

Tim stares back at him with steady eyes.

He's good at reading people. He was taught from a very young age—practically from the womb, in fact—by his mother who would whisper hidden tricks and tells into his ear at every gala. People are simultaneously the most tedious and the most important part of anything he'll do, she'd tell him. If he could understand how to read a person, how to tell their wants and dislikes, how to spot their weaknesses and when to strike, he could succeed in life. Sometimes he hates her for her teachings. More often than not, it leaves him feeling less like a person and more like a machine. He can't turn it off, no matter how badly he might want to at times.

He doesn't have the same knowledge for ghosts, especially not the sort that look like Phantom, but there are still things that apply. The twitch of shadows gives him away the same way the shift in the cadence of those many voices does.

You're hiding something, he realizes. Something that hurts you.

...he's going to have to add 'Time Wars' to his list.

Tim squeezes Phantom's hand and lets him get away with his half truth—just for now. "What exactly are your duties as King? You've said you need help in Court but not why. And you somehow had the time to spend with me today, despite the fact that I know first hand just how exhausting and constant being a CEO is. I can only imagine how much more there is to do for a King of all the Realms."

Phantom tilts his head back with a sigh, the green glow in his eyes dimming as though the weight of his own words presses down on him. “Everything, and nothing,” he admits. “The crown doesn’t come with a job description. It comes with all of them.”

His fingers drum absently against Tim’s hand, not to pull away, but to steady himself as he lists them off. “I deal with the Courts—the ones that argue over life and death, the seasonal courts that fight for control over weather and time across the Realms. I’m the Champion of the Ancient of Time, which means I’m sent to make sure the timeline doesn’t collapse in on itself. And I’m the Ancient of Balance, so I’m… supposed to check that all the Realms, in all times, stay in Balance between the living and the dead.”

He huffs a bitter laugh, low and frayed. “Then there’s the souls. Every one that dies comes through me—I have to welcome them, send them to their proper afterlife, or… judge the ones who can choose. On top of that, I have to play politics, settle feuds, pretend the crown means I know what I’m doing.”

The longer he speaks, the more worn his voice sounds, until it is little more than a rasp. “And that’s not even half of it. Sometimes I… split myself just to keep up. Used to do, anyway. Even that takes its toll.”

Phantom shifts, shadows curling at his edges. For a moment he looks like he might fold in on himself entirely, but instead his gaze fixes on Tim with rare seriousness. “What I need you for is the Court. The schemers, the ones playing at coups, the ones who’d rather burn the Balance down just to sit in the ashes. I don’t understand politics. I can fight monsters, I can hold back timelines, but I can’t play the game like they can.”

His thumb brushes over Tim’s knuckles, softer now. “That’s what I’m asking of you. Not to fight my wars. Just… to help me keep the crown from crumbling underneath me. Until your time is done, fix my court.”

Something in Tim aches as he holds that gaze. It takes him a moment to realize that it's familiarity. He knows what it's like to take on the weight of an empire. Nothing as big as the entirety of the Realms, of course, but for a long while, keeping Batman's legacy alive was on him. Then there is the funding; there are the thousands of workers who rely on WE to keep them employed; there is the world that benefits from their products; there are those he calls his family, who rely more on WE than they probably realize or are too stubborn to acknowledge.

He got a second glimpse at the responsibility when he stepped up in the League. All those resources, all those people at his fingertips. He knows it is exhausting.

"Lucky for you, I've been raised since birth to navigate politics," Tim says lightly, "I can't say I've ever helped run an entire Reality but a multi-billion dollar corporation and a shadow organization that spans the entire world is better than nothing as far as training goes."

He frowns slightly as he wonders who's heading WE now that he's gone. Is Bruce back? Has Lucius stepped in for now?

No. He closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep breath. It's none of his business. Everyone made that clear when they declared him insane and refused to help find Bruce.

"It's going to piss a lot of people off," he warns him. "People are going to have to be removed. Power is going to have to be shifted. I can't begin to tell you the amount of times the Board tried to have me resign because they were unhappy with the direction I was taking. One of them tried to have me assassinated once—it was sloppy work. They should've hired Deathstroke if they really wanted a chance. But if you want it fixed—I'll fix it."

At the word assassinated, Phantom’s whole body bristles. A low, otherworldly growl vibrates from his chest before he can stop it. In the next instant, shadows surge around Tim like an embrace with teeth, curling over his shoulders and chest, cocooning everything but his head. Phantom yanks him down against his chest, every instinct in him flaring hot and furious at the thought of anyone daring to harm his chosen Consort.

His grip tightens—careful but unyielding—until the worst of the protective surge eases. He lets out a sharp huff and shakes his head, voice turning softer, though still edged with something almost petulant.

"Yes. Fix it. Do what you must. Just—" his mouth presses briefly against Tim’s temple in a fleeting, possessive touch, "—tell me who to vanish if they keep trying to cut you down. I don’t care who they are. I only want things to be less… backstabby. To have time to breathe. To play Doomed with my friends without worrying who’s waiting with a knife behind me."

"That's a lot of people," Tim says, with muted amusement. "Maybe I should tell you them all now if you're going to do this every time. Get it out of the way." Despite the words, he doesn't try to get away. Just rests his forehead against Phantom's shoulder and sighs softly.

"It's time for dinner, by the way. I was going to tell you after I got done grilling you about the library."

Phantom blinks at him, confusion flickering in his glowing eyes. “Dinner?” he repeats, like the word itself is foreign. It takes him a beat before he remembers—oh right, humans and their squishy requirements. He loosens the shadows around Tim with a huff, but doesn’t quite let go until he is sure Tim is steady on his feet.

“If you need to eat, then you eat,” he declares with a kind of imperious certainty. “And if my human has to eat, then it’s dinner time for everyone.” His tone softens into a low rumble as he finally releases Tim, nudging him insistently toward the other room. “Go on. I’ll even sit at the table like a civilized entity while we consume your… sustenance.”

A faint grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I will even keep my shadows to myself until you finish."

"Just until?" Tim says dryly. He shakes his head almost fondly and moves toward the door, stepping through shadows just as confidently as he came.

The table is full of food again. Tim wonders if his attendants are under the impression that he actually consumes this much food. He’ll have to tell them to bring less.

He sits in the same chair he does before, next to where Phantom’s chair is, and fills both their plates when Phantom looks puzzled by the spread.

"Are your shadows you or are they separate entities?"

Phantom accepts the plate with a regal nod, though his expression is all too curious at the question. “We are multiple, and We are one,” he intones dramatically, letting the shadows curl just a little higher around Tim’s chair for effect. “We are the Realms and we are the King. When one dies, another takes its place to keep the core safe.”

Then he stabs a piece of food with his claw and adds far too casually, “So—yes. We are both and not.”

He tilts his head toward Tim, eyes glinting with mischief. “Which basically means if you’re ever annoyed at one of Us, don’t bother yelling. We’ll all take it personally.”

"Like how you disappear, to sulk in your nest like an overgrown horror?" Tim teases, very pointedly eating with his fork. "Noted."

A sound that can only be described as a flustered spluttering gasp is heard from within the shadows.

"I was not sulking." Phantom crosses two arms while the other two feed a green mouth that has placed itself square in the middle of his form. "I was doing a tactical retreat after an unsuspected attack."

He nods with mock solemnity. "Yes, I've heard us humans can have incredibly sharp teeth. You can never be too careful."

Phantom nods right along, lips twitching as if he finds the whole thing far too true. “You joke, but humans can be extremely dangerous. Your games, your emotions, your desires—sharper than any fang I’ve ever seen.”

To punctuate the thought, the little mouth on his stomach yawns open, and he promptly stuffs it with food, as if to keep his hands busy. “Best to keep you fed,” he adds matter-of-factly, “less chance of you biting.”

"Sure," Tim says, playing along. "It's just a shame, you know." He sighs and looks away from the odd sight of Phantom's many mouths, lips twitching with hidden mirth. "I was thinking about kissing you before you disappeared."

Phantom freezes mid-motion, every limb stiff, every shadow going still as though the entire realm has been paused. Only the smaller mouths on his torso keep chewing, a grotesque little reminder that some parts of him are still on autopilot. His many eyes flicker open and shut in rapid succession, blinking out of sync as though he is trying and failing to reboot his entire existence.

After a beat, he swallows audibly. When he finally manages to speak, his voice comes out higher than usual, the words splintering into overlapping tones that weave together in embarrassed dissonance.

“F–funny,” he stammers, shadows writhing nervously around his ankles, “you almost fooled me there.”

"Oh, I don't joke about that." Tim takes a slow sip of water and maintains eye contact as he slips a free hand down to brush gently against one of the shadows on his chair. "But I wouldn't want to scare you. I promise I won't try again; wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Phantom jerks upright in his seat, shadows twitching like startled cats. All except the one Tim has touched. That one folds like a wet piece of paper and is slowly curling around Tim’s fingers like it’s beckoning him to come closer. “Uncomfortable? Who’s uncomfortable? Certainly not me. Nope. Not scared, no sir.” The words tumble out too quickly, overlapping in a chorus of voices that contradict the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his glow flares a shade too bright.

One of the mouths on his stomach lets out a muffled hmph around a bite of food, betraying him completely.

“I am—recalibrating,” Phantom sputters, a little too fast, too defensive. His ears (or the general direction where they should be) are glowing faintly now, and the shadows around his chair coil tighter, as if trying to hide him.

Tim lets the shadow creep closer, fingers gentle as they stroke over its surface like he is petting a cat. It is strange, it has somewhat of a tangible presence while also being somewhat incorporeal. It is cool to the touch as it moves up his hand to curl around his wrist.

"Really?" Tim looks up at him from behind his lashes. His lips part to let his tongue wet them. "That's a relief. I enjoyed it last time. You could say it... took my breath away."

The shadow around Tim’s wrist tightens, cool and slick like smoke made solid, before another tendril creeps curiously along his thigh under the table. A third curls at his shoulder, brushing against the collar of his shirt as though testing how far it can go before being noticed.

Phantom’s eyes flick to each one, shrinking in alarm as if his own body has betrayed him. Every shadow seems too interested, inching closer, wrapping themselves in little catlike nudges around Tim’s frame.

Phantom himself? Completely frozen, like someone has unplugged his processor mid-function. Eyes open, mouths silent, glow stuttering faintly. He looks very much like a ghost caught in the metaphorical headlights.

Then, with a low, rumbling growl that is more embarrassment than threat, he snaps back to life. “You are—” his voices overlap, too sharp, too breathless “—playing a very dangerous game, Temporary Consort,”

The shadow on Tim’s wrist gives a guilty twitch but doesn't move away.

Tim smiles, saccharine sweet.

Perhaps it's the word temporary echoing in his head like a gong, hitting far too close to his plethora of abandonment issues despite the fact that it's meant to be a good thing that he can leave—or perhaps it's simply the desire to be in control for once, after breaking down in front of Phantom twice in the span of two days—either way, he pushes where he previously planned on stopping.

"I've been told that I have a terrible sense of self preservation." The words are matter of fact; no one sane would do the things he does. His sense of danger has been skewed since he was a lonely child following after Batman on darkened rooftops.

As if to prove it, he lifts his hand to press a gentle kiss to the shadow tangled around his fingers.

"But," he continues, letting his hand drop as he turns back to his plate, completely ignoring the tendrils creeping up his body, "if you hate it so much I'll stop teasing you. For now."

All at once, every single one of Phantom’s eyes snaps open. For a heartbeat, they glow wide and unblinking—then a slit of neon green narrows across them, sharp as a predator’s gaze locking onto prey.

Tim barely has time to register it before Phantom moves and even then his trained reflexes can't help him do more than drop his fork.

The impact rattles through him as his chair skids back half a foot. His mouth parts around a gasp before Phantom’s lips crash down against his own. The kiss is no mere brush of mouths—it's greedy; overwhelming; claiming. A low, guttural sound rumbles up from Phantom’s chest as his tongue forces its way past Tim’s lips. Long and sinuous, it slides deep into the heat of his mouth and doesn't stop there. It presses further, past the back of Tim's mouth and into his throat, warm and insistent in a way that should be impossible. Tim makes a choked sound in response, eyelashes fluttering as his throat spasms around the invasion.

Shadows bristle around him like startled cats, then close in with predatory focus. Tendrils wrap around his wrists before his hands can lift to—push Phantom away? Pull him closer? He's too dizzy to think. They wind around his shoulders and thighs, pinning him against the chair tighter than ropes; as if even the smallest escape attempt is an insult. Two strong hands—solid, spectral, burning cold and hot all at once—grip his hips with bruising force, anchoring him in place as the kiss grows harsher, darker, consuming. And all the while that tongue keeps moving, caressing Tim from the inside out.

It's like nothing he's ever felt before.

Tim has always liked being used. He likes to be useful. He likes succeeding in the tasks he and others set out for him; it's part of why he's such a workaholic. Part of what he loved about being with Kon was that he could just—shut off. Kon was physically stronger and they'd always made sure to have sex in places where it was next to impossible to be caught unaware, even with Kon's abilities.

Tim could always just barely fit Kon's dick in his mouth, and never the full thing. He remembers the long talk they'd had about limits and Kon's fear of hurting him; and he remembers Kon's hands in his hair afterwards, as he'd fucked what he could into Tim's throat, leaving him choking and drooling all over himself, so dizzy he couldn't so much as think.

He thinks this might be better.

His wrists tug at their bindings involuntarily as his body sends warning signals through the rest of him, insisting that he remove what's choking him. Spit drips down his chin as Phantom keeps his head raised, clawed fingers grasping his face too tightly to move. Tim gets the briefest glimpse of narrowed green eyes watching him before his own eyes flood with tears and he can't make anything out anymore.

More shadows climb over the ones holding him down. They push up the shirt he'd fashioned into a dress for the day, pause when it gets up around his heaving chest and then seem to realize that getting it off would mean Phantom having to stop kissing him.

Tim whimpers, body twitching what little it can when they simply tear it in two. It hangs in tatters around his arms, the only clothing left the cape of stars beneath him.

He's really not ready when Phantom speaks from a second mouth, still with his tongue down his throat.

"Little spitfire doesn't know when to back down," he practically sings, voices overlapping in cackling harmony. "Can't talk now, though, can you?"

There are tears dripping down his cheeks. His fingers and thighs twitch as his world narrows in on the tongue in his throat. He can't breathe.

"Can hear your heart," Phantom rumbles, as his shadows wind around the peaks of Tim's nipples to squeeze. "Scared?"

Tim isn't anything. Tim is sensation and the frantic need to breathe; he chokes again and spit bubbles up from his lips. It's disgusting. Perfect.

He doesn't even realize he's hard until the hot sensation of a mouth closes around him. He gurgles out a sob, growing sensitive from so much touch in the span of less than two days. Before Phantom, he hadn't had sex since—since—

His mind goes white as his vision goes black. He jerks against the shadows but there's no give, just pressure and sliding touch, just that mouth around his arousal and that tongue down his throat; just him losing his mind as he comes to the feeling of oxygen deprivation.

Phantom draws back at last, the length of that monstrous tongue sliding out of Tim’s throat with a slick, obscene sound. He doesn't leave him empty, though—he laps at his face like Tim is something sweet, savoring the spit and tears as though they are his due. Shadows retreat one by one, melting away from Tim's limbs, chest and thighs. What they leave behind is faint bruises and the ache of strain in his muscles, trembling and too tight from fighting something that can never be overpowered.

Strong hands massage the tension away, claws careful for once as they work into his wrists, his shoulders, the curve of his thighs. The restraints dissolve fully, but Phantom doesn’t let him collapse. No, he scoops Tim up as if he weighs nothing, carrying him with a strange reverence—like prey claimed, not discarded.

Tim surfaces slowly, lungs finally drawing in air that doesn't burn. By the time he forces his eyes open, Phantom is lowering him into the softness of his new bed, the cape of stars folded around him like another set of shadows. His body still hums with overstimulation, every nerve raw, but Phantom stays pressed close—touching him lightly, constantly, a reminder that Tim is held, not abandoned.

A low purr reverberates in his chest, half-lullaby, half-warning. Phantom licks his lips, still tasting him, and leans down just enough to whisper against Tim’s damp cheek:

“See? You should be afraid, be scared. You break apart so beautifully, it's like an addiction. Mine to take apart… mine to put back together."

Tim's breath hitches in his chest. He struggles to open heavy eyes, peering up at Phantom through wet eyelashes. His hand catches weakly at one of his shadows, fingers clutching the tendril with what little strength he has left. "Don't," he whispers, so soft it's barely there. His eyes flutter, drooping lower with every second. He sounds so lost when he next speaks, like a child left in the dark. "Don't go..."

Phantom freezes at the sound of that broken whisper, every shadow going still, as though time itself has been caught in his grip. For a moment he doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move—just watches the fragile clutch of Tim’s fingers, that plea sinking into all the cracks he long thought sealed.

Awkwardly, almost sheepish in his movements, Phantom slides into the bed as well. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he gathers Tim up, careful, folding him deep into the cocoon of his shadows. He maneuvers them both until Tim is pressed against the breadth of his chest, curled safely atop his frame, shrouded in that dark, weightless warmth.

Phantom exhales slowly, a sound between a sigh and a hum, and rests his chin atop Tim’s damp hair. “Sleep,” he murmurs, voices layering together softer than usual; a rumble and a whisper tangled. One clawed hand rubs gently at Tim’s back in slow, grounding circles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The shadows wrap around him tighter, more like a blanket than a restraint, as though sealing the promise in place.

Chapter Text

The portal opens with a shimmer of frost, and Phantom steps through into the crystalline halls of the Far Frozen. For once, the howling winds do not seem to bite at him—though he moves stiffly, shadows clinging to his frame like damp cloth.

“Great One,” Frostbite greets, rumbling voice warm. His gaze sharpens in worry one he takes in the odd tension in Phantom's stance. He gestures with a broad hand. “Come. My office.”

Phantom follows without a word. Frostbite shuts the carved ice doors behind them, pulls thick drapes across the tall windows, and dims the lanterns until the room is cloaked in muted twilight. The shadows clinging to Phantom twitch, shiver—and then peel back.

What remains is not the polished, princely ghost Frostbite has known. It's something stripped raw. A creature emaciated and terrible, bones slick with faint green luminescence, skin stretched thin where it remains at all, hair drifting like a veil in water. Across his chest, his core pulses—a sphere of light fractured through with cracks. Stars blink faintly within the hollow of his ribs; a cosmos caged inside a corpse.

Frostbite does not flinch. He turns, steady as ever, and busies himself with a small kettle resting over blue fire. The silence stretches, filled only by the whistle of water heating. He pours it into two cups, sits one before Phantom, and handles the other with unshaking care.

Phantom’s claws curl around the delicate handle. The cup rattles faintly as he liftes it. His single voice—no chorus, no distortion—breaks the quiet. “Frostbite,” he says, calm in his wariness. “Dora told me to come see you.”

Frostbite settles heavily into the opposite chair, massive paws careful with the drink in his hands. His patient eyes never leave his guest.

“That she did,” he rumbles. “I asked her to request your presence in the Far Frozen.”

The glow of Phantom's core flickers. Shadows dance across the wall as the fractured light pulses with each beat.

"While I am pleased you have sought out a companion at last, I am aware that there are gaps in your knowledge." He says this gently, like he's not dancing around the topic of Phantom's own long lost sense of humanity. He gestures to the pile of books he stacked beside where he knew Phantom would sit. "I would like to help ease the gulf that currently sits between you and your Consort. For both your sakes."

He pauses briefly to simply look at him, taking in all the signs of a fracturing soul. "Great One, may I ask what has you so unsettled today?"

“The Temporary Consort was distressed a good part of the night,” Phantom says at last. His voice is steady, but the ripple of power beneath it betrays strain. A jagged maw splits across his face—opening wider than should be possible—before he tosses the porcelain cup into it. The sound of glass crunching echoes through the room before the maw seals shut, leaving no trace of it ever being there in the first place.

“And slept most of it,” he adds, almost absently, like it's a footnote to something larger. His hands flex once against the chair’s arms, claws catching the low light. “I think most of what has unsettled me will be answered by the books.”

His gaze shifts to the neat stack Frostbite has prepared for him. He grimaces, lips twisting in something caught between wryness and dread. “Or,” he says slowly, almost hopeful, “if you can… may I have the abridged version?”

The core in his chest pulses faintly, a dim flicker seen through the fractures. His tone is calm, but the request carries the quiet weight of someone admitting that reading it alone—forcing himself through page after page of human tradition, history, and intimacy—might undo him further.

Frostbite's chuckle is the low rumble of glaciers meeting. "Why do you think I did not have Dorothea carry out this task? Though I must insist you take the books regardless. Perhaps you can ask the little one to read them to you; you could tell him how our customs differ. But for now, I will tell you what I believe to be most important. Starting with his health charts."

He pulls out a rather thick looking file for someone who he has only seen once and opens it to the front page.

"He was in bad shape when he reached my table. I have never seen anything quite like it, not even when you and your friends first came here. It is rather concerning, though I trust he is now in good hands."

He reaches over to take a slow drink of tea and clears his throat before beginning to recite his notes.

"Signs of childhood neglect that have stunted his growth. Underweight and sleep deprived. Disconcertingly high levels of cortisol in his system, leading to higher than normal stress levels and hormone production. Vitamin deficient and borderline anemic.

There were traces of small doses of toxin in his system; I believe it was an attempt at inoculation. He was asplenic and feverish. His system had traces of antibodies for Ebola Gulf A; I believe this was the reason for the low level of damage to the ocular region. There was a concerning amount of torn tissue around his throat and voice box. Some was due to strain, some due to what appears to be an attempt at exsanguination.

Several healed fractures and floating bone splinters in the legs and arms, indicating blunt force trauma. Nerve damage at the temples, chest and arms from electrocution. Damage to the ribs caused by severe trauma and increased scar tissue indicating something was stabbed through his chest. Severe scarring on the back, indicative of whip marks of some sort, leading to deadened nerves and spinal pain. Traces of—"

Frostbite pauses, as if only now noticing the way the room has grown increasingly darker. "Great One, are you alright?"

The shadows surge violently, filling every corner of Frostbite’s office until even the lantern light struggles to hold its ground. The temperature plummets in a way that makes even the Far Frozen feel warm. The weight of something vast and ancient presses down on the room.

When Phantom finally speaks, it is not with one voice but with thousands. Each syllable carries the resonance of tombs cracking open, of storms shrieking across dead stars, of whispers in languages no living ear should know.

“Tell me who hurt my Consort.”

The tea in Frostbite’s cup ices over in an instant. Books rattle on their shelves. From the heart of Phantom’s ribcage, his core pulses with a furious green light, each beat sending tremors through the floor.

There is no demand in his words. No question. It is a decree, weighted with promise—an oath of violence waiting only for a name.

Frostbite bows his head in reverence. "I would, Great One, but I am afraid I don't know. Without his True name, his past is a mystery to me, as it is to you; I can only read what the tests and charts tell me. But these injuries... they vary in age. Some of them were made when he was very young."

The shadows recede slightly, curling back toward Phantom’s form like the ruffled fur of a cat trying to settle. His many voices fracture down into fewer, clearer tones, low and grumbling with restrained violence.

“Then I’ll make Clockwork hand over the medallion,” Phantom mutters, fangs bared as his glow flickers sharp and erratic. “I’ll go back, find every moment they laid a hand on him, and end them. One by one. I’ll make them wish they’d never—”

He cuts himself off with a sound halfway between a growl and a hiss, curling his claws against his own arm as if to bleed the fury away. The crown above his head dims, its sharp edges softening with his next words. He lifts his eyes back to Frostbite. The anger is still there but it is tempered with something more fragile, almost pleading.

“…But he’s here now. And I—I don’t know how to fix this. What do I do, Frostbite? How do I help him? He’s human. He’s fragile. And I… I don’t know how not to break him.”

"Have you considered that you do not need to fix it?" He asks, not unkindly. "Unless he asks you to take vengeance, you are already doing enough by being at his side as a support.

Make sure he eats and drinks regularly; remind him that you are there. Give him affection and ask for his wants and needs. You are partners now, meant to stand side by side. When one falters, the other supports. That is why we are doing this now; that is why I am helping you.

Shall I continue to the next matter?"

Phantom’s shoulders sink, the last of his spectral glow dimming into something more like a sulk. The glow of his crown dims as he shifts in his seat, clearly chastised, though the curl of his lip betrays his lingering irritation at being called to heel.

“…Yes,” he mutters at last, voice lower, resigned. Then, with a grudging roll of his eyes, he adds, “Yes, Doctor of Gods. Please, proceed.”

Used to his antics, Frostbite does not blink. He closes the file and sits back in his chair to look at him with something like amusement; perhaps even mischief. "You say you are afraid of breaking him, so I will do what I can to assuage your fears. As he is human, he has organs necessary for function that do not work the way our ectoplasm works."

He holds up a chart picturing the inside of a human body and points to the area of the rectum. "Studies in humans vary but the general consensus is that the anus can stretch up to seven inches wide before you must take caution; of course, you must work up to this slowly and always check in with your partner as you go. The anus does not create much natural secretion so you must provide your own; ectoplasm should work fine but other products will be sent to your room should you want to explore.

Further studies show that the length a human can take varies depending on the body of the individual. Some are naturally more resilient; this will have to be explored through careful trial and error. In general, eight to twelve inches is the baseline but there are records of humans taking more than twenty inches without suffering harm. If you move slowly and carefully while finding your Consort's limits, you will be fine. But, of course, I will always be here should something go wrong."

He pauses to look over the chart at Phantom. "Any questions yet?"

For a long moment, Phantom does not move. Then the shadows around him quiver, shudder—until the entire terrifying shape collapses into a puddle of inky darkness on Frostbite’s floor. What is left is little more than a glowing core bobbing in the goo, twin green eyes blinking up at the yeti in stunned horror.

“…You—you’re just gonna say that to my face? With charts?!” his voice cracks, far too human and far too indignant for his current state. “Seven inches? Twenty? Do you have any idea how much I didn’t need to know that?!”

His core pulses a violent green, brighter and brighter, like it's trying to blush. The goo puddle twitches and tries to ooze toward the door as if escape is still possible.

“…No questions,” he finally squeaks, curling tighter in on himself, shadows frizzing like a bristling cat. “Except maybe… can I finish dying now?”

"You do indeed need to know that," Frostbite says severely. "If you are to mate with the little one then you must know the limits of the human body. I will not have you bringing your Consort to me traumatized and bleeding because you were too embarrassed to listen to sense. Really, Great One."

He makes a show of sniffing in disappointment, but there are laugh lines around his eyes.

"Pull yourself together—literally, in this case—and do your human the service of knowing what you can and cannot do to please him."

The puddle shivers, then reluctantly begins knitting itself back together—first a vague torso, then limbs, until Phantom sits hunched on the floor, half-formed and glowing faintly, like a sulky nightlight.

“Frosty, you're killing me,” he groans, dragging both hands down his face as if that alone could hide him. “Killing me, man. After everything? After patching me up through a hundred near-deaths, you’re really gonna choose this hill to bury me on?”

He flops backward, one arm draped dramatically across his forehead. “Death by lecture on butts. That’s my legacy now. I hope you’re proud.”

Frostbite sighs and sets the chart down. He gets up and rounds the desk in two great strides before kneeling beside Phantom. "Old friend," he says, placing a gentle hand on Phantom's shoulder, "there is nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about. There is no King that knows a greater joy than having their Consort flushed and happy in their bed. I only wish you the same happiness."

Phantom lets out a long, rattling sigh that whistles like a kettle, dragging his hands down his face until his fingers slip through his own cheeks. When he finally reforms enough to glare, the look he gives Frostbite is equal parts exasperation and surrender.

“Sure. Fine,” he mutters, shoulders slumping like a teenager cornered into doing chores. His glow dims to a sulky green as he slants a look up at him. “What else do I need to know, oh great and merciful Doctor of Way Too Much Information?”

"There are his psychological needs to consider." He shifts to sit on the floor beside Phantom; without his shadows, Phantom seems so small.

"I will not bore you with the technical terms of how the human brain works. What you need to know is that the brain has an innate reward system to both pleasurable and painful experiences. I am going to ask you a question you will perhaps find embarrassing but it is important that you answer it. Do you prefer to be the dominant party in your encounters?"

Phantom’s glow flickers unevenly as he curls tighter in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest until the shadows lick at his edges. It has been so long since he’s let himself feel this small—almost the same size he shrinks to when his other half threatens to break through. His voice comes out low, shaky, and tinged with static.

“I… I don’t know,” he admits, cheeks burning with an unearthly light. “I lose control a lot. My instincts—” his claws flex restlessly against his arms “—they scream at me to pin him down, to not let him move, to just… take from him.”

He ducks his head, mortified. His eyes flash green like warning lights. “And I don’t want to hurt him for that.”

"What you feel is normal, Great One, but you must tell him this so he understands. Being what we are, our instincts drive us to acts of dominance. We are—as humans might say—more animalistic in nature. It is normal to want to be in control. We feel emotions far more strongly and our instincts match, especially when your bond is still so new, when it makes you view others as a threat. Normally, there would be a ceremony and a period in which the two of you are left alone to work out your dynamic, but as you've given him the Temporary title, things are more complicated."

He lets out a sigh like a wind gust.

"None-the-less, he will have certain needs if he is agreeable to that role. Anyone would, but a human especially. Their hormone production is important, especially in acts of submission. I would suggest that you perhaps keep a journal and write down what you see when you are intimate, so that I may explain what is happening should you be too embarrassed to ask your Consort.

To have your Consort malleable to your design is a gift. You may notice that he behaves differently; he might not respond the way he would normally. It is normal. The human brain produces endorphins and dopamine when put into specific situations of pain and pleasure—situations you will have to plan out together—that lead to trance-like states. It is a state of altered consciousness in which he puts himself into your hands completely. These periods of heightened hormones can help improve his health in the long run, as well as your own, if done right.

For you, you may find your focus increased and your sense of self centered. For him, stress will be replaced with relaxation and a sense of peace. However, how you act once you reach this state is what will determine if it harms or helps."

Frostbite waits until Phantom meets his eyes before continuing.

"You must never leave him alone in this state, Great One. He will never be more vulnerable, both physically and mentally. You must bring him back gently. Chocolate can be fed to him; water to keep him hydrated. You must hold and praise him for the gift he has given you if you ever want it to happen again, for once that trust is broken, there is no going back.

Should you not do this… it can lead to periods of depression and anxiety. A lack of appetite. Low sense of self worth. The list is long and frightening."

“All that,” Phantom mutters, voice dragging low, as if the very words weigh him down. He looks wrung out, his shoulders hunched, his glow dim. “And not forgetting he’s going to be more vulnerable after and before….” His claws tap against his arm restlessly, betraying nerves he doesn't want to admit to. “He can’t stay forever, either, because the Consorts of Kings—” he spits the word like it tastes bitter “—are always in danger.”

He sags forward, crown flickering weakly, and lets out a long, exhausted sigh that rattles through his chest like a storm winding down. He rubs at his face with both hands, then lets them drop, defeated.

“I need to see him,” he says finally, almost pleading, the sharpness in his tone dulled by weariness. His eyes, heavy-lidded and glowing faintly green, lift to Frostbite with a faint shimmer of defiance. “Are we done here?”

"I will not keep you from him," he says gently. "Go. Just be sure to take the books."

Tim wakes alone. At first, this is fine, for he is too out of it to recognize anything wrong. Then he rolls, feels the whisper soft sheets against his skin, and nearly has a panic attack thinking he's in Ra's bed. It's only the curtains hung around the bedposts and the canopy above that snaps him out of his spiral; they're painted in starlight. Real starlight. A comet races from one side of the canopy to the other as he watches; another star winks in and out of existence as if in greeting.

He takes a deep breath and sits up. The sheets pool around his waist and with them comes the cape of stars Phantom made him. It feels as strange as his shadows; somehow solid despite being made of something intangible and slightly cold to the touch.

His eyes feel crusted over and heavy when he rubs at them. He can feel dried tear tracks on his face but doesn't remember crying. He really hopes he didn't have another breakdown. At this rate, Phantom isn't going to want to take him anywhere.

The fact that he's alone leaves him feeling weirdly adrift. On one hand, he's glad for the reprieve and the chance to gather his thoughts. On the other… he doesn't want to think. Thinking requires him to examine the fact that he no longer owns his soul, is now warming a King's—the King's, if what's he's been told so far is to be believed—bed and has nothing left. Ra's told everyone he was dead before he—hopefully—died from what Phantom did to him. Even if he were to go back, there's nothing left for him in Gotham.

His friends are either dead or believe him to be insane. Bruce has Damian to worry about, who is eager to take on the family business and is sure to fill Tim's old shoes in no time, just as he did with Robin. He wonders if anyone even notices that he's gone.

A heavy sigh leaves his lips as he forces himself out of bed. His feet drag against the floor on his way to the bathroom, where he fills up the giant claw foot tub with water far too hot. He slides in regardless and lets the burning sensation put him back in his body until it threatens to remind him of the Joker's chemical vats and he has to abruptly turn the temperature to ice cold.

Pull yourself together, he tells himself sternly, scrubbing at his face with one of the soft washcloths nearby. You are not a child. You do not get to cry like one.

He's made enough of a fool of himself as is. It's time for damage control.

His soul is on the line and while Phantom has made no threat on it so far, it could all be an act. A ploy to lull him into a false sense of security. He had told him to be afraid the night before.

Tim lifts a hand to his throat and swallows as he thinks about the way Phantom had held him down and choked him from the inside.

None of it is fair.

Why is there a strange and powerful entity lusting after him? And why is he capable of doing things Tim was never able to convince Kon to try during the time they were together? Things he's never even imagined but now wants? Why does he touch Tim so tenderly, treat him like the world revolves around him and then turn around and act like a flustered virgin? Why does he feel so human at times?

Tim grits his teeth and shoves the storm of his emotions deep down into the box he made long ago. He knows it's weakening; he knows sooner or later it's going to break and he won't be able to force everything back in. But he needs to remember to be impartial. He needs to treat this like a mission; to do what needs to be done and complete his task.

He is Temporary. This is temporary. He needs to remember that.

He scrubs at his body, which is still slightly tinted green in places. It comes off differently than a humans' ejaculate, turning almost slick in the water before disintegrating like it was never there. His hair is next; he notes that the strands are getting longer and wonders if he should cut them or let them grow. He's not Red Robin anymore, he doesn't have to worry about his hair being a liability.

He has to pause and breathe that in for a moment. To let it sink in.

He's not Red Robin anymore.

He's not a vigilante or a CEO or even Tim Drake. No one knows his history here. No one knows who he was or has been.

…can he really just be Tim for once? Does he even know who that is?

He steps out of the tub and towels off, deep in thought. He pauses before Phantom's door before knocking; when there's no reply he opens it to see that it's empty inside. He heads to the wardrobe and looks for something he can wrangle into a decent look. Again, he's left to settle with a shirt that's much too large on his frame and falls around his upper thighs like a dress. He wraps the cape of stars around him afterwards and wanders back to his room, where he finds breakfast and a book of sketches waiting for him.

He fills his plate and pages through it, looking upon dozens upon dozens of incredible designs, each more magical than the last. Tailor of Kings indeed, he thinks to himself.

He takes the pen that's been left beside it and writes on the back of the first page a small list of requests as well as his agreement for Lawrence to go ahead with the designs. Then he looks up and says hesitantly, "Attendant?"

A woman appears instantly, bowing low. "Yes, Temporary Consort?"

He holds out the book for her to take. "Please bring this to the Tailor of Kings."

"Right away."

She vanishes, leaving him alone once more. He's barely finished his plate by the time a knock comes from Phantom's door. His heart leaps in his chest before he can help it, excitement and nerves warring with one another. He shoves it all down in time to smile at Dora when he opens the door to find her standing with an arm full of books.

"Greetings, Instructor of Consorts," he says, with a dip of his head. "Please come in."

"Temporary Consort," she nods, striding into his room without pause. She goes to the sitting area and immediately puts her armful down before brushing out her skirts and gesturing for him to take a seat. She doesn't waste time with further pleasantries; she jumps in immediately.

"Now then, unlike a certain dear King, I have done my research. I know who you are and I am aware of the skills that we will be building upon. However," she continues, settling with gentle grace into the seat across from him, "it is important that you understand that prior knowledge is not always a good thing. Human customs are not the same as our customs, as I'm sure you've already noticed. So we will start from the ground up to ensure there are no misconceptions."

She pauses, waiting for him to give a nod before going on. Her no nonsense attitude reminds him of Alfred.

"First and foremost: some will say you are simply a pretty trophy. Others will say that you are merely a bed warmer. They will underestimate you. They will whisper behind your back and look down on you when they can get away with it, despite your position. They will especially hate that you are human. They will look for weak points to poke and prod; they may even try to have you killed. You are being placed in the second most prominent position in all the Realms. The task you have ahead of you is not easy. So I ask you, knowing all this, do you still wish to proceed?"

He meets her eyes without flinching. He doesn't do either of them the disservice of speaking right away, but he also knows his answer even before he's spoken it. "Instructor of Consorts," he says calmly, "people have tried to tear me down all my life. I have been called all manner of names; endured horrors that would break weaker men—have, in fact, been broken before, only to get back up. I have been told that I am stubborn to a fault and as viciously cold as my mother. Someone trying to kill me is not new. Being in a prominent position of power is not new either. For the duration of my time here, I accept the responsibility."

She smiles with all her teeth, eyes glowing with dark satisfaction as smoke curls out from her nostrils. "Then let us proceed.

You are to be the backbone of the throne. When Phantom falters, you will hold him up. When Phantom's back is turned, you are to be behind it, guarding him from harm. You will uphold his image and ensure that he does not look weak. Sometimes this means that you will present yourself as weak instead. That is something for the two of you to discuss, should you decide to be more… explicit outside of the bedroom."

His face flushes. "Is that—" he clears his throat, doing his best to maintain posture and eye contact. "Is that a… common… practice?"

"We do not have modesty the way humans do. The Realms belong to Phantom, so he is in the unique position to do what he likes. While in his castle, you may do what you wish in theory—but one must take into account politics. Can you mate in front of the entire Court? Yes. Should you? You will have to determine that answer. If being seen as a plaything for the King benefits you in that it gets people to let their guard down when talking to you? Then take advantage of it, if you are comfortable stepping into that role. But always remember that you have a voice. You can refuse Phantom's requests. In fact, you should deny him at times. No one likes a spoiled King."

Tim nods slowly. He bends his head over the notebook she gave him and takes notes, making sure to start a column titled 'Things to Talk to Phantom About'.

"Weakness is not just sex, of course. If you need to make yourself look emotional for Phantom to get away with making a decision, then you will do so. If your pride needs to take a hit to maintain his image, you will do so. It is very easy to grow resentful in these situations, that is why communication is key—you will be doing joint sessions with Phantom later on. He is currently scheduled to meet with Frostbite to get the proper rundown of human needs."

Her voice softens as she leans forward ever so slightly. "You must understand that it is the two of you against the world. You will take care of one another. He will tend to your needs and ensure you are well taken care of; you will do the same. The bond is what makes this relationship work. If you do not talk—and often—about your wants and desires then it will not work."

His pen pauses against the page as he chews on the inside of his cheek. "…I've never been known to be very forthcoming," he admits reluctantly. "I'm not" —he puffs out a breath— "I lead teams, I break down patterns and plan contingencies. But I've never been good at emotions. I don't know that I can be what you're expecting."

"And you think Phantom is currently perfect at what I have just described?" She raises a delicate eyebrow and flashes a knowing smile. "You will grow together. You will make mistakes and you will learn. Treat it like one of your missions if you must, just so long as you make sure to work at it."

"Right." He nods, glancing back down at his notes. "Please continue."

"Your actions reflect on the Throne. Most importantly, they reflect on Phantom himself. You must be calm when he is unsettled. You must be analytical when he is emotional. And you must decide if, when he rages, it is justified. If it is," a cloud of smoke puffs out of her nostrils as she smiles grimly, "you must tear them apart together."

"About that—Lawrence mentioned that ghosts' have cores and that damaging the core is how you kill them but—what happens to a ghost when their core is broken?"

"They cease to exist." She says simply. "There is no second afterlife for a ghost. Balance claims all eventually and not all of us are born from previous spirits. Some are formed in this Realm and know nothing else. Do not ask someone where they come from. It is rude."

Again, he nods.

"I'm going to give you several books to study. They go over the history of the throne, their Kings and Consorts and how they ruled. I want you to pick one pair that interests you and focus on what was successful about their partnership. How did they rule? How did people view them? What did they do right? What did they do wrong? I expect these answers and any questions to be prepared in two days time.

I also expect you to discuss these things with Phantom. Come to a consensus on how you want to present yourselves. Or bring any questions you two have to our next meeting."

She stands, skirts swishing, and smiles down at him. "I am pleased with the reports I have heard of the two of you spending time together. I expect you to keep it up and study well. Until next time, Temporary Consort."

"Thank you, Instructor of Consorts," he says, standing quickly to walk her to the door. He closes it behind her and sighs as he walks back over to examine the pile of books she's left behind.

Well, he thinks, hefting them up into his arms and heading for the door leading to Phantom's Haunt. No time like the present.

He heads immediately to the desk near the windows, where he sits down and begins reading. It's… surprisingly raunchy, as it turns out. Full of territory disputes, core destruction and extremely detailed descriptions of the mating habits of the minor Kings and their Consorts.

"This author was a voyeur," Tim mutters to himself, eyeing his many pages of notes and flagged questions. He has a running list of the names with bigger excerpts to choose who to focus his 'report' on.

A knock on the door reminds him that it's lunch at some point. He emerges only to take his plate back into Phantom's Haunt, mind a million miles away as he catalogues all that he's consumed and continues to take notes on.

He's finished the first book and switched to the one on Pariah Dark when his cape chills as if in warning moments before the only door opens to let its owner inside.

"Hey," he calls absently, eyes still focused on the book in front of him. "Have you read the History of the Minor Kings and their Consorts? I'm convinced it was written to be a smut book only to be changed into history last minute. There's way too much detail to convince me otherwise."

“I have never read the book,” Phantom says flatly, tone edged with both disinterest and disdain. “When I took the throne I was fifteen, and I had to rebuild the kingdom from the rubble the previous King left behind. The Kings and Queens came to present their loyalties themselves or to kill me, most of the time the second one so they could take the throne. You don’t need to learn their names from a book when you’ve had to fight them to keep your life.”

His form slides through the library in a slow, deliberate creep, more shadow than solid, until he is close enough to hover directly over Tim’s shoulder. The chill of him wraps around the chair like frost tracing glass—then his eyes catch sight of the page Tim is studying.

“That’s Pariah Dark.” The words leave him as more of a low growl than a statement, fangs glinting faintly in the light of the desk lamp. His glare sharpens as he leans closer, the green of it burning brighter. “What,” he asks in a voice that carries too much weight to be casual, “did Dora give you to read?”

The cape around Tim's shoulders only seems to grow colder the closer Phantom gets, sending goosebumps out across his skin even before Phantom's presence brings the frost. Is it reacting to his mood? Tim wonders.

A part of him can't help but question if he's the reason Phantom seems so agitated. He thinks back to the dried tear tracks he woke up to and swallows down a sense of shame. Instead, he forces himself to take a breath around the heavy feeling of Phantom's shadows and closes the book. They feel different today. Heavier. It's like the very air takes more effort to breathe in.

"She told me to review the regimens of the past Kings and their Consorts and to take note of what they did well and what they didn't." He slips out from under Phantom's looming form to lean back against the desk, arms crossed. "Can we go back to the part where you said you became King at fifteen?"

Phantom only hums in answer; the sound reverberates more in the shadows than in his throat. Two hands—cold, steady, undeniably solid—slide onto Tim’s waist, holding him in place as countless eyes blink in and out across the swarming dark. They gleam like green stars against an endless void, appearing and vanishing with each pulse of Phantom’s core.

“Pariah Dark,” Phantom begins, voice low, “was the Tyrant King.”

His gaze flicks briefly upward, fingers brushing through the empty air above his head. Something unseen shimmers, then solidifies. When Phantom lowers his hand, he sets it carefully on the desk between them: an ice-blue crown. Its edges glow faintly, sharp and crystalline, scattering light into impossible hues. A halo of aurora ripples across the surface—greens, purples, and blues that bleed into the shadows as if the northern sky itself has been trapped in a circlet.

“He was woken the first time by Vlad,” Phantom continues, his tone sharper now, bitterness biting at the name, “in a fool’s attempt to claim the Crown of Fire. Once roused, Pariah marched to the human realm to conquer it. I managed to defeat him and take the crown myself, but only because I wasn’t alone. Ghosts and humans stood beside me.”

Phantom shifts closer and shuts his eyes briefly, as though recalling the weight of those battles. “The second time… he was weaker. He was no longer King, no longer chosen by the crown. I defeated him again.” His words drop to something quieter, almost reluctant. “I had just turned sixteen.”

His hand slides off Tim’s waist to trail across the crown’s jagged edge, as if reassuring himself it remains real, that the thing he’s fought and bled for hasn’t slipped away like a dream. “Now he lies sealed in the Chamber of Kings, in the underbelly of the castle. Bound inside the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep. Waiting. Silent.”

Phantom finally opens his eyes again. The green burns brighter than the crown’s aurora.

Tim watches him quietly, body still the way he trained himself to be back when he was learning how to become Robin. His breath nearly fogs when he next breathes. "You didn't kill him?"

Phantom blinks at him, seeming almost confused by the question, before his eyes draw together in a frown. “No?” he says flatly, as if the answer should be obvious. “He didn’t do anything worth killing him for.”

The shadows along his shoulders shift restlessly, like offended snakes. “He wanted power, he wanted a throne. That doesn’t make him any different from half the monarchs the Zone has ever had.” His eyes flicker brighter for a moment. “I beat him, I sealed him. That was enough. He doesn’t deserve death—just the weight of being forgotten.”

"And if someone wakes him again?" Tim can't help but press. "Will you lock him away to try again?"

Phantom tilts his head, the motion oddly feline, as though he is weighing the thought between his teeth. “It all depends,” he hums, his gaze sliding to the side as if the shadows there might hold the answer. “I’m not against killing him… at least, not in the way I once was.

Ghosts live by different laws than the living. Destruction isn’t pain, it’s permanence. To be dissolved is to cease in every sense—no rebirth, no lingering trace. Eternal silence.” His fingers flex once against the desk before curling back into his palm. “For me to inflict that, his crimes would have to be… monumental. Enough to shatter the Balance itself.” A faint, cold smile ghosts across his face. “Until then, sealing him is punishment enough. For every time I defeat him his pride takes a hit, and the Tyrant King is like an ancient of pride and war ”

"Some would say the act of vengeance without death is weakness," he observes. "A lie that we tell ourselves to keep from getting our hands dirty while the perpetrators win yet another chance to cut us off at the knee."

He finally loses the fight against his own body and shivers in the cold.

"I've put a lot of people behind bars, only to watch them commit atrocities all over again. I don't know that I believe in things like mercy or second chances anymore—not even for the sake of doled out punishment. But that's beside the point.

The point is—what do you plan to do when I bring you a list of people that are a detriment to your reign? Are you going to let them walk free to try again?"

“No.” Phantom shakes his head slowly, the movement deliberate, final. “I’ll let you choose.”

Well that was one thing he can note for his next lesson, Tim supposes.

Phantom steps back, shadows peeling away from Tim as though dragged on invisible strings. The sudden absence leaves the air just a little warmer, enough for Tim to breathe without feeling ice scrape his lungs. Phantom’s voice softens, though the chill still clings to the edges of it.

“Is my cloak making you cold?” His eyes flicker down, luminous and intent. “You should take it off. It’s bound to the shadows I wear. When I lose control of my core—when I’m angry—they freeze. And I don’t want that touching you.”

Tim's hands lift to unclasp the collar, draping the cloak over the desk chair instead. He feels weirdly naked without it; he only realizes that it reminded him of his suit and cape now that it's gone.

"Why are you angry?" He asks, searching Phantom's face. "I felt it before you got here so it can't just be the book. Did something happen?"

Phantom tilts his head, the movement sharp at first, then softening as he lowers himself until his eyes are level with Tim’s. His voice carries the low hum of something barely restrained.

“I was with Frostbite,” he says, each word deliberate. “He gave me a rundown of your medical condition.” His gaze softens for a moment before the green in his eyes flares brighter. “And your mental condition.”

It hits him like a slap.

Your mental condition.

"What?" He says, going pale all at once. His jaw tightens as his hands move to grip the edge of the desk behind him.

Immediately familiar arguments and excuses flood his tongue. It was just once, he doesn't need further testing—Please Dick, he's alive, I'm not crazy, I'm not—!!

Phantom exhales slowly, deliberately pulling some of the cold back into himself so the room stops biting at Tim’s skin. “I don’t wish to frighten you,” he goes on, quieter now, as he picks up on Tim's distress, “but I do wish for your permission—to walk through time itself and erase those who dared to wrong you.” His lips curl into something between a smile and a threat. “It would not take much effort.”

Tim stares at Phantom with wide, half wild eyes.

"What?" He repeats, struggling to reorient himself. "You can—but the Timeline?'

Phantom crooks his head to the side, expression puzzled in that unsettlingly inhuman way of his. He seems almost placating. “I am the Ancient of Balance,” he says slowly, as though reminding Tim of something obvious. “I can break the timeline as much as I want, and then smooth it back into place when I’m done. If it doesn’t fall into line right away…” His shoulders lift in a careless shrug, mouth frowning faintly. “I’ll just figure it out later."

For the first time, it truly occurs to Tim just how powerful the being before him is. To be so blasé about something so important, to have the power to simply change time without having to worry about repercussions… How does one cope with that power? How do they keep from going too far—and who defines when that is?

A shiver runs down his spine as the answer comes: he does. He is who Phantom is asking permission. He is the one that is supposed to make those decisions by his side.

Phantom creeps closer, as if drawn in. "You seem distressed. What is the matter?"

"The—before, you said 'mental health condition', I'm not—" he takes a deep breath, tightens his grip on the desk and fights to stop stuttering like a fool. "My fa—Bru—Batman used to say things like that before he ran tests to make sure I wasn't losing it from the Joker Venom in my system. And then—a lot of people called me crazy before I left, for thinking he was still alive.

I was right," he adds defensively, as if Phantom is about to join their ranks. "It's why I was with Ra's. It's just the phrasing. What do you mean?"

Phantom’s head tilts again, the green glow of his eyes narrowing faintly, as though studying something Tim can't see. His voice is calm, low, but it carries the weight of something that does not think like a human.

“Well,” he begins, “I can only infer from what your emotions bleed into the air, from the records I have been given, and from the way your body reacts when you think no one is watching. You are always coiled—always ready for the strike that may or may not come. Yet you do not register fear. You move with desire, yet it is wrapped tight in dread. You reach toward excitement, and then smother it beneath instincts that guide you into corners you should not stay in.”

He leans in, closing the space without approaching Tim, his presence like a drop in temperature and the crackle of storm-air. “Humans are… fragile. Inside and out. You break if left uncared for. You wither if left unsafe. You need shelter, and reassurance, and touch, and—” he pauses, frowning—or at least his eyes shift as though attempting the expression.

“I do not think you are—” his fingers lift, curling into sharp quotations in the air—“losing it.” His hands lower again. “But I do think you need to be assured that you will survive here. That nothing will be forced upon you. Nothing will touch you unless you wish it. I will not open your medical records if you forbid me. I will not reach inside your mind without your invitation.”

He straightens, cloak pooling like smoke behind him. “Perhaps this is what comfort is meant to sound like, when spoken by something not human. I am… trying.”

Tim finds himself leaning in as Phantom does, drawn the way the moon pulls the tide. He is—fascinated—horrified—to be read so easily. It was one of Steph's biggest complaints. Her declaration that she didn't know him, not really; that she couldn't when he wore so many masks, kept so many secrets. Phantom just… brushes past all of that.

He swallows, feeling his knees go weak under the penetrating gaze of those green eyes. He is known and it is terrifying. But, a part of him whispers, small and blooming beneath layers of dead and decaying hope, isn't this what he's always wanted? To be known?

"You can't," Tim says softly, eyes lowering to the ground as he finally answers Phantom's question. "I can't let you erase them. Most of them," he barks out a pained, humorless laugh, "most of them are people I love."

Phantom blinks once, slow and deliberate, as though the thought has to sink through an eternity of green fire before it lands. He nods, the gesture sharp and absolute.

"Then I shall not."

The words hang in the air like a vow, simple and binding. He seems to consider them for a moment longer before a low, dissatisfied growl slips free from his chest. He folds himself downward in a sudden, boneless motion, crouching to the floor with a huff of frost. Shadows curl tighter around him, drawn in like a cloak pulled petulantly over his shoulders.

"Stupid people," he mutters, curling his arms over his chest. His voice vibrates like distant thunder, though the words themselves are sulky. "Who dares wound the Consort of Balance? Do they not understand who I am?" His eyes glow brighter, narrowing in indignation, and yet—he only sits there, arms crossed, like a cat denied its prey.

Phantom’s expression remains grim, but the sharp edges of his otherworldly power softens as he gives a final decisive nod, as if the matter is settled. Unhappy, yes—but immovable.

The easiness of it all is almost startling. Tim is used to push back and arguments. He's not used to people just accepting his decisions without demanding the evidence and legwork to back it up.

He lets his legs fold, sliding down to the floor to join Phantom's level. A brush of the cloak tells him that it's still cold but not nearly as bad as before. For a moment he simply watches Phantom, breathing deep and slow as he regains his equilibrium. It's odd to be so close without Phantom's shadows creeping closer. He finds himself almost missing it.

"Hey," he says softly. "Thank you for caring enough to ask."

Phantom crooks his head to the side, that strange tilt making him look—somehow—both terrifying and endearingly lost. An eldritch puppy masquerading as something older than time.

"Don’t worry," he says, like it is the easiest thing in the world. "I care, so I ask."

The shadows at his feet stir, stretching toward Tim like tendrils of mist alive with intent. They hover in the space between them, not clinging, not forcing—just waiting. An invitation, patient and wordless. Tim can ignore them, push them back, or take hold.

His fingers twitch once before he stills them. He already knows that that alone is enough to broadcast what he wants; that Phantom must be able to sense the cocktail of longing and wariness that sits deep in his chest. He is a child once burned twice shy—except he has been burned many many times and the idea of rejection is terrifying enough that even a reaching hand—or shadow in this case—seems too good to be true.

Dora told him to communicate. She said to approach things like a mission if he had to. So that is what he does.

Mission Objective: Reach a sense of equality in his relationship with Phantom and determine how they will rule.

Task One: Explain his personal issues with touch.

Tim takes a deep breath.

"I don't dislike your touch," he admits. "It's nice. Overwhelming at times, but nice. I don't really know how to properly reciprocate—or how to let myself initiate it. I didn't… my parents were never really. Around as a child. My friends used to say that I was like a feral cat they were trying to domesticate.

My mentor wasn't very emotional either. The only physical touch I really got was from my br—from someone I thought of as family at the time, and he wasn't always around.

I guess I just—I want you to know that it's not. You. I'm not scared of you or anything I just have a hard time believing anyone would want to touch me."

Phantom gives another one of those nods and then his shadows move—not with the hesitant drift of before, but with decisive, almost reckless certainty. They surge forward, coiling around Tim’s waist and yanking him in with all the grace of a netted fish.

Tim barely has a second to blink before he's hauled straight into what can only be described as Phantom’s lap. Shadows press close and warm—warm, this time, not chilling—wrapping around him like a living cocoon. Arms, unmistakably Phantom’s own, circle his middle, holding him tight.

Then comes the low, steady vibration, rumbling against his spine. Purring. Loud, insistent, as if Phantom has decided that words are no longer necessary proof. His head dips down to rest against the crown of Tim’s, sealing the arrangement like it is law.

For a moment Tim just sits there, dazed, buried alive in eldritch devotion. He had laid out his careful, clinical boundaries like a mission briefing—and Phantom’s answer is simply this.

Slowly, he relaxes into the embrace, as if he's waiting for Phantom to disappear out from under him. It's warm and comforting being held like this. He feels small and safe the way he's never really been allowed to be. There are so many shadows around him, pressing against the parts of him not in contact with Phantom's body like a weighted blanket.

He rests his head against Phantom's chest and lets that purr roll through him like thunder, until it's all he can hear. His fingers tangle with the shadows, holding tightly, like a child with a blanket. He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself that it's okay to let this happen, even if it'll hurt when he no longer has it.

"You know," he says, so soft it's barely there, "I always wanted a cat. You act a lot like one at times."

Phantom hums, the sound vibrating against Tim’s temple as he rubs his cheek across his hair like a cat marking its person. “My younger sister—who is also technically my daughter, but only two years younger so she insists she’s my sister—used to classify us all as animals. I was either a cat or a bird. Everyone said I was clingy.” His shadows flex in agreement, curling tighter around Tim’s waist as if to prove the point.

“My oldest brother—me, but darker—was always a dog. Loyal. Dumb. Bark worse than bite, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. My oldest sister was… wolf, hawk, something that hunts and can read you no matter how you try to hide.”

Phantom nuzzles his face back against Tim’s hair, closing his eyes. “I don’t care what I am to you, Tim. Cat, shadow, monster. If calling me your cat makes you feel safe, then I’ll be your cat.”

Tim shakes his head. "You're not a monster. Ra's was a monster. A monster would take advantage of the fact that they have my soul but you didn't try to force me to have sex with you. You only joined in after I initiated it first.

I still don't really understand you or what you get out of this," he admits. "I keep trying to find what angle you could possibly be playing but then you do things like this and none of my theories make sense anymore.

I don't know why my health is so important to you past the task you set for me, but you haven't even pushed me to study for it.

So you're strange, maybe the strangest being I've met, but you're not a monster."

Phantom hums low in his chest, a sound that can be translated into either agreement or doubt. It thrums against Tim’s ribs like a second heartbeat, but when Tim tilts his head to check, Phantom’s eyes are closed. Asleep—or at least pretending to be.

Outside, the day hasn't ended yet. There is still sunlight clinging stubbornly to the edges of the horizon. But as Phantom drifts into slumber, the view beyond shifts. The skies over the Infinite Realms darken into a velvet night, bleeding into shades of black and indigo, blues melting into pinks and purples. Galaxies spin lazily overhead like clouds being pushed by soft breezes, constellations rearranging themselves as if trying to lull both of them into the same dream.

Shadows cocoon Tim a little tighter, soft as silk, and he realizes Phantom isn’t answering with words at all. This is his answer: lowering his guard into a soft sleep.

For a few long minutes, he lets himself look the way Phantom has been looking at him. He doesn't have multiple eyes of course, but this close he can make out the way the shadows form the shape of Phantom's outline. There's the faintest sparkle of light on his cheeks, almost like freckles made of stardust. Tim would trace them with his fingers if he weren't afraid of disturbing his sleep.

Like this, Phantom's presence is dimmed. His shadows barely move as his chest continues to rumble with the low thrum of his purr, almost like a heartbeat replacement.

Tim lays his head down and lets it lull him to sleep, suddenly aware of how heavy his eyelids are and how drained he still feels.

They doze like that, the light of drifting galaxies playing across their bodies as they sleep curled around one another like two bonded feral cats.

Chapter Text

It isn't until a knock on the door awakens them hours later to a plate of food left by the doorway that they finally stir.

Phantom is first, waking with the slow inevitability of a tide pulling back. His eyes open—not just two, but all of them at once, appearing and vanishing like blinking stars scattered across his face. The faint galaxy-light catches on their edges before dimming again, as if even his gaze is reluctant to wake.

He doesn't speak. Not at first. His voice seems left behind in his dreams. He is quieter now, as though the nap has pulled him deeper into the core of himself.

His shadows shift. They slip across the floor like ink in water, creeping toward the door with purpose. Whatever has been left there is dragged back across the stone with a whispering scrape until it comes to rest near his seat.

Phantom looks at it without recognition, no more understanding of its contents than a crow has of the shine it carries to its nest. To him, it isn’t food or offering—it is simply left for him, and that is enough to warrant his attention.

Tim stirs when he moves, blinking blearily at his surroundings. It registers that Phantom hasn’t tried to move him. Tim is still curled up in his lap, tucked against the quiet rumble of his chest. Phantom, for all his shadows and strangeness, doesn’t seem to notice—or, perhaps, simply doesn't see any reason he should worry about having him close while trying to examine the offering.

He peers over Phantom's shadows to squint blearily at what has his attention. A soft huff of air leaves his lips when his eyes finally focus in on the plate and its matching bottle of water.

"We missed dinner," he says, voice rough with sleep. "It looks like they combined it with breakfast. I'll have to tell them that that's not how it works."

He stretches slowly and the shadows move with him like liquid. He goes boneless against Phantom's chest when he's done and they settle along with him like the surface of a lake gone undisturbed. His stomach gurgles in complaint, now that he has been reminded of its existence.

Phantom’s head dips, shadows bending with the motion as his many eyes blink in and out like stars swallowed by passing clouds. He stares at Tim with that weightless, unearthly focus, as if the words themselves are less important than the mortal who speaks them.

Confusion radiates from him, impossible to mistake even through the shifting dark that makes up his face. It isn't just that he doesn't understand the concept of dinner-versus-breakfast—it is that he is still trying to understand Tim.

The plate of food is forgotten almost instantly in favor of studying the warmth pressed against his chest, the voice that speaks in sleep-rough syllables, the stomach that growls like a small ghost begging to be fed. His eyes flicker faster, appearing and vanishing as if testing out perspectives, each one searching for meaning in the simple truth of human needs.

Tim rubs the sleep from his eyes and smiles in the face of Phantom's many inquisitive ones. "Not a morning person, are you?" He lifts a hand to push the shadows that seem to act almost like hair at times back from Phantom's face—even as they try to bend closer. "I'm not really one either."

He muffles a yawn in a hand and leans over Phantom's lap to grab the plate. He picks up a hard boiled egg and bites into it, chewing and swallowing before holding it up to where Phantom's mouth normally is. "See? You eat it."

Phantom’s shadows curl forward eagerly. For a moment, with his too-many eyes blinking in sync, he looks almost curious. Then his mouth opens.

Rows of jagged teeth glint like broken glass, far too many for anything pretending to be human. Tim’s instincts scream and he jerks his hand back just in time. Phantom’s jaws snap shut with an audible crunch, cleanly severing the egg in two as though it is nothing more than mist.

Tim freezes, wide-eyed, staring at where his fingers had been a breath ago. Phantom chews with clear satisfaction, a low hum reverberating in his chest, shadows pulsing faintly in rhythm with the sound. The effect is almost… smug.

Tim blinks at him, caught between horrified laughter and disbelief.

Phantom tilts his head, eyes phasing in and out like lazy stars, as if he can't quite understand the look. He just keeps chewing, swallows, then hums again like it's the most curious thing in the world.

"Right," he finally mutters, "no feeding the sleepy eldritch creature while he's too out of it to remember that I can't grow back limbs."

He picks up a piece of toast and pulls it away when he sees Phantom start to lean his head forward. "Uh uh. Give me your hand, you can feed yourself. You've lost your human privileges."

Phantom's eyes narrow almost sulkily, as if he can understand from the tone alone that he's being scolded somehow. He offers a hand, long fingers curling around the piece of toast that now looks absurdly small in his grasp. He pokes at it for a moment before gulping it down the same way he'd done the egg.

Tim watches him from a safe distance, chewing thoughtfully on his own toast. His eyes flick down when a shadow brushes against his plate. It feels curiously at the offerings before picking up a strawberry. It lifts it into the air near Tim's mouth and waves it like a prize. Another pats at Tim's cheek insistently as he swallows.

"You... want to feed me?" he says slowly.

The strawberry is shoved unceremoniously into his mouth. Tim's shoulders shake with quiet laughter.

Phantom’s chest rumbles like a great engine starting; the vibration runs through the air in pleased, rolling purrs. He closes every one of his many eyes, shadows curling lazily around Tim like cats content with their prize.

For a moment, it is peaceful—almost domestic, almost normal.

Then every eye snaps open at once. Phantom goes rigid, his shadows stiffening like bristled fur. A thousand voices spill out of him at once, overlapping, echoing, each one gasping the same word.

“Tim!”

Tim, who stiffens only because Phantom does in instinct. When it's obvious that there's no actual danger, he relaxes, looking back at him with an amused lift of an eyebrow.

There are three different tendrils by his face, waving their prizes. One holds a piece of apple; another a bit of egg; the third is holding a goblet of water that is dangerously close to spilling. Tim takes it, swallows what's in his mouth and gently pushes at the other two before they can shove their gifts into his mouth as well.

"Hi," he smiles, before taking a sip of water. "You awake now?"

Phantom’s shadows bristle out around him, sharp and jagged at the edges. To anyone else, it might look like the beginning of a threat, an eldritch horror rising to strike. But Tim has learned to look closer. The way the tendrils twitch, curling in on themselves like fists trying to hide—this isn't menace. This is embarrassment.

“You were sleeping!” Phantom blurts, though it isn't just one voice. It's with the same thousand that had shouted his name, layered and high-pitched, like an entire choir of indignant children tattling at once. “In my Haunt!”

Phantom’s eyes—so many eyes—flicker in every direction at once, shadows curling in tighter, as if caught in the act of being flustered. His chest rumbles with a noise halfway between a purr and a groan.

"...was I not supposed to?" His head tilts to the side. "You seemed to fall asleep first, so I figured it was okay to join. You said no one can come in, right?"

Phantom stutters, layered voices stumbling over one another in a nervous crackle of sound. His shadows twitch and waver before snapping closer, constricting around Tim’s arms and legs as though to make absolutely sure he won't slip away.

He shakes his head quickly, the glow of his eyes flaring brighter.

“It’s— it’s alright. You are alright,” he insists, the words tumbling over themselves in a rush. Shadows squeeze, holding him in place with a gentleness that is only just shy of possessive. “Can… you can sleep here.”

What Phantom doesn't say—what he can’t—is that sharing a Haunt this way isn’t casual at all. It is an intimacy so deep it goes beyond words: a declaration that he trusts Tim enough to let him rest in the one place he is strongest. And, more terrifyingly, the one place that Phantom himself feels safe enough to sleep in, tangled in shadows, knowing Tim will not hurt him when he is simultaneously at his weakest.

Tim glances down at the restraints. He realizes, with a sudden jolt of awareness, that he hasn't once felt caged—at least, not in a bad way—whenever Phantom seems to feel the urge to coil around him like a snake with its prey. He is historically known to hate being bound when outside the bedroom—sometimes even while in it. It's an occupational hazard of being both a vigilante and a well known name with money. But it doesn't feel condescending here. It doesn't feel like Phantom is trying to make him into something he's not, or hold him down for something he knows Tim will hate. In fact, every time it's happened has either been soothing or pleasurable. Sometimes both at once.

"I have to use the bathroom," he declares abruptly. "And shower and change. Then we need to go over some questions the Instructor of Consorts gave me."

The shadows freeze; tension ripples through them like startled oil in water. Then, almost sheepishly, they begin to unravel from his arms and legs, slipping away with surprising delicacy. A few linger longer than necessary, brushing against Tim’s skin in a ghost of a caress before finally releasing him.

Phantom himself shifts back. His shoulders hunch slightly as the light in his eyes dim from fierce to soft. One last tendril loops around Tim’s hand, steadying him as he rises, as though Phantom can’t quite help but guide him to his feet.

“Go,” he says, layered voices dropping into a low, almost reverent timbre. “I’ll wait here. Take the time you need.”

He doesn't say it, but the promise is in every curl of shadow that stays close without clinging: I’ll still be here when you return.

Tim turns sharply on his heel and doesn't let himself look back. He tells himself he isn't fleeing the weight of that many-eyed gaze but he's a liar.

It feels like it's an eternity before he's out the door and closing it behind himself. He sags against it, breathing deep.

"Get yourself together," he hisses at his racing heart. It doesn't respond, nor does it slow down.

He's so lost in thought on his way to the bathroom that he doesn't notice the pile of books on the floor until he stumbles over them. He curses and just barely manages to keep from falling. When he looks down, his eyebrows shoot up towards his forehead.

The Human Body and How It Works, stares back up at him. He bends to examine the other titles. Mental Health and its Relationship with Touch. Nutrition: What You Need to Know. Initiating Intimacy. Relationships and the Forms They Take. Anal Sex: A Guide.

Tim stares at that last one. There's a note amongst the pile, written in a scrawl he can't read. He assumes it must be from Frostbite; Phantom had said he'd gone to see him. What exactly had they talked about to warrant these kinds of books? And why did Phantom need the last one? Every time they're intimate he seems to play Tim's body like an instrument. Unless this is about the comment Tim had made in the garden, about wanting him inside.

He flushes, going hot all over from both embarrassment and arousal. He shakes his head and forces himself to get back on track.

Conversation, he reminds himself, as he grabs another shirt from Phantom's closet and heads to the bathroom. Still, he finds himself lingering in the shower even after he should be out. He resolutely ignores the voices in his head and caves, dipping a hand between his legs to clean himself properly.

Just in case.

When he returns to Phantom's Haunt the ends of his hair are still damp and his cheeks are still slightly flushed. He's in white this time; a shirt in the same style as the one from yesterday, only this one has a deep v at the front with green laces running up to the collar.

Phantom turns the moment Tim steps back inside and every single eye on his body fixes on him with laser focus. The air itself seems to thrum under that scrutiny, the weight of his attention enough to make the hair at the back of Tim’s neck stand on end. The way Phantom is looking at him isn’t subtle—not even close. His gaze drags over Tim’s figure like a physical touch, lingering on the damp tips of his hair, the flush in his cheeks, the way the soft white shirt clung and dipped in all the right places.

A low, resonant sound starts deep in Phantom’s chest—a purr, rich and vibrating, as much a summons as it is an expression of approval. It is intimate, almost possessive, carrying that dangerous, magnetic edge Tim is beginning to associate with his ghost. It seems to fill the room, seeping into the walls and vibrating up from the floor in a way that makes Tim's toes curl. It sends a delicious little shiver down his spine as his breath catches in his throat.

Shadows curl and shift around Phantom’s form, stretching toward Tim like grasping hands, beckoning him closer without words. The message is clear without a single syllable spoken: Come here, and caught in the web of that gaze, he takes a step forward without thinking. Darkness licks at his ankles, begging him forward without any real force—yet.

He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and uses the pain to snap himself out of it. He tears his eyes away and sidesteps, dancing around the reaching tendrils to head for the desk where he's left his journal.

"I think," he starts, voice coming out rough before he clears his throat, "that it would be counterintuitive for me to be near you right now. So I'm going to stay over here while we talk."

He turns back around to face Phantom and sits on top of the desk so his ankles can't be grabbed once more. The shirt rides up his thighs before he fixes it, suddenly cursing himself for deciding not to wear anything underneath.

He opens his journal and grabs a pen. "Okay?"

Phantom’s gaze never wavers, all those glowing eyes following Tim with predatory focus. His shadows coil and uncoil like restless serpents, but they obey, retreating just enough to let Tim perch safely atop the desk. The deep purr in his chest softens into something lower, steadier—like the rumble of distant thunder. He tilts his head, humming something that sounds a lot like agreement, though the way his shadows still twitch betrays how much he wants Tim closer.

Tim takes another deep breath. Despite the agreement, it doesn't feel like he's in control at all. It's not a feeling Tim is used to by any means.

"The Instructor of Consorts told me that our most important task is to communicate. She said," again he clears his throat, face flushing despite himself, "that we should determine... limits. And what kind of image we want to present to your subjects. There are ways to manipulate people through actions alone, especially when they already think so little of me. We have to decide how far that will go outside of—outside of these rooms."

Why is his heart pounding so hard? He's faced down Gods and monsters and world ending threats. His sex life should be nothing.

He twists his pen restlessly between his fingers, still unable to look directly at the eyes he can see out of the corner of his vision.

"The—startlingly descriptive, by the way—book I read talked a lot about the sexual antics of the minor Kings and their Consorts. Some did not—do not—initiate things in the public's eye at all. Others flaunt it. Both have pros and cons. I would like to hear your thoughts."

Phantom crooks his head to one side, studying Tim in silence for a moment longer before his many eyes slide shut. The room seems to settle with him, as though even the restless shadows are waiting for him to speak. It takes time—long enough that Tim’s pen stills in his hand—before Phantom’s voice finally breaks the heavy quiet.

“Most of the time,” he begins, slow and deliberate, “when a ruler flaunts their mate like that, it is because their consort is a strong, imposing figure. To be able to put someone of that caliber beneath them cements their power.” His shadows curl along the floor, threading between the legs of Tim’s chair as if unable to help it. “Other times, it is because the couple’s strength together is… overwhelming. Enough that the world needs to be reminded that they are lesser than the pair—so they can do whatever they please, wherever they please.”

Phantom shifts where he sits, his expression unreadable but his discomfort clear. “I am not human anymore. The shame you may feel in such things… is not mine to share. I do not mind being seen.” His gaze slides back to Tim, glowing eyes gleaming softly. “But showing that my Consort is strong enough to take me—strong enough that I do not care what the court thinks—” his voice drops lower, quieter, “that is a powerful statement.”

Tim's mouth goes dry. Put like that, it doesn't sound like a sacrifice. It's not just a way to make others underestimate him; it's not a form of lowering himself in front of others. It almost sounds... worshipful.

His eyes drift to the cosmos moving past the windows.

What would it be like to look at all those sneering faces; all the condescension and disdain and flaunt his position? To show just how much Phantom seems to desire him; that he is the best for the task.

He swallows in an attempt to wet his throat.

"I think," he starts slowly, "that I would not be opposed to discussing it again at a later date, when we are more familiar with one another. For now—"

He jots down a note to follow up on the decision in the future and moves to the next topic.

"You seem to have a propensity towards taking control. You have made comments about collars and clothes; have held me down more than once and seem to enjoy manipulating my body. Humans would call you a dominant. In these scenarios normally limits are discussed and safe words are made before hand, to check in and stop play if it gets to be too much.

We have skipped ahead several steps," Tim says dryly. "But I will tell you what I know of myself from other encounters and you can tell me if any of it is something you would not like to do."

Another deep breath. He forces himself to read the list he's made with clinical detachment, as if he's reading a mission debrief instead of baring himself.

"Choking and breath play, you've already discovered. I normally do not enjoy ropes but your shadows have yet to trigger any of my instincts; it will have to be monitored. Spanking or impact play, but only on my ass and thighs. Bruises. Hair pulling. Sensory deprivation in specific discussed scenarios. Orgasm control. Marking. ...Praise."

He clears his throat and forces himself to look up. "Thoughts?"

Phantom hums low in his throat, the sound curling through the space between smoke. “My instincts will not take kindly to anyone else touching what is mine without my permission,” he says, voice steady, unyielding. “That applies to you as well. Touches you initiate are fine—wanted. But if another dares to lay a hand on you, I will react, and I will not be gentle.”

It isn't a threat so much as a simple truth, stated as naturally as breath.

He shifts, claws flexing against the soft blankets of his nest before continuing, softer now but no less intense. “Ghosts are attuned to emotions. Yours are like a beacon to me. If you are in discomfort, or if fear takes hold of you—true fear—I will retreat. Even if every instinct in me screams to continue, I will stop. I cannot do something you do not want. Not unless I wanted to harm you… and I don’t. I will not cause you fear.”

His head tilts, glowing eyes narrowing with an expression Tim can't quite place—something between possession and reverence. “You are mine. I want you to feel that. You are mine until the arrangement ends. But I will not break you to prove it.

In respect of what I like or dislike, whatever doesn't make you disgusted or afraid."

"You are being cruel," Tim practically sighs, before he can stop himself. "But I've seen enough to know that you do not mean to be. Not in this."

To ask him to give himself over the way he has never been able to due to all the hangups in his human life; to ask him to consider himself Phantom's, knowing full well it comes with an expiration date.

If Tim is to go through with this, he does not know what will be left to take with him when he leaves, or if he will shatter like tempered glass when it is hit just right. Perhaps it would be better to simply refuse the deal and have Phantom destroy his soul; to cease his existence entirely to save himself the hurt.

"I don't want to be shared," he states, pressing on before he can linger on his morbid thoughts. The very idea makes his stomach turn. "Ever. And I don't want to share."

Phantom’s gaze softens. He inclines his head with a solemn nod.

“As long as you have me,” he says, low and steady, “I will be yours only.”

There is no hesitation, no hint of teasing or negotiation. It is a promise, sealed with the kind of certainty only a creature of death can carry—a vow that, for as long as Tim chooses to claim him, Phantom will remain his and his alone.

Tim's heart aches like it can't decide if it wants to break or patch some of its still bleeding wounds. It's too soon to ask what will happen if Tim ends up deciding he wants to choose to claim him even past his term.

Below him, the shadows have reached the chair's seat. They climb higher to brush against his ankles again, pulling, coaxing, pleading in gentle tugs for him to come closer. This time, Tim listens.

He doesn't want to think about the future anymore.

He drops down from the desk to cross the space between them, letting shadows swallow up the floor behind him as if expecting him to attempt to escape.

Phantom seems to brighten, his entire form sparking with an otherworldly glow the moment Tim moves toward him. His hands lift instinctively, reaching for Tim like a starving man grasping for warmth. A low, resonant purr rumbles in his chest—deep enough to vibrate through the air—as if the sound alone can coax Tim the rest of the way.

When his mouth parts, the light inside him burns bright and toxic, a molten green glow that curls past sharp teeth, equal parts invitation and danger. Yet his expression is soft, almost reverent, as though Tim’s approach is a gift he hadn’t dared to hope for.

In the face of such obvious joy, Tim can't help the smile he ducks his head in an attempt to hide. His stomach flutters, something warm and soft filling him from the inside out.

He doesn't hesitate to take those hands once they're in reach, following their pull to settle into Phantom's lap, knees on either side of what would have been his hips did his lower body not simply disappear into a pool of shadow.

"Hi," he says softly, shyly.

“Hi.”

Phantom’s voice is a low, resonant rumble as he looks down at Tim, a thousand glowing eyes narrowing, every single one fixed solely on him. “You were too far away,” he says, leaning forward until his presence is all-encompassing, shadows curling around Tim like smoke, until he can see nothing else.

His cold nose brushes against Tim’s jaw before he nuzzles underneath like a cat scenting their human. When Tim welcomes him closer still, a hand threaded into the moving expanse of his hair, his purr thrums in Tim’s very bones. “Remind me,” Phantom murmurs, fangs just barely grazing skin, “what was your policy on markings?”

He shudders, head falling further to the side to offer up more of his skin, like a lamb going peacefully to the slaughter. "Positive," he breathes. "Very positive."

Phantom’s answering growl is a low, pleased vibration against his throat, breath gone cold enough to raise goosebumps across every inch of exposed skin. He tilts Tim’s head up with a clawed hand, sharp nails ghosting along his jawline; the touch is both dangerous and reverent all at once.

Then his mouth descends.

The first press of fangs is gentle, exploratory—an icy kiss that sends a shiver rippling down Tim’s spine. Phantom’s teeth graze him, teasing, until Tim’s breath hitches, body trembling in anticipation. And then—slowly, deliberately—he bites.

A whimper tears itself free from Tim's parted lips. He rocks up onto his knees, pressing the length of his body into Phantom's, until no space remains. More importantly, however, is how it pushes his neck further into Phantom's mouth.

Shadows climb up his legs, teasing at the backs of his knees, the insides of his thighs before tightening into solid bands. They squeeze once as if in warning, keeping him still. Tim's fingers tighten their grip, clinging fast for support.

"You can—" he sucks in a breath, eyelashes fluttering as he feels the way those teeth sit around his throat. He knows they're sharp, can feel the way they threaten to pierce his skin. Kon never wanted to risk hurting him for real; anything that had the potential to leave permanent marks was off the table; but here and now with Phantom, he feels brave enough to ask for more. "You can make me bleed. If you want."

The whole room seems to shiver at his words, the air thickening as if it can taste his surrender. When the reply comes, it isn’t just Phantom’s voice—it's a chorus, a whisper creeping in from every corner, layered and echoing in tones both reverent and hungry.

“Pretty consort… begging to be devoured.”

The words are like the last chant at the altar; the final fall of the blade that spills the lamb's blood. It's too late to go back now.

Phantom’s fangs press harder. At first, it's only a warning, the promise of pain—a slow push that sends sharp tingles rushing down Tim’s spine. Then they press deeper; a suggestion of ownership. A threat. Until finally, his skin yields with a wet tear, jagged edges parting around wicked teeth. The bite is shallow—it has to be, to ensure Phantom doesn't accidentally take a chunk out of him—but for Tim, it feels like being consumed, every nerve alight.

Phantom holds him there, mouth fastened to his throat, sucking softly as if to savor the taste of his lifeblood as Tim moans. Shadows coil higher, slick and teasing as they trace the lines of his thighs. One bold tendril slips up to press insistently against his entrance, cool and smooth as silk.

The world seems to still. It's like everything stops as Phantom feels the faint slickness already there; the way there is already give to the muscle from where Tim cleaned himself in the shower. That predatory stillness raises the hairs on the back of his neck, screaming for him to run. He doesn't—can't.

Phantom releases his neck only to roar; a low, guttural sound that tears itself free from his chest—not in anger, but out of pure instinct; the sound of a predator announcing their intent to prey. The library practically shakes around them as the sound moves through Tim's eardrums, down past muscle and sinew to vibrate in his bones, in the very marrow of his being. There is no escape, the library seems to say, as it echoes back the sound of his inevitable surrender, building upon itself until it's all Tim can hear.

The shadows no longer hesitate. They surge upward, curling around his thighs like living restraints before slipping between them with unrelenting intent. The first tendril slips inside him slowly, stretching him open with an almost possessive care before it's followed by another, and then another. Each one moves with a sinuous rhythm, slick and cool, thrusting deeper with every stroke.

Tim shakes; the sensation is like nothing he's ever felt before. The shadows are living things, all moving individually; all fucking him to their own rhythm. He is never not filled; never not being thrust into. In fact, yet more join in, stroking his walls in ways that leave him tingling.

Phantom’s bite deepens just slightly. His tongue gathers the faint trickle of blood before it can spill as the shadows pulse in time with his thrumming core.

The room itself seems alive with eldritch energy.

"Already started," he half teases, half scolds. "Impatient. Need punishment."

"I only cleaned myself," Tim gasps out, clutching at Phantom's shoulders for dear life. "I didn't—I wanted to be prepared—"

The world shifts abruptly as Tim is put on his back. The shadows beneath Tim act almost like quicksand; sucking him in a few inches and locking his upper body into place. Above him, Phantom looms like a nightmare, eyes alight, that green glow lighting up the inside of his mouth.

"Take care of you." He insists, curling two hands around Tim's thighs. His fingers are so long that he encircles them completely in his grasp. Tim can't even pretend to try to fight his strength as he's maneuvered to where he wants him. He ends up with his legs spread, hips lifted up onto Phantom's lap. "My job."

“I’m—” Tim’s voice breaks on a gasp, his eyes flying wide when Phantom shifts him just enough for white-hot sparks to race down his spine, cock twitching helplessly against his belly.

Phantom’s smile curves sharp and wolfish, fangs glinting as two of his many eyes lock onto Tim’s flushed face. “Yes?” he purrs, voice dripping amusement. The rest of his unblinking gaze remains fixed between Tim’s trembling thighs, where shadows writhe like eager serpents, striking over and over at the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him.

Tim’s breath stutters with every thrust, every precise stroke against his prostate. The shadows are a mass now—at least ten, twisted together into a thick, undulating coil that keeps him stretched and trembling. Each time they withdraw, the relief is brief, fleeting; another tendril joins the mix, and the delicious burn returns, leaving Tim gasping and shaking in his restraints.

Phantom leans in, his breath cool against Tim’s ear as his voice sinks lower, darker. “You take me so well, Consort of mine. Every inch… I know just how far I can stretch you.” One clawed hand curls around Tim’s hip, possessive, while the shadows pulse thicker, expanding fraction by fraction inside him. “You’ll open up for me. You’re mine to fill, aren’t you?”

Tim whimpers. Those words are so sure, so matter-of-fact, as if it's simply another law Phantom has decreed to the universe. His body clenches instinctively, but Phantom only chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates up the length of Tim’s spine. They both know there is little Tim's body can do to truly fight back. “Don't tell me you've lost your voice? It seemed like you had so much to say only moments ago."

"I—Phantom—!" Tim’s cry breaks into a ragged moan when the shadows shift, curling around his thighs and calves like living restraints. Then he feels it—wet heat and sharp points—as the first mouth forms from the inky tendrils and latches onto the soft flesh of his thigh.

Another appears on his calf, then another near the curve of his hip. Each mouth bites and sucks greedily, leaving dark, rising bruises that form under his pale skin. The sensations blur together—sting and pleasure, pressure and warmth—until he’s shaking, unable to tell where the pain ends and the need begins.

He struggles, but it’s useless; the shadows pin him easily, spreading him open while more mouths appear, dotting his legs like a predator marking its prey. Each bite makes him arch, makes his breath hitch, and Phantom drinks in every sound, his grin feral.

A deep rumble escapes Phantom’s chest, vibrating through the air, through Tim’s bones. “You're mine,” he says again, voice thick with excitement. “Every step you take after this, you’ll remember who you belong to.”

Another mouth seals over the sensitive skin behind his knee, sucking until Tim jerks violently against his bindings. His cock weeps untouched between his legs, red and aching. Phantom laughs, low and dark, shadows tightening around Tim’s waist as if in warning. “You won’t walk without me on you, written into your skin.” His voice is hungry now, velvet and teeth and claim. “Every bruise… every mark… mine.”

Tim’s head tips back as more mouths appear to fill in the spaces between the previous, biting, sucking, marking him from ankle to hip. His legs are going to be nothing but bruises and half moon bite marks; if he leaves the room everyone will see just how thoroughly he's been marked.

His body trembles as he's introduced to previously unknown sensitive places, breath hitching with every bruise drawn to the surface, every sharp nip and teasing lick. No one has paid him so much attention before. He learns that there's a spot just above the back of his knee that makes him kick out with a startled giggle. He learns that the scar on his calf where a glancing shot caught him is extremely sensitive when nibbled on. He learns that sharp, bleeding bites to his hip bones make his eyes roll into the back of his head and his hips buck.

Phantom takes note of every single one. No one is going to know Tim better by the time he's done; not even Tim himself.

Through it all, Phantom’s tendrils never stop moving, stretching and filling, while the mouths work in tandem, dragging him to the brink of an overstimulation unlike any he's felt before.

Phantom’s tone drops to a guttural whisper, reverent and possessive. Hands form from the shadows keeping Tim's upper body in place. Some of them are sweet; two tangle with Tim's own to give him something to hold on to. Others simply explore. “Look at you… shaking for me. Covered in me. My sweet Consort. You won’t hide this. I want them to see the way I ruin you."

A hand slides over Tim's mouth, muffling his cries. The others pet over his sides, tracing the notches of his ribs, twisting at nipples and memorizing scars. And then the mouths join in, appearing in each palm.

He thrashes but there's no give. Just the wet slide of tongues and the teasing bite of teeth on his nipples, in his mouth, on his neck, his ribs, even his fingers. It's overwhelming.

The shadows inside him start to shift again, curling tighter, twisting against every nerve they can reach. What had been ten tendrils stretching him open now feels like twice as many, thickening and growing until the stretch burns so deliciously he wouldn't be able to speak even without the tongue in his mouth.

His thighs tremble, bound wide and useless as another slick coil pushes inside, forcing him to take more, making him feel full in a way that’s almost unbearable. He sobs out a moan when one curls deep, pressing directly against his prostate and dragging a sharp sound from his throat. It's been so long since he's felt this. To be so surrounded, so utterly consumed, sends tears rolling down his flushed cheeks.

And still, the shadows never slow. They writhe and twist inside him, thrusting and stretching, forcing him to take more and more until Tim feels split open, every nerve lit up and raw. The mouths biting along his chest and ribs are relentless; Phantom is writing his claim into every inch of him.

Phantom leans close, his glowing eyes drinking in every twitch and cry, voice a low rumble that drips hunger.

“There it is… that sweet stretch.” His claws trace Tim’s jaw, tilting his head back to watch the way his wet eyes try to focus. His pupils are blown wide, lashes clumped together with tears. The prettiest thing in all the realms. “You can take it. I know how much this body can handle. You were made to take me, sweetheart… to let me ruin you.”

Another thick shadow slides in with obscene slowness, and Tim’s chest stutters, his cock twitching helplessly. His eyes roll into the back of his head as his head tosses—or tries to; even that is controlled by the grip on his chin.

“That’s it,” Phantom growls. “Open for me. You're perfect—so full you can’t even think. You’ll be shaking for hours.”

Tim has never been stretched this wide; not even by Kon. The tendrils move like they’re alive, twisting against each other inside him. The sensation is overwhelming, blurring pleasure and pain until Tim’s body is arching and trembling against his restraints. He’s drooling now, spit dripping past the hand on his mouth to be swallowed by shadow.

Phantom’s grin is sharp and pleased. “Look at you… cock dripping, body shaking, and all I’ve done is stretch you."

A particularly thick tendril thrusts deep, making Tim sob. Phantom’s growl deepens, shadows tightening possessively. “Take it. I'm the only one that can give you this. The only one that can satisfy you. You'll remember this the next time you're alone, when your hands trail lower. You belong to me."

The stretch is obscene now—filling him so deep he swears he can feel them pressing against his stomach.

One shadow curls around the base of his cock, as if sensing just how close he is to coming untouched. It squeezes, stopping his release in its tracks. Another tendril snakes up to tease at the head, slick and slow, smearing precome. Tim is so sensitive he nearly screams.

“Messy thing,” Phantom murmurs, licking up the sweat and spit dripping down Tim’s throat. “You’re shaking. You want to come for me?”

Tim nods desperately around the hand covering his mouth; Phantom’s grin sharpens. “Not yet."

A fresh wave of tears floods down his face as he sobs, ugly and desperate. His thighs tremble violently in their bindings; his cock is an obscene red.

Phantom laughs softly. “So desperate. So wrecked. I could keep you like this all night, little one—stuffed, marked, dripping for me. You'd like that wouldn't you? If only you could see what I see. Your body is practically begging to be owned."

A particularly thick coil pushes deep and stays there, stretching Tim wide enough he chokes. The hand on his face lifts away, revealing spit slick lips bitten to a flushing bloody red. Phantom leans down to run his tongue along their gasping seam.

“Look at you,” Phantom growls, his own form practically stuttering from frantic arousal. “Stuffed so full you can’t even speak. I can see it—” he presses a clawed hand over Tim’s stomach, grinning wider when Tim cries out. “—feel me right here, can’t you?”

His body jerks as Phantom’s claws drag lightly down his abdomen, shadows thrusting hard enough to make his next cry a borderline scream.

“I could add more," he says, tilting his head to say it into Tim's ear softly, almost sweetly, like a love confession. Tim sniffles wetly. "You’d take it. You’d take all of me until you’re nothing but a trembling mess, wouldn’t you?”

Tim’s body is on fire, slick with sweat and arousal, his cock twitching helplessly. He tries to say something, anything, but his voice cracks before he's even begun.

Another thick shadow pushes in slow, stretching him even further. The pressure is unbearable and perfect, his body clenching desperately around the intrusion. Phantom growls, low and pleased as he presses a hand to where Tim has been split open, fingers stroking along the edge of his trembling rim. “That’s it… You said you wanted me to fuck you so take every inch. I want you so full you feel me for days.”

"Please," he tries to beg, but it comes out as a broken moan when another tendril thrusts deep, curling against his prostate with brutal precision. His body jerks hard in its bindings, legs trembling violently as Phantom’s shadows fuck him open from every angle. He’s full—aching, stretched wide and clenching helplessly, yet Phantom shows no sign of mercy.

A thick coil slips from his stretched hole, only for another to take its place, the constant movement making Tim’s head spin. Each one feels hotter than the last, slick and pulsing like a second heartbeat inside him.

Phantom’s laugh is a low rumble, a vibration that crawls through Tim’s chest as Phantom strokes his hair back from his face and watches the way his eyes struggle to stay open. “You’re perfect like this,” he growls. “Tight and trembling. You’ll take it all, won’t you, sweetheart?”

Tim nods frantically, unable to form words as the tendril around his cock squeezes harder, stroking him in a rhythm that makes his hips jerk despite the restraints. He’s close—so close he can barely breathe.

Phantom smirks, glowing eyes fixed hungrily to every aspect of his ruined body. With a sharp thrust, a shadow drives deep, forcing a loud cry from Tim’s throat. Another follows, stretching him even wider, filling him until he feels like he’s going to burst. They all seem to shift at once then, twisting away from the tangled mass they've become to pull at the sides of his ass instead. They hold him open, leaving him feeling vulnerable in a way previously thought impossible.

“That’s it… I’m going to fill you, Tim,” Phantom snarls, voice raw with hunger. He surges up, a hand sliding down to where his body disappears into darkness and then—pressure. Something brushes over Tim's rim before sliding into the opening the tendrils hold wide. It moves deeper, only stopping when his walls are straining to stretch even wider. The shadows slide away, leaving only Phantom's cock behind. Tim's eyes go wide, mouth dropping open in a soundless cry when he thrusts lightly.

It's not the full length—that will take much more preparation—but it's Phantom. Hot and thick inside him, length moving the way no human cock can. Filling him so much that when Tim pulls against his bindings, slurs out a "want t' see" and is actually allowed, he can see the bulge in his stomach. The shadows help prop him up enough so that he can touch a trembling hand to the skin, feeling strung out and out of his mind when he presses down and feels Phantom twitch in response.

“You’ll be dripping me for days," his lover promises, when he finally looks up at where he looms, "Everyone will know you’re mine.”

Tim’s cock throbs, his whole body shaking. The shadow coiled around his length loosens, and Phantom leans down, biting his neck hard enough to draw blood. Tim sobs, a choked whimper torn from his chest as pleasure crashes over him; his orgasm ripped out of him so violently it almost hurts.

But Phantom doesn’t stop.

The tendril around his cock moves, milking every drop from him as he squirms helplessly, his cock overstimulated and aching, body spasming around what parts of Phantom's length he's managed to take.

“So pretty when you cry,” Phantom coos, licking the blood from his neck. “My sweet little human, you’re built to take everything I give you.”

Tim’s mind is a haze of pleasure and pain, his hips twitching involuntarily as Phantom pushes him to the edge again, relentless and hungry. He feels full—so full he can barely think, the sensation of being stuffed to the brim driving him insane. And still, Phantom presses deeper, an inescapable pressure that his body can't escape, slow like a moving glacier.

Phantom growls, shadows tightening possessively. “I’m not stopping until you're spent. Until you’re dripping, ruined, and too sore to even walk. You’re mine. Say it.”

Tim sobs, breathless and trembling. “Y-yours!” he gasps out, voice hoarse. “I’m yours.”

The words seem to snap something in Phantom. With a guttural growl, he pulls his hips back and thrusts so hard Tim's hips lift with the force. Tim shudders violently, back arching, his body milking the length of him instinctively even as another orgasm rips through his body. He’s shaking, broken and overstimulated, every nerve in his body screaming, yet Phantom keeps fucking what part of his length manages to fit inside, each thrust punctuated by a low, rumbling growl of satisfaction.

“Good boy,” Phantom purrs darkly, licking along his jaw. “You’re going to remember this every time you move tomorrow. Every bruise, every bite… proof you’re mine.”

He's helpless to do anything but sob into Phantom’s shoulder, voice nearly gone, body trembling as Phantom fills him over and over until it feels like there’s no space left to make room.

“One more,” Phantom growls, voice vibrating through Tim’s very bones. “Give me one more, Tim. Milk me like the good little toy you are.”

Tim’s body obeys without thought, clenching down around that impossible length as another climax crashes over him, leaving him sobbing, utterly spent, and completely ruined. Inside him, Phantom twitches. Then comes the flood.

Hot and thick, it fills him, spilling deep into his insides to leave him bloated and swollen. Tim's eyes go wide and unseeing; mouth open around a soundless scream as he tries to cope with the new sensation.

Phantom’s voice rumbles low, vibrating through the air. His words are a dark promise, a thrill laced with hunger. “You’re going to wear me everywhere, pretty thing… you won’t be able to take a single step without feeling me.”

His cock continues to spill, each twitch of the head drawing another strangled sound from Tim. His hand claws uselessly at his belly, where he swears he can feel the heat of it.

Phantom hums, delighted, “That’s it… every muscle straining for me. You’re made to take this, aren’t you? My perfect Consort.”

He leans down and Tim latches on to him, hands clutching like he'll be torn away otherwise. He cries as the torrent keeps coming, as Phantom eases back ever so slowly only to thrust back in, sending rivers of seed spilling out from where they meet to soak Tim's thighs.

It's overwhelming. Tim doesn't feel like he's in his body anymore; doesn't feel like he's even a person. He's just Phantom's.

He can't control his limbs when the shadows release him. He feels boneless; held together only by Phantom's arms. He's too exhausted to be embarrassed by the way he immediately begins to leak come when he's empty. All he can do is rest his head against Phantom's chest and listen to the soft content purr coming from his core.

There's a hesitation when it comes time for Phantom to leave his Haunt, where Phantom mutters something about needing to put a bathroom inside so he can make sure Tim is as safe as possible. It's a very good thing no one is scheduled to be near their rooms at this hour because Phantom's instincts are on high alert with his Consort so vulnerable; he's liable to rip anyone who tries to come near apart.

He carries Tim to the bathroom where his shadows turn the bathtub on. He lowers Tim tenderly inside, though he's never far. There are at least five different hands on him, stroking back his hair, cupping his cheek, holding his hands, rubbing his back.

Phantom kneels by the edge of the tub, shadows swirling lazily in the water like ink, keeping it perfectly warm. Tim sinks further into the soothing heat, boneless and pliant, and Phantom hums low in approval. One clawed hand gently massages the tense line of Tim’s shoulders, another brushes through damp hair, while hands—smooth and cool—trace reverent patterns over bruised skin.

"Perfect. So perfect for me," Phantom murmurs against the crown of his head, his voice still carrying that deep rumble that curls through Tim’s chest. Soft kisses are pressed along Tim’s temple, his hairline, his jaw—never rushing, never demanding. Each kiss feels like a claim, but one wrapped in devotion rather than hunger.

Tim blinks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, expecting the heat, the feral edge that always lurks behind Phantom’s gaze. Instead, he finds something softer. Worship. The same monstrous being that had him writhing minutes ago is now whispering quiet praises, stroking his skin like it’s porcelain.

Something essential in him cracks open.

"You’re safe. You’re mine. My clever little Consort," Phantom whispers, cupping his face with both hands and leaning in to press a kiss to his brow. Tim lets out a shaky sigh, feeling his body melt under every word, every careful touch.

Phantom dips a hand into the water and begins slowly washing him, gentle as if he’s handling something sacred. He murmurs praise with every caress, every stroke of his fingers over sore muscles, “So strong for me… so good… I’ll take care of everything, all you have to do is breathe.”

There’s an undercurrent of possessiveness in his voice, a low growl woven into the softness as if daring the world to try and harm what’s his. One of the shadow-hands strokes over a mark on Tim’s thigh possessively, and Phantom’s smile sharpens just a little, fangs glinting in the low light. But when Tim shifts closer, eyes fluttering shut, Phantom softens again immediately, leaning in to kiss him slow and sweet.

He washes him in silence for a while, letting his shadows do most of the work as he cradles Tim close, murmuring his name like a mantra. The air feels thick with warmth and protection, a cocoon where time slows, and Tim feels weightless. Taken care of. Safe.

Phantom’s hands never leave him as he helps Tim out of the water, shadows curling protectively around his legs to steady him, though he barely has to hold himself up. Tim feels weightless in his arms, every movement guided with care, as if Phantom is terrified he might break him by holding too tight. A low, soothing hum vibrates through Phantom’s chest, and Tim leans into it, eyelids heavy.

A towel appears, summoned by a shadowy tendril, and Phantom wraps Tim in it with reverence, gently patting him dry. The air is thick with warmth and that faint hum of power. Even in this domestic quiet, Phantom’s presence feels immense, like a storm that’s chosen to wrap itself around Tim instead of the world outside.

“Mine,” Phantom whispers softly against Tim’s damp hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. His claws are blunt against Tim’s skin as he combs through his hair with deliberate slowness, a predator pretending to be harmless. “Always mine.”

Tim’s too tired to do more than hum back, but the way his body relaxes against Phantom is answer enough.

When Phantom lifts him again, there’s no sense of effort—just the sensation of being gathered up, swaddled in warmth and shadows. The rooms seem to shift around them, paths clearing and doors swinging open at Phantom’s will, as though even the space itself knows better than to hinder him while he carries his Consort.

Tim's bed is already turned down, sheets soft and inviting. Phantom lowers him carefully, but Tim makes a soft sound of protest the moment their bodies separate. Phantom chuckles, low and dark, before slipping into the bed as well, pulling Tim onto his chest and wrapping him in both arms and shadows like a living cocoon.

Tim rests his head over Phantom’s core, listening to that steady, soothing hum deep in his chest, and Phantom presses his cheek to Tim’s damp hair.

“Sleep, starlight,” Phantom murmurs. “I’ve got you. No one will come near you.”

The room feels impossibly safe, a fortress wrapped in warmth and shadow. Phantom’s fingers trace slow circles into Tim’s back while another hand cups the back of his neck, keeping him close. His shadows tuck the blanket around them both, sealing them away from the world.

Tim sighs and lets himself go boneless again, held in Phantom’s arms like he belongs there—because, for as long as their contract lasts, he does. Phantom hums, content and protective, claws gently stroking down Tim’s spine, every motion promising safety. He doesn’t sleep—he won’t sleep, not when his Consort is this vulnerable—but he’s perfectly still, his focus entirely fixated on Tim’s heartbeat, Tim’s breathing, guarding him through slumber.

Chapter Text

Tim wakes wrapped in warmth, more comfortable than he's been in… far too long, honestly.

Then he makes the mistake of trying to move.

A pained noise leaves a throat that feels scratchy and dry as a deep ache shoots up from between his legs and into his hips. His face scrunches into a deep grimace. He immediately freezes, breathing through the discomfort before he opens his eyes.

He doesn't remember getting injured.

Tim’s vision clears to an impossible sight—too many eyes blinking open in the darkness above him, glowing green, all zeroed in on him with sharp, predatory focus. Phantom jolts like he’s been shocked, his entire body tensing under Tim.

“You’re hurt,” he breathes, voice low and vibrating with panic.

Tim blinks at him, still sluggish. “I—”

“Don’t move.” Phantom’s tone sharpens, almost commanding. Shadows spill over the bed like liquid night, curling around Tim’s wrists and waist—not restraining, but bracing him, keeping him from shifting.

“I’m fine,” Tim rasps, but the moment he tries to sit up, pain spikes again, and he winces. Phantom snarls softly, the sound reverberating through the room like distant thunder.

“No, you’re not.”

In a blur, Phantom’s arms are under him, cradling him close. Tim makes a small sound of protest, but Phantom is already moving, carrying him with terrifying speed and precision. His shadows part before him like curtains, leading him straight to a wide, plush couch near a glowing fireplace.

“Easy, starlight. I’ve got you,” Phantom murmurs, voice a low rumble meant to soothe even as his grip stays iron-tight. The shadows around them scatter like startled birds, then swarm back, bustling about the room with eerie intelligence. One pulls a soft robe from a dresser, another gathers blankets, while a third returns with a glass of water balanced carefully on a tendril.

Tim tries to protest again, but Phantom hushes him, lowering him onto the couch with a gentleness that feels at odds with his wild energy.

“You’re safe. You’re okay. Just breathe for me.” Phantom kneels in front of him, clawed hands cupping Tim’s face like he’s porcelain. A dozen eyes blink around them in the shadows, scanning Tim up and down as if searching for hidden injuries. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Tim lets himself sink into the cushions, his body still sore. Despite the fact that he has had far worse than a few aches and pains, he is comforted by Phantom’s steady presence. The robe is slipped over his shoulders without him lifting a finger, the blanket tucked around him like a cocoon. Phantom hovers close, clearly resisting the urge to wrap him up in his arms again.

“Don’t worry about anything,” Phantom says softly, the two eyes on his face narrowing in focus. “I hurt you. I’ll make it right.”

The words should sound possessive, maybe even threatening, but the way Phantom says them is soft and terrified. His shadows curl around Tim’s hand like a worried pet.

And Tim—Tim hasn't been babied like this since he was Robin. Maybe not even then. Phantom's nearly frantic but gentle care is very different from the Bats' often overbearing hovering. There's no one here to tell him he's benched; no one to demand a Report; no Alfred to tut and make him tea.

"I'm fine," Tim repeats, after he's drank some of the water. He very carefully flexes each of his fingers and toes, then his ankles and wrists, his arms and legs. He gets another deep ache for his troubles but nothing is broken. Everything moves the right way. He glances down at himself and sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of his skin. He's ridiculously bruised; covered in hickeys to the point that he looks like he got in a fight with a gang of octopi and lost. There are scabbed over bite marks mixed in, though they're shallow.

"Nothing is broken," he says distantly, as he fits his fingers over a hand shaped bruise on his hip. It's much bigger; his breath catches as an embarrassing flicker of heat licks up his spine.

Phantom jolts upright the moment the word “broken” leaves Tim’s mouth. A low, guttural growl escapes him, like the warning rumble of an oncoming storm. His many eyes flare in alarm, swirling with a sickly green glow as if they can x-ray Tim’s entire body on the spot.

“Broken? Broken?!” Phantom’s voice is sharp with distress, his spectral tail lashing like a whip behind him. He moves so quickly Tim barely has time to blink before he's scooped up again, held against Phantom’s broad, freezing chest. “That’s it, we’re finding Frostbite. Now.”

That is certainly enough to break Tim out of his haze. He does not want to go to the ghost doctor over sex related injuries. "Wait!" He protests, struggling futilely in Phantom's arms. "I said nothing is broken! I'm just sore!"

Phantom freezes mid-step, his many eyes narrowing in worried focus as if Tim’s words have to be deciphered twice. A low, vibrating sound rumbles deep in his chest, soft but threaded through with frustration.

“But you are sore,” he murmurs, voice pitched somewhere between confusion and a growl. “And hurt.”

The way he says it isn't accusatory—more like the fact itself is offensive, unacceptable, even. His arms tighten slightly, cradling Tim as though sheer willpower can erase the pain. His shadows writhe restlessly, curling close around Tim like an extra layer of protection. One of them strokes carefully over Tim’s hair, another tugs a blanket over him.

“You shouldn’t be hurting,” Phantom continues, his voice a low, guttural rumble that sounds utterly lost. “You’re mine. You’re supposed to be safe.”

Tim's lips twitch. He breathes slowly through his nose in an attempt not to laugh; both because Phantom seems genuinely worried and because he's sure it'll only hurt.

"Look, before I met you I hadn't had sex in, like, two years. The human body reverts back to its natural state over time. Ergo, since I didn't even have the time or energy to masturbate during those two years, I'm not used to it anymore." He sighs, undeniably charmed by Phantom's care even if it's embarrassing to admit why he's sore out loud. "You, uh, kind of pushed my limits last night. So I'm sore. But I'm not mad. It's normal and you didn't tear anything as far as I can tell. So please stop freaking out?"

He glances up at Phantom, cheeks flushed but eyes defiant. "I enjoyed myself and I would like to do it again. I just—need time to adjust. Okay?"

Phantom’s expression—or what passes for it with all those shifting, unblinking eyes—tightens further, his entire body thrumming with tension. The shadows at his back ripple like a disturbed sea, restless and anxious. It seems like his brain has gone through whip-lash, leaving him without his ability for higher functioning in his desperation to take Tim to the medic.

“Consort… hurt, but happy?” he murmurs, the words broken, halting, like he's translating a language he hasn’t spoken in centuries. His claws flex, careful to keep them from pressing into Tim’s skin, though every muscle in his body is wound tight. His glowing eyes narrow further, confusion and worry warring in their depths. “But no hurt… but yes hurt?”

A soft, frustrated growl rumbles low in his throat as he lowers his head, pressing his cool nose to the crown of Tim’s hair in a strangely feline gesture. “You’re not… supposed to hurt,” he mutters again, a note of almost childlike indignation coloring his voice. “Mine shouldn’t hurt.”

The possessiveness slips out unfiltered, instinct crackling through his voice like static. “Mine,” he repeats, firmer this time, more like a vow. “Only mine. Not for anyone else. Will not share.” His shadows curl tighter, draping over Tim like a protective shroud. His tail lashes once in agitation before winding snugly around Tim’s leg.

He tilts his head, all those glowing eyes softening as they drink him in. “You’re mine for now,” Phantom says again, quieter this time, like it soothes him to say it. He breathes in Tim’s scent, his chest vibrating with a low purr even through the lingering tension. “Consort hurt, but happy… I… don’t understand.”

Tim simultaneously softens and hurts all at once. He suddenly understands why people grow so attached to dogs, for that's the only comparison he can seem to think of when faced with this level of unwavering devotion.

He lifts his hands to cup Phantom's face in them, drawing him down to press their foreheads together. "Sometimes hurt feels good," he says quietly. "And sometimes it's worth doing things even knowing they'll hurt afterwards. I'll get better so I'm not upset. It's just kind of embarrassing."

He offers a small smile and runs his thumbs over the jut of Phantom's cheekbones. "You're doing a good job of taking care of me though. Thank you."

The purring hum deepens in Phantom’s chest, his shoulders loosening as he leans into Tim’s touch, some of the tension bleeding away—

Knock. Knock.

The soft rap against the door shatters the moment.

Phantom goes rigid, his entire form snapping taut like a predator catching scent of prey. The shift is instant, primal. All at once, every glowing eye flares wide, locking on the door. Shadows hiss, lashing outward in jagged spikes. His lips peel back from his fangs in a snarl so deep it shakes the room.

“Phantom—” Tim starts, but it's too late.

The door creaks open, and Dorothea steps in, her voice calm and warm. “Phantom, I—”

Phantom roars.

The shadows shoot forward in a wave of black, slamming into her with the force of a battering ram. The air cracks with ectoplasmic energy as Dorothea is hurled backward, her heels gouging trenches in the wood floor. She has no choice but to shift—light bursts out from her form in a blinding flash, her body expanding, twisting, and reforming into the massive silhouette of a dragon.

The room explodes into chaos.

Dorothea’s massive wings shatter Phantom’s bookshelves. Her tail whips through furniture like it is kindling. Phantom doesn't retreat; he lunges with Tim still held tightly in his arms. Shadows writhe like serpents around him, striking with razor-sharp precision.

One tendril slashes clean through her scaled arm, severing it at the elbow in a spray of glowing ectoplasm. Another tears through her tail, slicing it in half with a sickening snap. Dorothea roars in pain, but Phantom only presses forward, his snarl reverberating like an eldritch war cry.

Tim sucks in a sharp breath at the violence. He knows ghost biology is different from what he's read, but to see limbs fly without hesitation is shocking. Dorothea is clearly outclassed despite her massive form and Tim realizes with a jolt that if he doesn't stop this, Phantom is going to kill her.

"Phantom!" He shouts over Dora's pained roars. He tugs desperately at his face, trying to drag his eyes away from Dora and back to him—but there are so many, flashing in and out of the shadows like angry fireflies. "Phantom, please, let her go! She's not a threat!"

He fights against the arms holding him, trying to get between the two, but they're like iron bands. Pain flares up his spine but he grits his teeth against it. Then it comes to him: teeth.

Tim lunges at Phantom and without a moment of hesitation sinks his teeth deep into his neck.

The effect is instantaneous.

Phantom jerks back from him. His shadows peel away from his body like smoke sucked into a vacuum. They coalesce into a singular, serpentine face, sleek and alien, its glowing eyes locking onto him with unrestrained fury and confusion. Then Phantom’s mouth splits open—wide, impossibly wide—four jagged sections tearing apart like a monstrous flower blooming in reverse.

The sound that follows is a weapon.

The ghost wail slams into Tim point-blank, rattling his bones and stealing his breath. His ears ring, vision fracturing around the edges as the sheer force pins him in place. Phantom’s voice is layered, distorted, ancient and young—filled with wrath and terror all at once.

It fills Tim with a sense of horror so profound, his whole existence rattles from fear.

Shadows lash violently throughout the room, tearing gouges into walls and shattering what little remains of furniture. Dorothea's pained bellow echoes through the chaos, but even she falters under Phantom's wail, staggering backward with a hiss as the blast of ectoplasmic power sends her crashing through a wall.

Somehow, Tim finds his voice. He gasps through the unbearable pressure, eyes wide and bleeding red. “Phan—tom!”

Everything stops.

The roar cuts off with a violent choke as shadows snap back like a recoiling tide. Phantom freezes, trembling beneath Tim’s grip, breath coming out in ragged hisses through his inhuman maw. Dozens of glowing eyes blink rapidly in confusion and fear, all fixed on Tim as if the entire world has shrunk to just the two of them.

Before Tim can react, he's back on the couch and Phantom is nowhere to be found. The sound of the door to the outside slamming shut is the only indication to where he had gone—and Tim can't hear that through his ringing ears.

He stares at the place where he'd last been, eyes dazed and hand reaching uselessly. He isn't even aware he's crying until something wet hits his chest and he realizes it's coming from him.

A figure crawls out of the wreckage of the room, huge and bleeding. She stumbles over to him on three legs, looking nothing like the well put together Queen she's previously appeared to be.

"Consort," she rasps, a hand clutching at the bleeding stump where her arm is missing. "Are you harmed?"

He stares blankly at her; in the distorted tunnel of sound he's managing to receive she says what he thinks is a curse and raises her voice.

"Attendants! Summon Frostbite at once! Tell him the King's Consort requires attention!"

An attendant materializes in the doorway at Dorothea’s command, bowing so low their head nearly brushes the ice-crusted floor before darting off at a dead sprint.

Dorothea turns back to him, staggering slightly, her remaining hand reaching out as if to steady him. “Consort,” she repeats, voice ragged with strain. “You must answer me. Are you hurt?”

Tim blinks at her, words locked somewhere between his mind and his mouth. His fingers twitch uselessly in his lap, and he realizes dimly that he's shaking—so hard his teeth ache from clenching. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp of air.

There's another curse in a language he doesn't know. She kneels awkwardly beside him despite her injuries, her massive frame hunched and trembling. She cups his face with her single hand, claws cool but gentle against his skin. “Stay with me, little one,” she murmurs, voice soft now. “You are safe.”

The door slams open again, as a rush of freezing air heralds Frostbite’s arrival. He moves faster than Tim has ever seen him, his bulk practically gliding across the shattered floor. He has a heavy medikit strapped across his back, and his glowing eyes scan the destruction with grim precision.

In an instant, he is kneeling in front of Tim, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as they cup Tim’s chin and tilt his head up to look at him. “High King’s Consort,” Frostbite says, voice low but urgent, “tell me what happened. Where are you injured?”

"I-I d-don't—" He is abruptly freezing, shaking so hard his teeth chatter together. The blanket and robe Phantom dressed him in doesn't feel like enough.

"He's in shock," Frostbite says grimly. He throws another blanket over Tim's shoulders and says something in another language to an attendant; they scurry off once more.

"He took a wail from Phantom head on," Dorothea explains, eyes worried as she watches the way Tim lists. "Low power, of course, or else—"

"He would be dead," he finishes grimly. He takes a cloth and wipes gently at the blood leaking from Tim's nose and ears.

The attendant returns with a steaming mug; he takes it with a nod of thanks and lifts it to Tim's mouth. He opens and swallows on reflex; a surge of warmth burns down his throat, sweet like chocolate with a side of static.

"Help him drink this," he instructs Dorothea.

Dorothea steadies the mug in her one good hand, her movements surprisingly gentle for someone so recently maimed. She tips it just enough for Tim to drink in slow sips while murmuring something soft and soothing in a language he doesn't know. Her face, pale and drawn with pain, doesn't falter as she shifts closer.

Frostbite’s massive hands are far more careful than Tim would have imagined, his claws deftly parting the hair near Tim’s ears. He leans close, inspecting the dried blood there before producing a soft glow of healing energy that washes over Tim’s temples.

“His eardrums are intact,” Frostbite rumbles, his tone grave but steady. “He will have ringing for some time. Headaches, too.”

Another blanket settled around Tim’s shoulders, the weight anchoring him in a world that feels like it is spinning too fast. His tremors slow fractionally under the warmth. Frostbite adds yet another layer, tucking the edges in with surprising tenderness.

“Stay awake for me, Consort,” Frostbite says, his voice as soothing as a lullaby, though his glowing eyes flicked briefly to Dorothea’s missing arm. “You are safe now. He did not mean to harm you.”

What...?

Tim blinks sluggishly. His eyes don't feel like they're tracking correctly and his ears ring; it's close enough to a concussion that he can fall back on old bad habits, like how to pretend like you're fit for patrol when the world is spinning.

"I know," he manages to get out, blinking hard. His eyes dart between their faces; where is Phantom? He doesn't—

Tim shivers as an echo of that wail and the alien face that screamed it flashes through his mind. He shakes his head.

No. Not important.

"Where... is he?" His breathing quickens when he doesn't see a single trace of shadow in the room. Dorothea is alive, Frostbite is here to treat her but—

"Where is Phantom?"

The smell of alcohol stings Tim’s nose as Frostbite dabs gently at his ears, inspecting for damage. His movements are soft, his massive hands steady and careful as he wraps gauze around Tim’s head.

“He probably left for the stars after he wailed,” Dorothea says, her voice strained but steady despite the stump of her arm bleeding sluggishly through her temporary bandage. She eases the mug against Tim’s lips again, coaxing him to drink more of the warm, crackling liquid. “He gets… extremely frazzled when he hurts someone of his inner circle. It takes him a while to calm down.”

Frostbite hums in agreement, pulling a small vial from his kit. He uncorks it, and the scent of something sharp and metallic fills the air. “He sometimes retreats to the Pharaoh’s crypt,” he rumbles, his deep voice gentle, almost soothing. “Where Lord Tuck can help him settle his spirit. Lord Tuck has been the only one to withstand the Great One’s full wail without dying.” The words carry a strange weight, reverence threaded through every syllable. “The Great One trusts him to hold the leash, so to speak.”

"Then take me to the stars, or to the Pharaoh's crypt," Tim demands, as he starts to regain his senses. Whatever is in the mug is easing his aches, as well as warming him from the inside out. "He was still confused—he'd only just calmed down when the knock came and—"

Tim's lips peel back from his teeth as he turns on Dorothea with a snarl that would rival a dragon.

"You came in without permission. One of the first things I was told when coming here was that territory is important and permission is required to avoid a fight. But you didn't wait."

For a moment, even Frostbite seems to hold his breath. No one ever bares their teeth at the Queen of Dragons without repercussion.

But this time, she is in the wrong.

"You're right," she says quietly. Her head bows and it's as if the universe itself holds its breath. "With a Consort, I should have known boundaries would change. I miss-stepped and forced you to intercede on my behalf, to great cost to yourself. I thank you for protecting me. I think it only fair I offer that you may call me Dora. I am in your debt, Consort."

Frostbite’s deep rumble cuts through the charged air before Tim can push himself up again. “No," he says firmly, a massive paw pressing gently but insistently on Tim’s shoulder. “You will not go chasing him in your condition. The Great One is safe, but he is… volatile right now. To pursue him would only add to his distress and put you both in danger.”

Tim’s eyes flash, stubbornness sparking through the exhaustion as he tries to rise again regardless. Frostbite’s hand holds him easily in place.

“You must allow him to come back to you,” Frostbite continues, tone softening but leaving no room for argument. “He will. He always does. Give him the space to calm himself, and he will return.”

Tim’s jaw clenches, frustration bleeding into the tremor in his hands.

Dora shifts back into her human guise and lowers herself to sit on the edge of the couch. “He is not alone,” she reminds gently. “Lord Tuck will stay with him, and that man is as immovable as any mountain. They are brothers in all but blood; he will not let Phantom spiral. Nor will Phantom hurt him.”

Tim breathes out a harsh breath. He hates being useless. Especially when he's partly to blame for the situation in the first place. He aches for his Nest and his ability to simply take to the streets and fix things. Gotham's problems seem so small now.

"Fine," he grits out. "How soon can the walls be fixed? I can at least clean things here."

"You need rest," Frostbite insists.

"And you have Attendants for that," Dora adds. "They will act as your hands. Direct them as you wish."

Tim opens his mouth to protest, but Frostbite leans closer, his large, glowing eyes narrowing as he studies him.

“Your body…” he rumbles thoughtfully. “It feels as though it has been stretched beyond what I would consider… advisable for a human frame. And…” His gaze dips, head tilting in a way that makes Tim instinctively tug the blanket higher over himself. “You have quite a collection of bite marks on your legs. And your neck.”

Heat rushes up Tim’s ears. “That’s—none of your business,” he mutters, voice tight.

Frostbite pauses for a beat, then rumbles a deep, approving chuckle. “Ah. I see.” His glowing eyes warm with amusement, and his tone shifts into something that is—proud. “Then allow me to offer my congratulations, Consort.”

Tim looks away. It doesn't feel like a time for congratulations. Phantom's rooms are destroyed, there is ectoplasm dripping from the ceiling and everything feels too bright without Phantom's presence.

Tim thrives in the dark; always has. He only realizes how much Phantom's shadows helped settle him now that they're gone.

"Congratulate me if Phantom still decides I'm worth the hassle when he returns," he mutters, before straightening his shoulders. His eyes harden as his voice raises. "I need at least ten Attendants."

One by one, ghosts flicker into the room, lining up before him. Krims is among them, the woman who brought him to Lawrence what feels like weeks ago but is only days.

"I'm assigned two of you to separate the books from the rubble. Stack the books out of the way of the destruction until new bookshelves can be made. Another will send for whatever builder handles the repairs of the castle; inform them that it's urgent and repairing Phantom's rooms is a top priority. I also require the presence of the Tailor of Kings; if he is otherwise occupied, it may wait until tomorrow." Tim turns to look at Dorothea. "We are skipping whatever lesson you had planned for today. There are more important matters at hand. I want a list of Phantom's inner circle and I want them all summoned for a meeting tomorrow. You will prepare me on what I need to know about each."

"Some may not come at your call alone. But," Dorothea considers, "if I am to call the meeting instead, they are sure to answer."

Tim doesn't so much as blink as he stares her down. "Then do it."

A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. He gets the feeling that very few people are allowed to order her around like this, but he's past caring. He's in Mission Mode now and nothing is going to stand in his way.

Dora turns her head to address the remaining Attendants. "Do as he says."

"I do not recommend this," Frostbite presses. "You need time and rest."

"Rest is for the dead," Tim says sardonically. "And I've had worse than this. You've seen it yourself, Doc."

There is a deep sadness in his eyes as he looks at Tim. He heaves a great sigh and pulls out a bottle of glowing green goo to add to what's left of Tim's drink. "This is ectoplasm," he explains. "Drink it. It will increase your healing and draw more of this Realm's energy into you."

Tim downs it all in one go.

One of the Attendants by the bookshelves carries over Dorothea's arm and bows low; she takes it and reattaches it with more of that green goo and Frostbite's bandages. Her shoulders roll when it's over, and a soft sigh leaves her lips.

"Frostbite, does the Consort require any additional care?"

He shakes his massive head. "I will leave another dose of ectoplasm to take in the morning but everything will be healed with rest. Unless the Consort wishes for me to heal his superficial wounds?"

"No." Tim's voice is sharp when he realizes what he means. His hand flies up to wrap the blankets tighter around his throat, hiding away the bite marks there. "They're mine."

"Very well." He heaves himself up onto his feet and closes his medkit. "I will see you at the meeting tomorrow. Do not hesitate to call on me."

"Thank you."

Chapter Text

"Knock knock!" Lawrence calls from the doorway. There's a door there now and not a trace of it having been smashed the day before. The rubble is gone and the walls are freshly erected; the only thing that points towards the events of the previous night are the missing bookshelves and the books stacked neatly against the wall. Apparently the bookshelves were a gift and uniquely carved; the builder had promised to look into finding replacements immediately.

Dorothea, who has insisted on staying with him while Phantom is absent in order to ensure he is protected, opens the door to let Lawrence inside.

Tim smiles faintly in the face of Lawrence's bright smile. He's weary; Phantom still hasn't returned and he could barely sleep. He spent most of the night going over his notes obsessively, ensuring he has everything he needs memorized and his thoughts organized.

"Hey, gorgeous, you look like a sight for sore eyes." Lawrence strides across the room confidently, a garment bag floating in the air behind him. "First fight, huh? I know it's tough. He'll be back though."

"So everyone keeps telling me." He sighs, but accepts the surprisingly warm hug Lawrence bends to give. "I see you brought me something."

"Of course! I knew as soon as you sent the message what you were going to request and luckily, I planned ahead."

"I have to warn you," Tim says hesitantly, "I don't know what standards there are here but my skin is pretty bruised."

"Show me."

He peels back the collar of his robe to flash his shoulder and upper chest; the hickeys have deepened into dark bruises that look especially harsh against his pale skin.

Lawrence whistles. "Oh, we're definitely taking advantage of that. We're going to make the statement of all statements."

"Phantom can be overzealous," Dora says, clad in her armor once more and looking as if she'd never lost an arm. "But it works in our favor."

"We'll start with the face. Nothing drastic, just some liner to make those eyes glow. They're piercing; you're going to look amazing once the liminality sets in."

"Liminality?" Tim echoes, sitting still as Lawrence pulls a brush and a small pot of liquid out of nowhere. The liner feels like any ordinary liquid makeup as it's applied to his lash and waterline.

"When humans hang out around ghosts, they absorb some of the ambient ectoplasmic energy in the air. It changes them. Does stuff like make their eyes glow, or their hair change color."

"Okay, stand up."

Tim does so. A sharp ache goes up from his hips but he sets his jaw and doesn't show it. By the look on Dora's face, she can see it in his aura. It's not as bad as the day before; he's already told her that he's walking into this meeting on his own terms. If Phantom wants to carry him around that's one thing; absolutely nobody else is going to treat him like he's fragile.

"You're going to look amazing," Lawrence tells him, as he unzips the garment bag and pulls out something white, with straps that gleam like stars. He helps Tim step into the full skirt and gets to work making sure the many individual straps that make up most of the dress sit just right.

For the most part, Tim is entirely bare. The beaded straps give the illusion of coverage in some spots but from his groin up is almost entirely on display. The front of the skirt starts at the beginning dip of his hips, so low Tim is thankful that he's in the habit of shaving everywhere due to his suit catching. It drapes low from that one point, leaving the entirety of his hips bare all the way down to just a few inches above his knees. Half a dozen individual straps wrap around his hips, holding the front in place and connecting to the back, where cloth thankfully covers up to the small of his back. There are several chains connecting the slip of fabric on his chest to the rest of the dress; it drapes over his belly and connects to the skirt. The cloth is enough to cover his nipples and a bit of his chest, but that's it. Two tiny straps in the same white color of the cloth are all that keeps the entire ensemble in place.

All the bruises and bite marks, all the signs of claim, on display. Only the ones on his legs are hidden.

"One more thing." Lawrence lifts a silver chest piece up onto his shoulders and fixes the choker around his neck. Phantom's cape of stars is hung from the clasps at the back, which drape starlight around his frame. It's frigid to the touch, a testament to Phantom's mood, but Tim feels settled with it on. He at least knows Phantom is out there, so long as the cape touches his skin.

Dora gives a rumble of approval. Her eyes are fixated on Tim like a bird eyeing a particularly enticing piece of shiny metal—or, like a dragon with a propensity to hoard treasure.

Lawrence directs Tim over to the mirror, where he can stare in shock at his reflection. He looks magical. Every movement flashes the jewels carefully inset into the straps like winking stars. There are dripping stones in his ears, around his wrists, set into his hair. His eyes are ringed in white, making them appear bigger and almost ghostly.

"Jewel of the Court," Lawrence tells him, grinning impishly behind him. "After today, that's going to be another title under your belt."

"Dragon Spirit, as well," Dora says, meeting Tim's eyes when he turns. "You stopped Phantom from killing one of his own, withstood a wail and went on to take control when Phantom fled. I am honored to bestow this title upon you, Consort."

Tim smiles, sharp and sincere. "Thank you, Dora. Now let's work some miracles."

Lawrence parts from them to meet up with his mate, leaving Dora to lead him to the meeting hall. The hall is smaller than the Throne room where Tim first attended court. It's more intimate, "and far less full of echoes," Dora adds, with a small smirk.

She pauses before the two great doors and looks down at him. "I will announce you," she reminds, sensing the nerves on him. "You are one of my brightest pupils and have learned more in a day than any other I have taught. Now you must simply breathe."

Tim nods and takes a deep breath. "I'm ready."

She pushes the doors open.

Inside is a circular table. All but three of the chairs are already taken; one carved into writhing dragons, another that is so black it seems to suck all light in, that is bigger and greater than all the rest, and Tim's seat. Slightly bigger but not nearly as massive as Phantom's empty chair. It has no defining decoration.

The sound of the doors creaking open seems to echo through the room like a warning bell. Every figure at the circular table rises to their feet in unison, the air thick with expectation.

Tim’s breath catches.

The sheer presence of the council members is enough to make him feel like prey under a dozen predators' stares.

His gaze darts instinctively around the room, cataloguing threats like the trained detective he is. The first figure to catch his eye is a towering warrior, clad in ancient armor that gleams like polished bronze, four powerful arms resting on the hilts of two blades while the other two stay crossed over her chest. She is an image straight out of Spartan history, eyes glowing with a supernatural light beneath her helmet.

Next to her sits a woman so breathtaking it's easy to miss the exhaustion weighing down her frame: the Goddess of Nature. She looks diminished since their last encounter; her skin, once vibrant with life, appears pale and dry, and her leafy crown is wilted at the edges.

Frostbite’s bulk is unmistakable, his massive white-furred form seated with a calmness that belies his strength. Lawrence and what Tim knows is his mate sit beside one another. He gives Tim a small, encouraging nod.

Dora’s voice carries like silk over steel as she steps forward. “Presenting the King’s Temporary Consort, Dragon Spirit, Jewel of the Court,” she announces with a sharp clarity that silences the murmurs rippling through the room.

Every single figure bows slightly. Dora places a gentle yet firm hand on his back, urging him forward. “Enter,” she whispers. “And breathe.”

Across from him, the Goddess of Nature’s gaze sweeps up and down his figure with open scrutiny. Her eyes narrow slightly, and the faintest flicker of relief—or perhaps suspicion—crosses her face. She doesn't address him, though. Instead, she casts a sharp glance to someone seated to the left of Phantom’s throne.

Tim follows her gaze and blinks in surprise. Sitting casually, almost out of place amidst all the ethereal grandeur, is… a dark skinned human. A completely ordinary-looking man. His clothes are simple: a worn t-shirt and jeans. A bright red beanie sits low over his forehead and his posture is relaxed, bordering on lazy. Yet his eyes, sharp and amused, track Tim like a hawk sizing up a newcomer.

The stranger raises an eyebrow, the barest smirk playing at his lips, as though to say, Well, aren’t you interesting?

Tim feels the weight of the room pressing in from all sides, a hundred kinds of power humming in the air. And yet, somehow, it is this “human” who is the most interesting creature here. The Reality Holder; King Tuck.

He lifts his head high and makes his way over to his chair, giving a sharp nod to indicate everyone may be seated. Dorothea sits beside Tim, who sits to the right side of Phantom's empty chair.

"Greetings," he begins, "I thank you all for responding to my summons, especially considering the short notice. I would have liked to introduce myself individually, but my task is great and I would like to get started as soon as possible."

"What is your task?" A woman asks from her seat beside the Goddess of Nature. Her eyes are dark pools of black. Her hair is just as dark, with a defining white stripe framing her face. Her brown skin practically glows with life, making the Goddess appear all the more out of sorts beside her.

"I am to rework King Phantom's current Court system, so that it may run smoothly, Guardian of Eyes. Less backstabbing was mentioned, as a request." His lips twitch, there and gone. "To do so I thought it prudent to meet with Phantom's advisors first. You are his inner circle. You are his eyes and ears. If anyone can tell me what needs to change, it is you."

"Where is the King?" The sister to the Guardian of Eyes asks. Her voice is whisper soft and carries such a sense of serenity it's like being bathed in moonlight on the calmest of nights. Her skin is the same shade as her sister's, though her hair is a pale blonde, tied up in a scarf on her head. One of her eyes is a milky white; the other a piercing blue. "I do not sense him in the castle."

"The fault of his absence is mine," Dorothea says. "I failed to respect his Haunt lines and he acted on instinct to protect what is his. Dragon Spirit saved my life; Phantom fled to recover. We all know how deeply it wounds him to hurt one of his own."

"It is not like you to break rules, Dorothea." Lawrence's mate, Maleficus says. He fixes green serpentine eyes first on her and then on Tim. Two black horns curl up from his dark hair and end in points. "You are lucky to have been saved. By a human, no less."

The words are not scornful; merely curious.

King Tuck leans back in his chair, a sharp snort of amusement cutting through the heavy tension. “So that’s why I got a distress signal from the Conqueror of Realms.” He crosses his arms, his expression both amused and faintly incredulous. “And you took a direct hit of his Wail? Mah dude, you’re either ridiculously strong, or Phantom really didn’t want to hurt you.”

A slow grin spreads across his face as he glances to the Goddess of Nature. “Remember when his brother tried to use it on us, Gaia?”

Gaia inclines her head, her movements deliberate and regal, though her smile is small and rueful. “Destroyed my eardrums,” she admits softly, her voice like rustling leaves. “And made me faint.”

“Yup.” King Tuck chuckles and gives a shake of his head. “And we were already liminal back then. Can’t believe a mere human managed to take it head-on and walk away. My respects.”

There is a murmur of agreement around the table; several of the gathered figures give Tim sidelong glances, curiosity sharpening their gazes. Even the Goddess of Nature’s tired eyes flicker with something like intrigue, her dry and brittle aura shifting faintly.

"While I appreciate your words, Reality Holder, I did not call this meeting to discuss myself. I would like to open the floor and hear from each of you where your most pressing concerns lie." He leans forward, taking the time to meet each of their eyes individually. "What names stand out to you? What territories have the most activity? I am aware I have much to learn. I will rectify this as quickly as possible but for now I will focus myself on what comes from this meeting. King Phantom made you his inner circle for a reason. I will trust his decision and ask that you assist me in this."

Lawrence speaks first. "The trade routes are a continuing issue. There is pressure to move the main supply route out of the Valley of Dragons. King Vtiya is the driving force; he claims that it gives the dragons too much power over the line but it's the dragons that protect it and keep robbery to a minimum."

Tim nods. He takes the notebook he requested from the table and makes a note of the name.

"He is a bully," Maleficus declares, "but one with a loud voice. People fear the dragons and favor someone who has less teeth. They do not see that he will swindle them of all that they own once the Route is in his hands."

"Requests are piling up," the Guardian of Eyes says. "Territory disputes; ancestral claims. I can't cover them all myself and getting Phantom to deal with them is like pulling teeth."

The Reality Holder snorts, leaning back in his chair like this is all far too simple. “Honestly,” he says, raising two fingers, “if you want to put this court in line, there are only two things you need to do: make the Observants either respect or fear Phantom—” his tone turns dry, like that is a laughable goal, “—and kill Vlad.”

“Reality Holder—” Dorothea’s warning is sharp, but she cuts herself off when he turns to her.

He smiles.

It isn’t his mouth that answers her, but the air itself. The space around them bends and cracks, hissing with a noise that isn't sound so much as a ripple through reality.

“Shut. Up. Queen of Dragons,” comes the snarl, layered with a thousand overlapping voices, each colder than the next. For a heartbeat, the council chamber feels like it has been dropped into a void. The human—if he can still be classified as such—is no longer sitting casually; he is simply there, and every eye in the room knows instinctively that he outranks all but Phantom himself.

Then, with a blink, the distortion ends. He smiles at Tim again, all warmth and amusement, as if the glitch never happened.

“Manage those two,” he says cheerfully, “and Phantom won’t have to fight for every single inch of ground in this court.”

“He has a point,” the Goddess of Nature murmurs, folding her arms and looking thoughtful. “The Observants block him at every turn, and Plasmius Maximus will never fall to Phantom’s hand. Not truly.”

“If I may,” the Ancient of Time finally speaks, his voice slow and deliberate. His presence has been so subtle that some in the chamber startle at the sound. “Phantom does not wish the courts to be destroyed. And whoever ends Plasmius will inherit not only Vlad’s power but the ire of the High King himself.”

“Fuck that,” Reality Holder snaps, his tone cracking like glass. He swings his attention toward Clockwork. “Phantom can go pout to the stars for a century if he wants. Even his daughter will celebrate Vlad’s death.”

Clockwork hesitates, his expression—and body—flickering for the first time. “…Probably.”

“He has it coming,” Nature says, her skin deepening into a lush green, her voice thick with the weight of old grudges. “He did force the High King into fatherhood at fourteen human years.”

Tim breathes slowly.

He wrangled Young Justice into order for years; he parented Batman through his darkest of days; he fought tooth and nail for the Justice League to acknowledge him instead of seeing the ghost of Jason Todd; he outmaneuvered men three times his age with several degrees under their belts and kept WE firmly in Wayne control; he took on Ra's al Ghul and proved so vital the man tried to name him his heir.

He can handle a table full of some of the most powerful beings in the universe. He can file away all the information he's just learned about Phantom and revisit it later, when he's alone and free to feel whatever it is he feels about it.

"Enough," he snaps, fixing them all with a glare that could freeze fire. "I did not call you here to fight like children. We will cover the Observants and whoever this Vlad is in our next lesson, Queen of Dragons. Then I will decide what must be done. Phantom gave me the final decision. If I determine that someone must die, then so be it."

The words come out strong and cold, but Tim feels something in him break for good. Perhaps it's the faith he once put in Batman's legacy, formed from the blood sweat and tears he poured into ensuring the man kept his hands clean. Tim has always been a killer; he pulled the trigger on the Joker at just thirteen. He killed again in the League. There is no going back for him now.

"Now, Vlad and the Observants aside. Anything else?"

Reality Holder’s smile is sharp and far too pleased for Tim’s liking. He raises a hand lazily, as though he is merely asking for tea instead of attention.

“Paper. Pen.” The words are casual, but the air shifts as if even the walls pay him mind. “Since I was explicitly told I’m not allowed to reduce certain offenders to mites”—he rolls his eyes dramatically—“I’ve been keeping a list. A very thorough one. If anyone’s going to handle them, I suppose it should be the King’s Consort.”

The goddess of nature bristles at his words, her leafy hair rustling like wind through dead branches. She leans forward, glare sharp, but Reality Holder doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Calm your leaves,” he says with a sly grin. “I’m merely streamlining court efficiency.”

“Streamlining,” she scoffs, though her attention flickers back to Tim.

The Spartan woman—her armor gleaming like molten bronze, every movement taut with restrained power—folds her four arms across her chest. She studies Tim for a long moment before speaking in a voice like tempered steel.

“The Courts of Fire and Ice remain locked in their eternal war. Their conflict disrupts the balance of the realms and weakens their barriers. They are the primary threat to the ecosystems of multiple planes.” Her words are steady, but there’s an unspoken weight there—a warning, perhaps, of just how destructive those courts can be. "And since the king is regarded as a lesser being, as he was born from a human death, the courts are extremely dismissive of him. Manage them, Consort of King."

Frostbite exhales, the sound rumbling like shifting glaciers. His icy gaze settles firmly on Tim.

“If you can manage to deal with the bearers of the Death Court,” he says gravely, “it would greatly aid The Great One. The Death Court grows bolder. Their earthbound thralls wreak havoc, and the King has been forced to send his own sister and the Fright Knight to push them back.” His jaw tightens. “Even so, their power grows. Those spirits are entrenched. They have claimed territories, built fortresses, and tied themselves to mortal lives.”

The room falls quiet at that, the gravity of his words settling over the table like frost. Even Reality Holder stops smiling for a moment, tapping his finger against his palm with a soft tap, tap.

"I mean," he finally says, "yeah, they are the most pressing matter. We need Jazz to come back, it's been too long since they've been together."

"The King's sister," Dora informs him, upon his puzzled look.

Tim nods and hands his notebook and pen to Reality Holder. "I request all materials on these topics to be brought to my rooms," he says, to the Guardian of Eyes and her sister specifically. "I would like to meet again, in four weeks time to go over what I have found, if everyone is amendable."

A chorus of murmurs answers back, all in the affirmative.

"Good. I thank you for your time, you may be dismissed. Reality Bender, I would request that you stay a bit longer. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Reality Bender lifts his eyebrows, exchanging a brief look with the Goddess of Nature before giving Tim a small nod.

“Of course, as you wish.”

The goddess stands gracefully, her leafy hair whispering like wind through trees. As the others file out, she steps closer to King Tuck, leaning down to murmur something low and melodic into his ear. Whatever she says earns her a sharp laugh. He flicks her lightly on the arm to shoo her away. She smiles, serene and knowing, before bowing her head respectfully to Tim and gliding out the room.

Silence settles, heavy and strange, until Reality Bender drops into a chair opposite Tim, folding his arms behind his head with a lazy grin.

“Sup,” he says, utterly unfazed by the solemnity lingering in the air. “You’re Phantom’s new beau, huh? Nice to meet’cha! I’m Tuck.”

If it were any other time, Tim might've smiled. He is too wound tight to do so now.

"Tim," he says quietly, turning to face him. "It's nice to meet you, as well. I only have one question, then I won't keep you."

Not true. There are a lot of questions he wants to ask, but all of them are about Phantom and his history. If anyone tells him about them, he wants it to be Phantom himself.

He brushes a hand against his cape and lets the frigid cold sink into his bones. "Is he alright?"

Tuck’s easy grin fades. His shoulders fold inward as he leans across the table, elbows braced against the surface.

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice lower now, stripped of bravado. “I got the distress signal yesterday, and while I was digging through reports to figure out where he was, Dora’s urgent message hit. Which means I couldn’t go to him.”

He pauses, then fixes Tim with a steady look.

“He isn’t in my crypt. Which means he’s scared of hurting me. The idiot.” His mouth twists into something that isn't quite a smile. “He can’t hurt me. And if he does—hell, it’s not like I haven’t swallowed blood blossoms for him before. What’s a little wounding between friends, right?”

Leaning back in his chair, Tuck scrubs a hand over his face, the strain in his posture betraying his calm tone.

“So, I’m going to take a wild guess and say he isn’t in his Haunt either. Which means he’s down at the Core, feeding his life-force into the Realms.” His jaw tightens, and for a moment his voice cracks with restrained anger. “It’s… self-harm, really. He does it when he thinks he’s messed up too badly. Usually Sam or I go with him, share the burden, make it bearable. But…”

Tuck gives a small, sad shrug, lips tugging up into a crooked smile that doesn't reach his eyes in the slightest.

“He’s an idiot. I’m sorry he scared you like that. And I'm sorry he's tasked you this burden, if you want I can slap his head for it."

Tim's back has gone ram rod straight at the words self harm. Guilt floods through him. His summons kept Tucker from finding Phantom.

"You didn't have to answer the summons," he says quietly. And then, firmer, rounded edges turning into something sharp: "Everyone keeps apologizing for what happened. I don't want to hear it from anyone but Phantom. I've faced far worse things than an eldritch tantrum and I am not some horror flick extra about to run screaming through the halls.

But, if you know where he is, if he's at this Core, then—please. Go to him."

Tim stands, skirts swishing, and heads for the door. He's halfway out when he adds over his shoulder: "And tell him that I'm waiting."

Chapter Text

Tim's life becomes a series of meetings.

Meetings with Dora, training him in everything he needs to know when around other royals, especially without Phantom; these include self defense lessons of the ghost-type, with the staff Lawrence makes to his specifications with help from the Court of Dragons. Light, hidden and with retractable blades forged in blood blossom ichor—painful and ultimately deadly if necessary.

A ring is gifted to him by Maleficus; it's the charm Lawrence promised, to guard him from any attempts at influencing his thoughts or overshadowing him. He puts it on his pointer finger and never takes it off.

He meets with Kestral and Alice—Guardian of Eyes and Eye of the Void, respectfully—to sort through endless documents detailing everything from general complaints, territory claims, in-fighting and more. He requests a pin board in his room; one that covers the entire wall. From there he gets to work sorting the most recurring issues, where they intersect—if they intersect—who is responsible, how pressing they are and how difficult a task they'll be. When he has a significant pool of data, he pulls all the dining chairs away from his dining table, puts them against the opposite wall and has a giant map printed that spans the entire length of the long table. Then comes outlining the current territories.

He has pages of data on the Courts of Fire and Ice. Then comes the Death Court. Their history and the battles that have already been fought. Their encroaching territory on different realities; one of which is his own. He has to fight the urge to scream when he learns this; has to take deep, meditative breaths and coil the rage in his chest back up into something useful.

People come in and out of his room at all times of the day, carrying armfuls of books and documents. Alice and Kestral are among them, as well as Lawrence, Frostbite and Dora—for different reasons.

Frostbite's look of growing worry and disapproval feels too much like Alfred as the days pass and Tim looks more and more like a zombie.

Every night, he tries to sleep and every night he tosses and turns before throwing his sheets back, wrapping himself in the freezing embrace of Phantom's cape of stars and going back to his charts. Trying all the while not to replay Tucker's words; to wonder if Phantom is hurting himself.

He eats while he plans—and when he is prompted to. When he is not planning in his rooms, he is meeting individually with each of the most influential and important rulers that comprise Phantom's Court. The Court that dismissed and mocked him at his first appearance.

He keeps his head held high, no matter the comments they make or the way they try to poke and prod at his wounds. He wears jewels and skin like armor, smiling sharp enough to cut and wielding words that would kill, were they tangible.

Word travels around the Realms. Lawrence tells him what they say every night, while Tim drinks his daily Frostbite-approved ectoplasm and hot chocolate and ignores how the cape around his shoulders makes him shiver. It is exhausting, tedious work but it is work. It keeps his mind off of the unsettling stillness of the shadows and the way he feels more touch starved than ever.

It is an endless cruelty to give him so much and then rip it away. He isn't even aware of how used to all the touch he is until left in its absence.

He catches quick power naps when he can but is never out for long. Always moving. Always learning. Always sorting and planning and avoiding the well of hurt inside of himself.

Then the invitations and requests start to come in. People want to meet him. Others want him to come to their lands.

"They're curious," Dorothea explains. "We haven't had such a large shift of power since Phantom took the throne. Curiosity is dangerous, though. You should not travel on your own. Phantom should be here, making sure no one oversteps."

Tim welcomes those to the castle that his own little council approve—currently comprised of Lawrence, Dora, Kes and Alice. And every time someone calls him Temporary Consort; every time he is asked where his King is, he forces himself to smile.

"He will return," Dora insists, when he asks her again to take him to Phantom. "Time works differently for the Champion of Time especially."

That does not make the growing bitterness inside him any less frigid. Every day his bruises fade and the scabs of bite marks fall away to reveal skin unscarred. He feels helpless; trapped.

"Where are you?" He whispers harshly, glaring down at his cape of stars as if it might deign to respond this time. "This wasn't the deal!"

Still, he continues. It is what is expected. It is what he promised when making his deal with Phantom. His feelings do not matter. Besides, it is too early for feelings. It does not matter if he misses falling asleep to the sound of Phantom's purr; it does not matter if he imagines that soft, layered voice whispering praise and adoration in his ear; none of it matters.

…he doesn't matter.

Not enough to come back for. He never is. Maybe this time he'll finally learn his lesson. After all, Phantom had said it himself, hadn't he?

Just a toy.

The words haunt him. They echo in his mind as he returns from his most recent meeting, the quiet of the hallway still dogging his steps. He crosses towards the connecting door that leads back to his own quarters—only to freeze when he sees it.

Him.

The shadows press too close to Phantom’s body. They no longer flow like mist but cling instead, heavy and suffocating. Condensed. His silhouette is smaller somehow, every angle sharper than it should be.

For a moment, Tim almost doesn't recognize him. There are no stars flashing in his chest or streaking across his skin, no vastness spilling out into the room to remind Tim he is standing in the presence of something both terrifying and magnificent. The silence is even worse—no steady thrum of his core filling the air, no sound of life anchoring the space.

If not for the unmistakable curve of his shoulders and the way his claws catch the dim light, Tim might have believed the room to be empty.

Phantom leans over the map, his shadows stretching long across the parchment. The multitude of his eyes blink slowly, all fixed on the lines and borders, scanning the pages like a man starved for direction. One clawed hand traces a route across the paper, not with strength, but with a trembling, brittle grace—as if his bones might crack from the effort.

Tim sucks in a sharp breath. "Phantom?" He breathes, blinking as if he expects the image to simply disappear. "But I didn't—" He shakes his head, biting back the end of that sentence. A brush of his hand against his cape confirms that the shift in temperature has not changed.

He steps forward slowly, anger and hurt put aside for now for concern. "How long have you been here?"

Phantom’s head lifts at the sound of Tim’s voice, slow and deliberate, like it takes him a moment to remember how to respond. His shadows recoil, curling tight around him as if to hide him away, to make him smaller. He tilts his head in that inhuman way that is filled with just emptiness.

“Not long,” Phantom murmurs, his voice echoing like it is traveling from somewhere very far away. It is hollow, detached, and entirely at odds with how close he stands. His glowing eyes swipe the room with a disoriented slowness, taking in the maps, the papers, the faint light of the lanterns.

“What is all of this?” he asks softly, as if he is waking from a dream he isn't sure he wants to leave. There is no bite in his tone, no playfulness, no warmth—just a hollow curiosity.

It's wrong. Everything about this is wrong.

"You've been gone for almost two weeks," Tim tells him stiffly. "It's my research. I've been working on the task you gave me."

As if on cue, there's a knock at the door and a familiar voice. "Tim, I grabbed you lunch—don't think I didn't notice that you skipped it for the meeting with the King of Vesta. Can I come in?"

He is torn. Part of him wants to ignore it; the other part knows he can't.

"Don't move," Tim tells Phantom, before forcing himself to walk back towards the door to open it.

Lawrence's smile immediately fades at whatever expression is on his face. His shoulders straighten. "Tim?"

"Get Frostbite," he tells him. "Tell him Phantom is back and it's urgent. Attendant!"

One of his staff materializes.

"Stand guard at this door. Don't let anyone inside and tell any who approach not to disturb me. Dora will need to be notified; she will make sure the others know I won't be meeting anyone else today."

"On it," Lawrence nods.

"Yes, Consort," his attendant says.

Tim closes the door once more, the plate Lawrence brought now in one hand. He walks across the room to stand by Phantom and places it down on the map.

Phantom doesn’t move as ordered, though his head tilts faintly as the shadows draw tighter around him, curling like a protective cocoon. The sudden flurry of movement and orders seems to leave him adrift; his expression remains eerily blank, his glow dimmer than Tim has ever seen it.

“I am… alright,” Phantom murmurs at last, the words soft and hollow, as if they don't quite belong to him. The voice isn't the teasing, warm one Tim knows, but something distant and cold, like wind through a crypt. His glowing eyes slide back to Tim.

“More importantly,” he continues, his tone gaining the faintest tremor of regret, “I am sorry. For the way I reacted… back then.” His claws curl against the edge of the table, brittle, fragile. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The apology hits like a punch to the gut, quiet and raw, and then Phantom bows—bows—head lowering, shoulders folding inward like a penitent creature before a King.

“I apologize,” he whispers, voice cracking like frost on glass. “And I will do anything to make it right. One wish.” His gaze finally lifts, glowing faintly, feverishly. “Name it, and it will be yours. No matter the cost.”

The stillness that follows is suffocating, the only sound the soft hum of the maps beneath his hands. Phantom doesn't look like a King or a predator in this moment. He looks… lost.

Tim sucks in a sharp breath.

"Anything?" he repeats.

His first thought is that he can ask for his freedom. He can go home. But—is it really home? Has he ever truly had a place to label as such? Everyone thinks he's dead. Some are probably happy he is. Damian. Maybe even Jason.

No one came looking for him.

No one believed him. Not even Cassie.

If he returns… what is he to do from there? All the information on the Court of Death is here. All the knowledge to protect his world. He can't slip back into WE and he doesn't know if he can ever be Red Robin again. He doesn't know if he can step into Wayne Manor without remembering how everyone turned him away.

There is a place here for him, however temporary.

He could… ask for it to be on his terms. He could ask for the removal of that temporary title. But what good is forcing Phantom to give him a permanent place? It'll just be Robin all over again. If Phantom doesn't want him to stay then what use is even asking?

Then it hits him.

"Okay," he says, breathing deep. His back straightens as he steps closer to take one of Phantom's hands between his own. His motions are slow; telegraphed. It's his turn to treat Phantom like something to be broken. "I wish… for you to never do this again—to never leave me behind." He swallows his hurt and anger like shards of glass and whispers. "I wish for you to stay with me."

Phantom blinks at Tim, confusion flickering briefly in his glowing eyes before he dips his head in another bow. “Your wish is granted.”

A shiver of power ripples through the room, cold enough to raise goosebumps along Tim’s arms. Something coils around his middle finger—a glowing band of a snake devouring its own tail. It pulses faintly and then goes dark; an unspoken promise sealed into his skin.

Phantom hisses sharply, jerking the clawed hand Tim holds. On his own ashen finger, an identical mark flares to life, but instead of ink, it sears into his flesh like a brand. The scent of ozone and frost fills the air.

"You idiot," Tim breathes, fingers fluttering over the wound. "Stop hurting yourself because of me. If you wanted penance so badly I would've put you to work here, helping me sort through letters! Not where ever in the Realms you've been, using me as an excuse to turn yourself into this."

Despite the fury in his words, he only moves closer. His touch remains gentle as he pulls lightly on Phantom's wrist, a hand lifting to touch his face. It feels different. Tim has, unfortunately, come into contact with corpses before in all manner of states. Phantom's skin feels like the same paper thin texture; as if he presses too hard he will end up splitting him open.

"You look awful," he chokes out. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been about you? Or how angry I am that you just ran? The only answers I got were when I called your advisors together and even then Reality Bender could only tell me that he thought you were somewhere hurting yourself."

“Stupid Tucker,” Phantom mutters under his breath, the words a grumble more than an insult. His body eases at Tim’s touch, tension bleeding out of his frame as if he’s been holding himself together with sheer willpower. He closes all his eyes—every flicker of eldritch glow dimming at once—and releases a soft sigh that ghosts cold over Tim’s face.

“I was doing something I needed to do anyway,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “I have to revitalize the Realms every other millennia. Might as well do it now.”

Tim’s jaw tightens. He already knows the truth; Lawrence has told him in no uncertain terms that Phantom has revitalized the Realms so thoroughly, so excessively, that they are healthier than they’d been in ages. There is no need for this. Not for centuries. Phantom didn’t leave because he had to—he left because punishing himself has become second nature.

Another knock sounds from the door. "Consort? May I enter?"

"Come in," Tim calls, without looking away from Phantom's face. "This discussion isn't over but right now you're going to get looked at and treated for whatever stupid thing you've done to yourself."

Frostbite lumbers into the room, medkit in hand. His eyes find Phantom immediately and a gusty sigh leaves his mouth. "Great One," he says wearily, "you should be in the Far Frozen, recharging."

Despite his words, he nods to the sitting area. "Please help him to the couch, Consort. I will set up an ectoplasmic field to help him recharge."

Tim releases Phantom's face to pull him over to the couch. He pushes him down and finds that he can. It's startling. He gathers his skirts and sits on the armrest beside him, a hand on Phantom's shoulder as if he'll disappear if he lets go.

Phantom’s lips peel back in a low growl, a sound that is meant to be dangerous but that comes out soft and ragged, like a kitten hissing at a bear. “I don’t need that,” he rasps. “I just need to sleep for a bit and I’ll be fine."

Frostbite only sighs, the weight of centuries of patience in his tone. “Great One,” he says gently, but with the kind of authority that leaves no room for argument, “you know it takes you nearly a decade to ‘sleep it off.’” His massive claws work with careful precision as he sets the medkit down, beginning to lay out the glowing instruments of his trade. “This is not a wound that rest alone will mend. You are overdrawn, and you know it.”

Phantom’s glow dims in protest, his form flickering at the edges, but he stays stubbornly seated where Tim has pushed him.

Tim catches Phantom's face once more and turns his head to meet his eyes. "You're going to let him heal you," he informs him, in the same no-nonsense tone he used to use on Batman when he was acting like a child. "And then you are going to rest. We are not leaving this room until he says so. I am not pleased with your form of apology and if you do this again I will go down to whatever this Core is and drag you back myself, regardless of whether it's safe for humans or not."

Frostbite's chuckle fills the room the way Phantom's shadows should. "It would be wise to listen to your Consort, Great One. He has enamored almost all of your advisors and is well on his way to either striking fear or envy in the many hearts of your Court. The castle staff have been busy with ensuring the sudden influx of guests coming to meet him are properly taken care of."

Phantom lets out a stuttered, rumbling purr, the sound shaky, like he isn't entirely sure if he's allowed to make it. Something in Tim eases at the sound of it. He'd become so accustomed to it in the few days he was around Phantom that to be left with silence for so long has left him tense. That all starts to fade away now that he can confirm for himself that Phantom is safe.

Phantom leans into Tim’s palm with surprising obedience, his weight settling as if Tim’s words have anchored him. There isn't even a hint of a fight left in him; his shoulders slump, his glow dimming to a soft halo.

“Whatever you say, Consort,” Phantom murmurs, voice teasing but quiet. His eyes blink slowly, feline and trusting. “What have you been up to while I’ve been…busy?”

Frostbite hums low in approval. His massive claws move with reverent care as he begins parting the living shadows that curl protectively around Phantom’s chest. “Hold him still,” he instructs. “His Core needs examination.”

Tim shifts to brush the shadows that normally form a facsimile of hair back with his free hand; they lay lank and lifeless now, just barely twitching beneath his touch. Phantom’s purr falters—a soft, fractured rumble that speaks of exhaustion more than contentment. The sound stutters uncertainly, as if he isn't sure if he deserves the comfort. But Tim’s touch doesn't falter, and after a moment, Phantom’s eyes drift closed, the low vibration deepening until it fills the quiet space, a sound more felt than heard.

It helps ease Tim's nerves.

"Sorting through your mess," he finally answers, without heat. "I've met your advisors and heard their most pressing concerns. Guardian of Eyes and Eye of the Void have been walking me through their system and what needs to be addressed first. Lawrence has been busy creating outfits that live up to the title of Jewel of the Court. Dora has been teaching me self defense against ghosts. I have met with those of your court that have accepted my invitation and made a list of those that refused, as well as those of who I've met who seem to truly loathe me and those that seem to want to steal me away. And then there is Frostbite, who continues to hound me to rest."

"Perhaps you will finally listen, now that the Great One has been returned safe to you," Frostbite remarks, as he pries the last of the shadows away. The sight beneath makes his massive frame tense. The once-pristine sphere of Phantom's core glimmers faintly, but its glow is dulled, fractured. Jagged cracks splinter across the surface like veins of lightning frozen in glass, and thin trails of ectoplasmic light bleed from the breaks.

Tim's sharp eyes catch everything. Including the sight of Phantom's fracturing core. His fingers tighten their grip for a moment as a wave of emotion he can't quite parse hits him like a tidal wave. Damaged cores can mean death. Tim can't imagine Phantom simply... ceasing to exist.

Frostbite grunts softly, already dipping clawed fingers into a jar of thick, greyish salve. “Great One,” he rumbles, voice calm but heavy with disapproval. “I know your core is… resilient, but these injuries are not to be dismissed. You have been reckless.”

“I have been very safe,” Phantom mumbles, his voice lilting with a teasing warmth that can't quite mask the fatigue lacing his words. The purr continues, louder now, a faint tremor in his chest as he leans further into Tim’s hand like a cat desperate for attention.

Frostbite hums, scooping up a generous amount of the salve. He works with surprising gentleness for someone so large, his massive claws gliding carefully across the splintered surface. Each pass leaves behind a faint shimmer, a stabilizing sheen that dulls the bleeding glow.

“This will hold,” Frostbite murmurs, his tone that of a doctor displeased with his patient’s choices. “But you will rest. A decade of uninterrupted rest would be best. But I know you will not listen.”

Phantom gives a lazy, lopsided grin. “A decade sounds boring.”

"What can we do?" Tim asks, guiding Phantom's head down to rest on his thighs. His fingers continue to card through his shadows. "There must be other treatments."

"I will set up an ectoplasmic field around your bed. It will concentrate the energy and help infuse what he has given away. But—it will increase the rate of your liminality."

"That's a bad thing?"

"I had plans to explain, before what occurred. A human can only hold so much ectoplasmic energy. It starts with liminality, which changes appearance and improves the probability of that soul forming into a ghost upon death—if given enough time, however, the energy will build until the human vessel cannot hold anymore. Death follows and they become a ghost instead, rather than dying naturally."

Tim's fingers pause before resuming. "You're saying I'm dying?"

"In a manner of speaking." Frostbite coaxes the shadows back around Phantom's core. "You will be reborn."

He breathes in. Out.

"Okay," he says calmly. "I've already lived much longer than I expected. Set up the field."

"As you command." Frostbite stands and moves to the bed to begin the process; but not before pushing a large bottle of ectoplasm into Phantom's hands. "Drink this."

Phantom’s purr grows stronger the longer he is given Tim's attentions. The vibration falters only when Frostbite’s voice reaches him, but after a tense beat, Phantom relents. He takes the large bottle pressed into his hands, lifts his head, and drinks it all in one smooth motion.

“Good,” Frostbite rumbles approvingly. He guiding Phantom’s head back into place on Tim's lap before standing. “Keep the Great One content and purring. It seems to bring him peace.”

Tim can do that.

"I have questions for you, when you're more like yourself," he tells Phantom. Phantom’s eyes crack open at the address, the eerie green glow in them fixed wholly on Tim with the unwavering focus of a loyal hound listening to its master’s voice. He doesn't blink, doesn't shift, just drinks in every syllable like scripture. "And don't think this means that you're in the clear for disappearing. I can't believe you introduced me to your Court before your advisors, I'd say you were trying to scare me off but now I just think you were too excited to show everyone your new toy."

His mouth tastes bitter at the term, but he swallows it down, forcing himself to keep his tone light.

"You've missed a lot of the excitement but there's plenty more to do. Lawrence has been practically vibrating every night—you know his sprites? The ones that keep him updated on all the kingdom gossip? He has a running list of his favorite phrases people have been saying about me. I think this has made his whole century. You should see some of the outfits he's put me in. It's a good thing I trained with Catwoman at one point, or I'd have made a fool of myself.

He said he used to dress you and now I'm wondering if you started wearing shadows instead to avoid his more outlandish ideas. I wouldn't put it past you."

And on he goes, speaking quietly, hands never pausing as Frostbite ambles around his room, setting up the required equipment and ensuring it works. There's a quiet hum as the crystals come to life before a faint green outline appears around his bed.

"That will do for now," Frostbite announces. "Great One, I would encourage you to drop at least one form to help speed the process. Consort, you must eat and rest. I will ensure the door is guarded by more than an attendant. Perhaps Lady Sam won't mind a trip to the castle."

A low growl rumbles deep in Phantom's chest. The sound is soft but dangerous, the kind of instinctive warning that sends chills down a spine. Yet despite the protest, his shadows begin to fold inward. Slowly, like heavy oil receding from a surface, the monstrous silhouette condenses.

Where the towering specter once loomed, a naga-like form emerges. His long, serpentine body is forged of dense, shadowy substance, its inky blackness shimmering and giving way in places like heat mirages. His torso and arms take on a more recognizable shape, despite looking as dark as the shadows from before. Hair—if it can be called that—drifts in dark waves, seamlessly blending into the darkness of his head.

With the transformation complete, Phantom slithers closer, pressing his newly formed face into Tim’s stomach with a heavy sigh. His purr returns, stronger now, vibrating through Tim’s legs as if grounding himself there. The sound is soothing, protective—almost possessive, even. A stark contrast to his earlier distress. He clings to Tim's warmth and the steady heartbeat beneath his ear, his massive body coiling around them both like a fortress.

Frostbite, unbothered by the display, continues his work with deliberate calm. The crystals glow brighter as the ectoplasmic field comes fully to life. “Better,” he rumbles. “The strain on his core is lessened.” His icy gaze flicks to Tim. “Keep speaking, Consort. The Great One responds well to your voice. It is… calming him.”

Phantom purrs louder, tail curling around Tim's leg as though to prove Frostbite’s point. He doesn't seem to understand half of what's happening, but Tim’s presence—the gentle cadence of his words and the constant movement of his fingers through Phantom’s hair—is anchoring him more effectively than any medicine.

“Good,” Frostbite murmurs after one last check, satisfied. “Now, eat. Rest. I’ll have Lady Sam sent for—she’ll guard this chamber herself if necessary.”

Phantom only burrows closer, as if daring anyone to try to separate them.

Frostbite picks up Tim's plate and moves it within reach with a pointed look. He pulls another two bottles of ectoplasm out of his bag and sets them on the coffee table. "Have him drink one after he sleeps and split the second between the two of you when you next dine. I will have more delivered tomorrow and visit again the day after. Unless," he adds, "you call for me before that, of course."

Tim nods. "Thank you, Frostbite. Your help is invaluable. I appreciate everything you've done, both now and in the past week."

He dips his head. "Of course. I wish you two peace."

He leaves them, closing the door gently behind himself. Tim lets out a heavy sigh and feels his weariness on his shoulders like a tangible weight. He's tired. Now that Phantom is back and his frantic attempt to ignore his own cocktail of emotions isn't possible anymore, he feels every night of sleeplessness.

"We need to move to the bed," he tells Phantom, before glancing down at himself. "I... also need your help getting out of this. I can't reach the straps without dislocating my shoulders."

Phantom lifts his head from Tim’s stomach. He blinks slowly, confusion lingering in his expression. The monstrous thousand eyes that once glimmered across his face before are gone, leaving behind two that are deceptively human in shape. The swirling green of them, deep and endless, shifts like auroras across a midnight sky.

He tilts his head, studying Tim with animal-like focus, before lifting one clawed hand. His talons glide with surprising precision as he traces Tim’s spine, curling and catching on the delicate straps holding his clothes in place. With a slow, deliberate motion, Phantom slices through them.

Tim sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening as his top falls away to rest against his skirts. He shivers, unable to help but remember the last time he felt those claws against his skin and ruthlessly suppresses the surge of arousal that comes.

Satisfied with his work, Phantom leans closer, pressing his nose against the crook of Tim’s neck. A low rumble vibrates up from his chest—a soft, resonant purr that seems to fill the quiet room. His cool breath ghosts over Tim’s skin as he rubs his face along Tim’s throat and jawline, careful not to nick him with sharp teeth.

Tim weathers the nuzzle with the air of the long suffering, all too sure that Phantom is not thinking at all about every other time he's pressed his mouth to Tim's neck.

"Thers no bed," he slurs sleepily, "destroyed a while 'go."

There is no calculation to his movements, no sign of thought behind his glowing gaze. He isn't trying to intimidate or even comfort; he simply is, attuned entirely to Tim, as if nothing else exists in the world.

"You gave me one," he reminds, tugging lightly at Phantom's hair as he tries and fails to extract himself from his grasp. "You need to let me up so I can get out of the rest of it and take my heels off."

Phantom’s growl rumbles low in his chest, vibrating against Tim’s skin as sharp teeth graze his neck in warning. His arms tighten around Tim instinctively, claws flexing but never breaking skin, holding him firm as though he might vanish if given the chance.

“No,” Phantom murmurs, voice rough and reverberating like distant thunder. His nose brushes against the sensitive curve of Tim’s throat, a soft contrast to the dangerous scrape of his fangs. “Mine. Don’t move.”

The words aren't a command so much as a plea, a primal declaration that leaves no room for argument. Phantom tucks Tim closer against his chest, chin settling on his shoulder as the steady thrum of his purr fills the space around them once more, heavy and soothing despite the feral edge to his hold.

Tim squirms futilely, arms pushing uselessly at Phantom's shoulders, like a mouse trying to escape a snake.

"At least move us to the bed you overgrown horror," he finally complains, flopping down with a huff. "It's more comfortable."

“No bed,” Phantom mutters, his voice muffled against Tim’s neck, like a sulky child refusing to be told off. His head lifts slowly, glowing eyes unfocused and hazy as he glances around the room, clearly searching for this mythical piece of furniture. When his gaze finally lands on the bed, he blinks at it owlishly, whispering, “Why… bed?”

As if the thought hurts, he releases Tim all at once, hands retreating like he’s been burned; Tim nearly loses his balance with how abruptly it happens. He slips off the arm rest and takes the chance to kick out of the rest of his outfit while Phantom slithers back, the long sweep of his tail curling protectively around his upper body as he folds in on himself, movements fluid and serpentine. He coils tight in the corner of the couch, his tail looping over his head like a hood until only the faint glow of his eyes peek through. The rest of him is a tight, shivering donut, spilling halfway onto the floor in a mess of limbs and darkness.

“Go, then,” he rasps, voice small and crackling like static through a broken radio. “Leave.”

When Tim turns to look at Phantom, his eyes roll.

"Come on, you big baby. You know that's not what I meant." He crouches in front of where Phantom's head peaks out and lets out a soft sigh. His hand reaches out, pausing briefly before laying flat over his scales. They're cool to the touch, flexible and almost soft the way the underbelly of a snake is. "I want you to come to bed with me. Then you'll be able to actually fit all of yourself under the blankets and I won't be pressed up against the edge of the couch."

Phantom peeks out at Tim from beneath the curl of his own tail, glowing eyes flickering with something uncertain. He glances at the bed, then back at Tim, then back again like he's weighing some kind of alien calculation. Finally, with a slow, wary motion, he begins to uncurl, scales whispering softly against the floor as he slithers free of his tight coil.

He moves cautiously, as if approaching a trap, until he reaches the bed. With a low rumble—half-grumble, half-purr—he slides beneath the covers. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he carefully tucks himself in, tail coiling lazily around the edge of the bed. His head pokes out from the blankets, eyes still fixed on Tim, waiting for him to follow.

But before Tim can climb in beside him, a sharp knock at the door shatters the soft moment, drawing his attention away.

Irritation lances through him. "I told them to stay away," he mutters crossly. He glances over at Phantom and quickly grabs his robe from where it's thrown over the dresser. "I'll be back," he promises, before striding towards the door.

He pulls it open with a glare; it doesn't soften when he sees who's on the other side. "Goddess of Nature," he greets stiffly. "I would have assumed you would have been updated on the situation. I'm a little busy."

“Temporary Consort,” she says, biting down on the word 'temporary' like it's meant to sting, a sharp reminder that his place in the Infinite Realms is tenuous at best. Her stance is regal, every line of her body wound tight, but the tremor in her hands betrays the facade.

“I heard Phantom is back,” she continues, voice steady but edged with something brittle. “I need to see him.”

She looks ready to force her way through him if he refuses, power simmering just beneath her skin, but Tim’s sharp gaze catches the slip in her composure—the way her eyes dart past him, searching the room beyond like she can feel Phantom’s presence but can't quite see him. There is desperation there, raw and barely restrained, though she tries to hide it behind a veneer of imperious command.

Tim, who has heard that title plenty in the past week and who has learned to hide his wounds like a prey animal in the wild, simply smiles, sharp and threatening. "If you upset him, I will not hesitate to use my staff. I only just got him into bed."

He steps aside, holding his arm out towards the room. "Go on."

Her sharp eyes flick over Tim once more, measuring him, but the moment she crosses the threshold her composure shatters. She rushes across the room, robe swirling behind her as she drops to her knees beside Phantom’s coiled body. A choked gasp breaks free from her throat as her trembling hands press against his cool, scaled side.

“Astraeus,” she whispers, voice cracking with something like wonder. “You’re a snake again.”

Phantom stirs at the sound, coils slowly unwinding as if waking from a centuries-long slumber. His head peeks out his tight ball, bleary-eyed and confused, his glow dim and soft. He doesn’t resist when she cups his head in both hands, their foreheads pressing together like an old ritual.

“Gaia?” he mumbles, voice gravelly and thick with sleep.

She doesn’t cry, though her entire being trembles with joy. A laugh, soft and breathless, slips past her lips. “Oh, overgrowth, your face. Your human face. I haven’t seen it in centuries, you overgrown lizard.” She cradles his jaw like he's a fragile treasure. “Welcome back, space nerd. I've missed you, you bitch.”

“Bitch,” Phantom echoes back instantly, blinking at her in sleepy confusion. He clearly doesn't grasp the weight of her emotions but is more than ready to sass her on instinct.

Tim snorts but gives them their privacy, shutting the door and turning away from the bed to finally pick at the food Lawrence brought him. He sits down on the couch once more, keeping an ear out for any disturbances but otherwise simply keeping watch.

The bat instincts in him say that one of his own is vulnerable and he needs to lock down the room. He misses his nest, with its blast proof walls and security walls that even Babs would have trouble hacking.

They speak in hushed tones, their words slipping into a language Tim doesn't recognize—something old, lilting, and full of weight. He strains to catch even a fragment, but it might as well be birdsong for all he understands. After a few murmured exchanges, the goddess of nature—Gaia—slips gracefully from the bed.

Her movements are unhurried, deliberate, like the slow sway of vines reclaiming a ruin. She lowers herself onto the couch beside him, the faint scent of earth and blossoms clinging to her like an aura.

“My name is Samantha Manson,” she says softly, bowing her head in a gesture that feels far too formal for the cramped little room. “Thank you for bringing him back.”

Tim sucks in a sharp breath and ends up choking on a piece of sandwich bread. He lifts a hand to his mouth as his shoulders heave before grabbing quickly for the nearest liquid—the bottle of ecto—to take a quick drink.

"You—" he wipes his mouth none too elegantly but he thinks he can be forgiven considering the situation. Somehow what comes out is: "I thought you didn't like me?"

Sam tilts her head back, gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if searching for words among the shadows.

“Not… exactly,” she murmurs, her voice a soft hum of thought. “It isn’t a matter of liking or disliking someone. I have lived for centuries, and I am the protector of all that lives—and all that will die. To claim I dislike someone is… unthoughtful. Except for Vlad.” Her mouth curls. “I do hate that man.”

She turns her attention back to Tim, her expression shifting to something solemn, a weight settling in her eyes.

“But you…” She pauses, as though choosing her words carefully. “You have done something I never thought possible. I have known Phantom since I was ten human years old, and I know just how impossibly stubborn he can be. Yet ever since you arrived, he has begun to loosen his guard, to let himself… exist again. That is indisputable.”

Her gaze doesn't waver, and Tim finds himself sitting straighter beneath it.

“For the love I bear him,” she continues, voice rich with old power, “I offer you my name. Take it as protection, loyalty and as power, and call upon it whenever you see fit.”

"I'm temporary," he reminds her, as if the word doesn't leave his throat bleeding. "I'm not—you shouldn't give me this."

But she has. And there's no going back now.

He glances over at Phantom's huddled form and doesn't know what he feels. Rage, hope, sorrow, fear? The world has never been fair to him but the more time he spends here the more he thinks that there is a special sort of cruelty being enacted upon him alone.

"What do you want me to call you?" He asks, turning back to her. "Do you want me to keep using your title?"

Gaia tilts her head again, the movement feline and strangely indulgent. Amusement softens the lines of her face.

“Well,” she muses, a smile blooming slow and sly, “Tucker lets you call him Tuck. I suppose I can allow you the same courtesy.”

Her smile sharpens, carrying something mischievous and dangerous all at once.

“Call me Sam if you like. Or,” she adds, voice dipping with a lilt that feels older than language, “now that you hold my full name, you can call me by any title, any nickname, any ancient echo of myself that my name has ever worn. They’re all yours to wield.”

She leans back slightly, a glimmer to her eyes as if she can already see the names flickering in Tim’s mind.

“You’ll know which ones are mine,” she says softly, “if you dare to reach for them.”

"That's not ominous at all," he mutters.

He does feel more at ease around her at least, now that he has a way to protect himself. The memory of the way she'd looked at him while bargaining with Phantom for his soul still sends shivers down his spine.

"Alright, Sam. Can I trust you to guard the door and not let anyone else in unless otherwise approved?" His eyes flick over to the bed. "I've got a pouting danger noodle to convince to rest."

Sam snorts but gives a sharp nod, stretching herself leisurely as if shaking off centuries of stillness.

“Don’t worry,” she says dryly, rolling her shoulders. “I’ve got the easy job. Phantom’s always been terrible at sleeping—even before he became a vigilante and decided brooding on rooftops was a personality trait.”

With a soft hum, she strides to the door and cracks it open, slipping out with the kind of grace that only comes from lifetimes of practice.

“I’ll guard it, no one will be able to so much as knock,” she adds simply, glancing back at him with a look that promises she meant it.

The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving Tim with more questions than answers.

Vigilante? Rooftop brooding?

He stands with a huff to stalk over to the bed, where Phantom has taken up nearly the entire mattress with his bulk. "You've been keeping secrets," Tim accuses, hands on his hips. "And you're not even cognizant enough to answer for it. Figures."

He shakes his head and sheds his robe before lifting the blankets to poke at the mass of coiled tail beneath. "Make room, you big noodle. It's the least you can do after I spent the last two weeks tossing and turning all night."

Phantom’s massive tail twitches, lifting lazily so one glowing eye can peek out at whoever dares disturb him.

“Hm? …Tim?” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and surprise.

Before Tim can react, the coil shifts with surprising speed, and he finds himself yanked forward, swallowed by a tangle of scaled muscle and cold silk-smooth skin. The blankets are dragged over him, the room dimming in an instant.

Whatever protest he has is muffled against a broad chest as Phantom curls around him with a possessive hum. A deep, resonant purr vibrates against Tim’s ribs, reverberating through his bones. Phantom nuzzles into his neck, cold breath ghosting over his skin as if committing his scent to memory, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

The embrace feels less like a cuddle and more like being restrained by a predator, but there is no menace—only a bone-deep, desperate warmth.

In the darkness beneath the blankets, only Phantom's eyes give off any light. The glow of them winks in and out whenever he closes his eyes, though it's not harsh. It reminds Tim a bit of the time Gotham was hit with a nasty storm and Bruce and Dick made a blanket fort for all of them to sleep under together. It was one of the few times they both got along in Tim's presence.

"...I missed you too," he admits grudgingly--and only because he's pretty sure Phantom won't remember this in the morning.

His eyes close now as he finally lets his body rest. The tension leaves him in a rush; bones practically melting away. "No leaving," he mumbles into Phantom's chest, as an after thought.

The world fades to darkness.

Chapter Text

By morning, Tim wakes slowly, cocooned in warmth. The lower half of his body is still pinned by the thick coil of Phantom’s tail, heavy enough to keep him still but light enough to keep from cutting off his circulation. The smooth scales shift in Phantom's sleep, as if he can’t get enough of feeling Tim's skin.

Tim's upper half is no less restrained. He's cradled against a solid chest, Phantom’s arms locked firmly around him as if Tim might slip away if given the chance.

 He knows this shape well by now, even if it has traded scales for shadows—the breadth of Phantom’s shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest beneath Tim’s cheek. If he lets his fingers wander, he can almost count each rib, trace the defined lines of muscle beneath chilled skin.

 The steady, resonant purr coming Phantom’s core still thrums beneath his ear in a deep vibration that is equal parts soothing and unnerving. Tilting his head back, Tim catches the faint outline of Phantom’s face against the dim glow of the room. It is strange—almost mesmerizing—how utterly dark Phantom’s form is. Normally, the shadows swallow his features whole, but in the soft wash of green light spilling through the window, his face finally emerges: sharp angles, heavy lashes, the faintest curve of a relaxed mouth.

As if sensing the eyes on him, Phantom stirs with a low, sleepy rumble, his breath ghosting warm against Tim’s hair. He mumbles something unintelligible—half words, half purr—before tightening his hold. The shift is slow but firm, the coil of his tail drawing Tim upward until his chest is flush against Phantom’s own.

Tim lets out a startled breath as Phantom’s arms cinch tighter, enveloping him completely. Phantom exhales softly, a sound almost like relief, before settling again. Tim can feel the weight of that breath against his skin, warm and steady, accompanied by the faint hum of power from Phantom’s core.

The embrace is protective, almost instinctive, as though Phantom is trying to shield him from a threat even in sleep. Tim can only blink up at him, heart thudding faster at the way Phantom’s face remains peaceful—his features softened by the dim glow, lashes brushing against dark cheeks.

There’s always a sort of dangerous grace about him, but here and now, all Tim can think is that he’s beautiful—and not just in the way that a predator is beautiful, either. There are no twisting shadows; no hundred eyes. There is simply a sleeping, surprisingly human face that Tim can’t stop staring at.

He lifts a hand, running fingers over the defined jaw; up over a cheekbone and to the delicate orbital socket. He traces the bridge of a nose down to soft, parted lips, entranced by the fact that he can.

 Sam had said something about not seeing a human face in centuries, and Frostbite had told Phantom to drop at least one form—that implies that there are more. How many more? he wonders. How human can Phantom appear?

Phantom stirs beneath the touch, the faintest flutter of lashes betraying his slow return to consciousness. His eyelids lift sluggishly, revealing a half-lidded green glow that softens as his gaze focuses on Tim. A crooked smile tugs at his lips, lazy and unguarded.

“Hello,” he murmurs, voice soft and distinctly human despite the faint echo threading through it. “Good morning.”

 The words are gentle yet haunting, like a note of music that lingers too long in an empty room. Phantom’s tail shifts languidly. The smooth coils slide against Tim’s legs, as if to savor the warmth of his skin.

 “Hello,” Tim echoes, transfixed by the very human lips he can see and the small indent in a cheek that indicates a dimple. He touches the pad of a finger to it.

 “You have a dimple,” he says dumbly and immediately blames it on the sleep deprivation.

 Phantom blinks at him slowly, confusion soft in his glowing eyes. “I do?” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. “I never noticed.”

 His tail moves lazily, curling more securely around Tim’s ankle before tugging his leg into a more comfortable position—closer, warmer. “How do you know, anyway?” he asks, genuine curiosity threading through the drowsiness.

 Tim’s breath hitches as he becomes aware of the fact that he is very naked and very close to the man he is meant to—literally and figuratively—share a bed with for the next however many years.

 “I can see it?” He blinks at him, fingertip tapping against the spot once more. “You smiled at me.”

 That wakes Phantom up. His glowing eyes blink rapidly as awareness settles in, and he finally registers the position they are in—Tim practically straddling the thick coil of his tail. The subtle friction against his vent sends an unexpected jolt through him.

 A flush of bright, ectoplasmic green blooms across his face, glowing faintly in the dim light as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. His tail instinctively tightens its hold around Tim’s ankle, a possessive squeeze that feels almost like he can’t bring himself to let go. “Uuhh, I’m sorry.”

 Tim’s eyes narrow in on that blush. In this form, it’s much more noticeable for what it is. It also gives him an idea.

 “Hm, how are you feeling?” he asks, as if Phantom hasn’t said a word. He winds his arms around Phantom’s neck, preventing him from putting any real space between their bodies, and drags his nails through the hair at the back of his neck. “Your shadows still aren’t acting the same as before.”

 He doesn’t miss the way Phantom shivers. His glowing gaze flicks to the fading bruises painted into Tim’s neck when Tim tips his head to the side in a show of mock innocence.

 His legs tighten around Phantom’s tail as he uses the grip on his hair and his own core strength to lift himself up the few inches it takes to ghost their mouths together. “No shadows means you can’t disappear, can you? No running this time.”

 Phantom’s tail twitches, swishing restlessly against the sheets as if it can’t decide whether to coil tighter or flee. A strangled, high-pitched “Tim!” escapes him, voice cracking with static as if his system is overloading. His blush deepens, the ectoplasmic green crawling over his cheeks and down the column of his throat, spreading to the beginning of his chest like spilled neon ink.

He doesn’t disappear like the last time Tim took initiative; he can’t.

 Tim’s smile is sharp, borderline vicious with the knowledge. “You have things to answer for, and you’re aware enough now that that kicked-puppy act isn’t going to save you.

When you came back, you seemed to be under the misconception that I care that you had a problem with someone invading your territory. Privacy is important. Space is important. You think that before I came here I didn't have to deal with territorial metas and teammates too high on the newest villain concoction to tell friend from foe? I wouldn’t have intervened at all if you weren’t about to kill Dora.

I bit you to redirect your attention. You retaliated—but not enough to truly injure me. Then”—his voice sharpens to a blade, losing the mechanical breakdown of a mission report. His eyes flare, gaining the faintest ghostly glow as he tightens his grip on Phantom’s hair to snarl up at him—“you left me behind. Which I find, frankly, unacceptable.”

 Phantom’s mouth opens, static crackling high in his throat, but whatever words he is about to stammer die in a sharp gasp as Tim shoves him back. His glowing eyes widen, panic flashing across his face as he scrambles instinctively. His tail thrashes like a mouse aware it’s about to be snatched up by a hawk.

“Tim—!” His voice pitches high, startled. He freezes completely when Tim follows after him to settle on top of his tail once more, every muscle going taut under the weight. His glow pulses brighter, shame and heat flooding his belly as he blinks up at Tim’s furious, gorgeous snarl.

Tim wraps his arms around his shoulders once more. It’s his turn to loom for once, legs on either side of Phantom’s hips as he looks down at him. “If you ever leave me alone to explain to Frostbite why my body has been ‘stretched to inadvisable degrees’ and to accept his congratulations, you’ll be sleeping alone for the next century.”

“I—I don’t—” he starts, his words fracturing with embarrassment. His tail betrays him, curling loosely around Tim’s calf, as if subconsciously anchoring him in place. He sucks in a shaky breath, gaze darting away for half a second before snapping right back to Tim’s glowing eyes.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he admits, voice small but sincere, a soft hum of ghostly static riding his tone. “I—I panicked. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you. I’d never—”

“Obviously,” Tim scoffs, derision clear in the hard set of his mouth. “I’ve already made our boundaries clear to Dora, and she has apologized. The staff know as well. Anyone stupid enough to do it again is fair game.”

He softens his grip on Phantom’s hair to run a single soothing touch over his tense shoulders.

“Don’t leave me again,” he repeats, softer this time but no less intense. He leans his forehead against Phantom’s and lets out a heavy sigh. Phantom noticeably melts under Tim’s touch, his body unwinding by degrees as it grounds him. The sharp edges of shame and panic dull, replaced by warmth and an instinctive curl of his tail around Tim’s waist. “This week was—awful. Do you know how many people I've wanted to swear out of existence? Your Court is incredibly belligerent, and if one more person tries to make a joke about my ability to tame monsters or insinuates that they can ‘treat me better,’ I’m going to lose it and go full supervillain.”

The low hum of Phantom's aura spikes sharply, like electricity snapping through the air. His glow flares brighter as veins of green dance across his arms. His relaxed tail stiffens and begins to lash behind Tim.

“…What,” he says, voice dropping to a growl so deep it reverberates in his chest. He sits up, arms curling around Tim’s hips like steel bands. His tail coils tight, pinning Tim close, his entire body vibrating with fury.

“Who,” Phantom snarls, the green in his eyes blazing so bright it almost hurts to look at. “Who dared to say that? Who thinks they can touch—claim—what’s mine?” His spectral energy rolls off of him in a cold wave that makes the lights flicker.

“Point them out,” Phantom hisses, baring his fangs at the air. “Now.” His hair flares, icy mist curling around the strands like smoke. “I’ll make sure they never so much as look at you again—”

His claws puncture the mattress as the snarl twists his mouth into something inhuman. Phantom’s growl grows into the roar of a glacier splitting down the middle. “They tried to take my Consort. That’s not forgivable.”

There’s definitely something wrong with me, Tim thinks, as he takes in the hold keeping him crushed to Phantom’s chest; the chill that makes his skin break out in goosebumps, that causes his nipples to harden; the teeth glinting sharp in the painfully bright glow of Phantom’s eyes.

There’s definitely something wrong with him… because he can feel heat in his belly; can feel his cock begin to stir between his legs. So really, he does the only thing that makes sense.

He takes a hold of Phantom’s floating hair, closes the distance between them, and kisses him. Hard.

Phantom snarls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against Tim’s lips as he kisses back with a ferocity that steals his breath. His hands slide down, cold fingers gripping Tim’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest until there isn’t so much as an inch of space left between them.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss. His fangs graze Tim’s lower lip before nipping sharply enough to make Tim gasp. That gasp is all the invitation Phantom needs; he growls and surges forward to claim Tim’s mouth fully, his tongue cold yet strangely electric as it slides deep into Tim’s throat.

His growl transitions into a rumbling purr, dark and pleased. His tail tightens around Tim’s legs, keeping him in place as he rocks his hips forward. The press of something long and slick beneath Tim’s ass is unmistakable.

“You’re mine,” Phantom murmurs, voice a velvet rasp that thrums with power. He seals his words with another bruising kiss, grinding harder, a dangerous edge of desperation bleeding into every movement as though he can’t get close enough, can’t consume enough of him.

Tim has to break away with a gasp; teeth immediately find his neck, worrying at fading bruises to make them new again. “Frostbite gave me lube,” he says, trying and failing to get out of Phantom’s grasp. “He said something about a relaxing and numbing agent—”

Phantom growls his displeasure. “Feel me,” he insists, nipping at Tim’s jaw. “So pretty when you’re full of me, when you shake with how much I stretch you.”

So much for the shy and stuttering Phantom. The roles have reversed so quickly Tim is the one left blushing.

“You know that’s not what that means,” he argues. “Just—let me grab it, it’s under the bed.”

The hands around him tighten mulishly before loosening. Tim huffs as he wiggles his way out from under Phantom’s tail, crawls to the side of the bed, and bends to grab the large container of lube Frostbite pushed into his hands the second day of Phantom’s absence. He has to use both hands to pick it up and is in the process of pushing himself back up with his knees when a heavy weight settles onto his thighs and sends him flat. The breath leaves him in a rush as his hips hit the edge of the bed, leaving his torso to dangle out into open space. He catches himself on his hands against the floor and cranes his head back over his shoulder with a glare as the dropped lube rolls away.

“Hey—!”

Tim’s words die in his throat as a face buries itself in his ass. He barely has a second to comprehend what’s happening before Phantom’s tongue shoves its way inside, twisting in ways that make his toes curl and tear a shout from his lips. His legs kick, but they’re caught in the thick coils of his tail. Half off the bed, he doesn’t have nearly enough leverage to do anything about it.

“This isn’t funny,” Tim grits out, staring down at his braced palms. “Let me up—”

Phantom wraps clawed hands around his upper thighs and yanks him further back onto his tongue. It curls up into his prostate, and then he purrs.

Tim’s eyes roll into the back of his head. His mouth drops open, strength leaving his arms with embarrassing speed as he flops down against the side of the mattress and just—dangles there. Entirely at the mercy of that mouth.

His cock presses against the mattress, but he can barely move with how tightly he’s held. The little grinding pulses he can manage only make him squirm in an attempt to get more friction. At some point, Phantom slides a hand under him and wraps clawed fingers around his dick. Tim lets out a soft sob and fucks into his fist.

It feels like he’s there forever and no time at all before he’s coming, body gone limp against the mattress as he pants. He twitches weakly when Phantom gives him a few more prodding licks that make him whine before withdrawing at last. He’s pulled back up onto the mattress and set back in Phantom’s lap just in time to see him lick the spend from his palm.

“Delicious,” Phantom purrs, eyes half-lidded with pleasure.

Tim looks down at where he’s settled on his hips and sucks in a sharp breath at what he sees. The scales have parted to reveal Phantom’s vent. The bulge of his cock is half emerged, head still tucked into the warm crevasse. Tim reaches down to touch it and earns a low groan. It’s hot and wet to the touch. He drags his palm over the arch of it before slipping his fingers into the vent itself.

Phantom arches, tail undulating in one smooth motion. Tim watches with wide eyes, transfixed by the arch of his neck and the growing green flush on his face. He’s so wet inside, it takes Tim a second to find the head of his cock. He grabs onto it and pushes it out into the open air, only to find that it’s not alone. There’s a second bulge beneath the first, and when he reaches in again and pulls, he’s left face to face with two dicks.

Luckily, these aren’t as large as Phantom’s previous form, but they’re still enough to give him pause. They’re curved, with thick, rounded heads that leak fluid even as he watches. Toward the halfway point sit rounded bulges with dangerous-looking spines protruding out at all angles. Thankfully, they’re soft to the touch when he brushes them and only slightly firm. They also make Phantom shudder.

“I can fit this inside me,” Tim says, more to himself than to Phantom, eyes transfixed on the way his fingers just barely touch around the head. The fluid coming off of it is thick and viscous; he brings his hand back between his legs and pushes his fingers inside himself with a moan.

Phantom’s hands wrap around his hips, pulling him closer. Tim settles over his vent, right against his bottom dick, and moans as he rocks forward against it. It’s long enough to reach his last rib and as thick around as a forearm at its widest point. Now that he’s looking, he can see that the entire thing is covered in little scales that collect pools of Phantom’s secretions, helping to keep the skin hydrated and slick.

He gets four fingers into himself and fucks his hips back, pushing himself faster than he would normally to get Phantom inside himself as quickly as possible. A hand catches his chin and holds his head up where Phantom can see every expression. Tender fingers brush his bangs back as Phantom practically coos at him, as if he’s a particularly adorable pet.

“Pretty Consort, desperate for me?”

Tim twists his wrist and whines. “Yes.”

“Left too long,” he murmurs, pushing his fingers into Tim’s mouth. “Never again.”

He tucks in his thumb and shakes around the stretch. The burn puts a furrow between his eyebrows that has Phantom petting him as he lets out a soothing chirp. Tim rocks his hips back and forth, but the angle is wrong and he can’t stand it anymore. He pulls his hand free and grips Phantom’s bottom dick, lifting up into a crouch to bring the head up against his entrance.

He steadies himself with a hand on Phantom’s shoulder—not that he needs to. Phantom’s hands are on his hips, holding him steady, eyes fixated on where they touch.

Slowly, Tim sinks down. He feels the heat before the stretch; so different from Phantom’s normal chill that it feels scorching against his insides. He can feel those scales now, catching on his rim and adding yet more sensation to the mix. He takes his lip between his teeth and rocks slowly, forcing himself to breathe as he keeps bearing down, until—the head pops inside, and Tim’s knees nearly give out. His hands fly down to brace against Phantom’s taut stomach, mouth open to take in panting breaths.

“Big,” he whines to himself, half aware he’s even saying it. He knows immediately that he hasn’t prepared enough to make this easy, but like hell is he pulling off now. His hips rock hesitantly, not enough to pull off the head but enough to feel the way it tugs at his rim.

Phantom growls beneath him, fingers flexing against his hips. His tail shifts, coiling around Tim’s ankles and adding to the weight pulling him down onto his cock. “You can take it,” he says confidently, slipping a hand down to wrap around Tim’s leaking arousal as well as his own—the one not being fed into Tim’s ass. “Took so much last time, was so good. Going to do it again, aren’t you?”

He goes to his knees with a jolt, taking in several inches all at once. His mouth drops open around a soundless scream, walls fluttering frantically around Phantom’s cock. There’s a snarl before a gush of heat comes from the head, easing the way.

Tim blinks dazedly, staring down at what he can still see of Phantom’s arousal. The swollen bulb at the center practically taunts him, daring him to keep going. Tim collapses forward against Phantom’s chest to kiss him, an action that is met with a pleased purr.

He mumbles something, and Phantom pulls back, blinking down at him. “Hm?”

“Mistress of Silent Dunes said the sands would welcome my screams,” Tim repeats, arms winding around Phantom’s shoulders. His hips twitch, thighs spreading wide as he takes another inch. “She said—you hadn’t worn me out enough, to still be so mouthy. That I needed a heavier… hand.”

A snarl rips through the room and sends a shudder down his spine. Phantom bites into the skin under his jaw hard enough to draw blood. “She dares,” he seethes, tongue coming out to lick away the mess.

He lifts himself up to the head and sinks back down in one slow slide that he feels all the way to his toes. The soft barbs of the center bulb kiss his entrance.

“Warlord of Iron Hunger asked if I knew what it was to be—fucked while an asteroid threatens my existence. He said he thought I would beg so sweetly to be saved.”

“Not for him,” Phantom spits. “Never for him.”

His tail coils in on itself to drape heavy over Tim’s calves, keeping him from lifting himself up off the cock inside him. It jars his hips and has him seeing stars.

“Never,” he agrees, somewhat dazedly.

He rolls his hips, working himself down onto that bulb in tight, little circles that leave him shaking. Phantom is so big he’s pressing right up against his prostate without even trying, and Tim is sweating with the effort of taking the rest of him inside.

“Who else?” Phantom demands. “Name the traitors.”

“Marchioness of the Ashen Bloom said she would let her stable have a go at me,” he mumbles, thighs shaking as the first barbs tug at his rim. “Said it would—teach me manners. That she’d offer you the training method and a mount to… keep me in line if I survived.”

The room shakes under the force of Phantom’s roar. Tim’s scream sounds out alongside it as he’s yanked down onto that bulb by bruising hands. The barbs flare immediately, raking out along Tim’s insides and lighting him up. His come splatters against his belly as the cock inside him lets out another gush of boiling heat.

He gives up any claim of control after that as he collapses forward to sob into Phantom’s shoulder. His legs are caught fully in his heavy tail as Phantom starts to fuck up into him with focused intent. He flips them over, putting Tim on his back and bracing himself on clawed hands as he snaps his teeth above him.

“They dare insult what’s mine? Dare threaten? To even fantasize?” Something thick and green drips from Phantom’s fangs and lands on Tim’s chest; it leaves a numb tingling in its wake that has him gasping.

He barely has a chance to open his mouth before Phantom strikes, quick as the snake he embodies, to sink his teeth into Tim’s heaving chest. Fire shoots through his veins, but he finds that he can’t move. He can only whimper as Phantom teethes at his nipples with sharp fangs and a tongue that feels like electricity.

He’s being filled with every thrust; a gush of warmth hits his insides again and again until Phantom yanks his hips back and his cock along with it. Tim is barely given a chance to sob at the sensation of being so thoroughly cored out when he’s fucked back into with Phantom’s second arousal.

“Kill them,” Phantom hisses into Tim’s neck as he bites bruises back into the skin. “No one will touch you but me.”

“Only you,” Tim finds himself gasping, his nails clawing at Phantom’s back.

He feels like his nerves are on fire; like he’s been exposed, and every thrust of Phantom’s hips has him lighting up from the inside out. His hips and belly feel so hot he can’t even tell if he’s coming or not anymore. Come drips down the backs of his thighs with every squelching thrust; he feels so full.

Phantom kisses him. He opens himself up to that intoxicating tongue, letting it slip down his throat without a fight to toy with him the way no one else can.

Another gush of come fills him, but this time something else joins in. It feels thicker, more solid. He whines as Phantom withdraws, the slow drag of those barbs against his oversensitive walls leaving him twitching, legs kicking out uselessly as tears streak down his cheeks.

But—he’s not being left empty.

Something is still filling him, still keeping him spread and full as Phantom withdraws until just the head is inside. His cock twitches with each hard gush of fluid before, at last, he pulls out.

“What—?” Tim finally manages to rasp, drifting a hand down to feel the way his stomach distends—and then further still to press up against his entrance. He shies away from even his own touch, left impossibly sensitive, but his fingertips find whatever has been left to keep him plugged. It’s a thick, hardening substance that he can’t push or pull out. He whines when he clenches down around it.

Phantom catches his hand to press a kiss to his palm. “Mine,” he says, eyes glowing with heavy-lidded satisfaction. He rolls them onto their sides with a flex of his tail, free hand drifting down to cup Tim’s swollen stomach. “Let them smell me on you, kept full of me always. Let them know who will come for any who dare try to touch you, take you.”

He shivers from the sheer possessive weight. “Okay,” he says weakly, “but that’s not permanent, right?”

He nuzzles Tim’s cheek with a soft laugh. “Silly Consort. Won’t change your body without permission first.”

And that.

That is a whole other issue Tim is officially far too fucked out to address right now.

He lets out a shaky breath and leans into the affection, thighs still trembling every now and then with aftershocks. Phantom holds him tightly against his chest, his grip unyielding, as if daring the world to try and pull him away again. The air around them is thick with cold, his aura curling like mist over Tim’s skin, but instead of biting, it wraps him in a cocoon of safety. His claws trace slow, deliberate circles down Tim’s spine, anchoring him, claiming him.

“You’re mine,” Phantom murmurs, voice low and edged with something dangerous, something ancient. He presses his forehead to Tim’s and lets the glow of his eyes soften—only for him. “No one touches what’s mine. No one takes you from me.”

Tim’s breath hitches. His heart is still hammering, but Phantom’s words, his presence, are steadying in a way nothing else can be. Especially after the week he’s had without him.

Phantom’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, long fingers tangling gently in his hair while his other arm stays wrapped firmly around his waist. He rocks him slightly, a slow, protective sway that speaks of both comfort and dominance.

“Rest,” Phantom commands, voice soft but absolute. His lips brush over Tim’s temple, his jaw, leaving cool, featherlight kisses in their wake. “You’ve done enough. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone near you—not now, not ever.”

Tim lets himself sink against him, his body going slack as exhaustion takes him once more. There are still things to be done, meetings to run, letters to be sent out, research to be conducted—but for now, he can relax. Because his King has returned.

Phantom purrs softly, the deep, resonant sound echoing through his chest, vibrating against Tim’s cheek as if to lull him deeper into calm. It already sounds much healthier than when he first arrived.

“You’re everything,” Phantom whispers, his breath chilling and tender against Tim’s ear. “My treasure. My Consort. Mine to guard.”

He shifts, settling them more comfortably, but his hold doesn’t loosen for even a second. His tail curls protectively around Tim’s legs like a barrier, a visible warning to anyone foolish enough to interrupt.

“Sleep,” Phantom murmurs again, as shadows begin to form on the bedsheets, pooling like liquid ink. “I’ll tear the realms apart before I let harm touch you.”

Chapter Text

They spend four days uninterrupted before Tim can't handle it anymore. He probably would have caved sooner if Phantom didn't spend most of it clinging to him like a limpet and using him like a chew toy. He's wild eyed by the time Frostbite checks up on them only to find him fending off Phantom's advances with nothing but a pillow and his own yelping complaints. It earns a great boom of laughter and distracts Phantom long enough for Tim to scurry off to the bathroom to wash up. He's plugged again and sore; every step the bites on his thighs remind him of what awaits him in the other room.

It's when Frostbite declares Phantom's core stable enough to spend some time outside of the ecto field that Tim puts his foot down and insists on getting back to work. He shoves the couch over to his map and info board so Phantom can curl up and watch him move about, shadows always dogging his heels, pressing little kissing touches to his bare skin until he caves and lets himself be drawn into Phantom's coil.

Lawrence takes one look at his swollen belly and snickers.

"Don't say a word," Tim says through his teeth, while Phantom looks nothing short of utterly pleased.

"Hey, I'm not judging. I'll just have to, uh, make some adjustments to your outfits." He coughs in an attempt to hide another laugh. "It's a good image to present to the Court, after Phantom's absence. It'll stir the masses."

There's a knock on the door. Dora's voice comes from the other room, "May I come in?"

Tim glances over at Phantom, who hasn't seen her since their fight. "It's up to you."

There's none of the aggression from the day of their fight. Phantom perks up, head swiveling toward the door like a cat spotting something interesting.

“Dora, come in!” His voice is bright, genuinely eager. Tim can feel the flicker of excitement ripple through where Phantom is curled protectively around his side.

The door swings open. Dora sweeps inside with her usual poise, looking utterly unbothered despite their last clash. Her lips curl into an amused smirk as she takes in the sight of Phantom draped over Tim, tail coiled lazily around Tim’s waist in blatant possession. “Still keeping your Consort to yourself, I see,” she teases, voice rich with laughter.

Phantom’s glow dims slightly in embarrassment, though his hold on Tim never loosens. He offers a sheepish smile, claws flexing possessively at Tim’s hip. “I… may have gotten a little carried away,” he admits, tone soft in a way that is reserved only for a select few.

“How is your arm?” he asks quickly. His glowing eyes scan her posture, the tension in her stance, hunting for any sign of weakness.

Dora rolls her eyes in that imperious way only she can manage. Her movements are regal as she shifts her weight and lifts her chin. “If that had been enough to stop me, I never would have earned my place as Queen Regent against my brother,” she replies coolly.

Her poise is effortless, but Tim notices the faint stiffness in her right shoulder; Phantom does too. His tail flicks irritably in warning.

Before Phantom can growl out another question or declare war over her injury, Dora turns her attention to Tim. “The Court has been eager to see you again,” she says, gaze sharp and amused as she looks him over. “You left things rather… unfinished when you took your little break.”

Tim raises an unimpressed eyebrow, leaning back against Phantom’s chest. “I’m sure they’ll survive a few days without him, I deserve to have him to myself a bit longer,” Phantom says dryly.

He presses his cheek to Tim's head. A pleased rumble rolls out through the room, loud enough it pulls a knowing smirk from her.

“Perhaps,” Dora allows, eyes glittering with amusement. “But it will certainly be interesting to see their faces when they realize just how… deeply claimed your Consort has become.”

At that, Phantom’s grin turns sharp and feral, his possessiveness radiating like frost. He presses a kiss to Tim’s jaw—a quiet promise—before glancing back up at Dora. “Good. Let them see.”

"It's about time those assholes are put in their place," Lawrence adds, head buried in his sketchbook. "I remember how disgusting some of the comments people made about me were when I first became Mal's Consort. There's only so much we can do without straining political ties."

Phantom scoffs. His tail flicks lazily as he shoots Lawrence a sharp-toothed grin. His glowing eyes carry so much mirth that his following words come out playful instead of harsh.

“Oh, shut up. Last I checked, it was Mal getting the innuendos while you were the tiny chihuahua snapping at their ankles.”

He looks up at Phantom and rolls his eyes. "That's because Mal is oblivious." He points his pencil at him as if he's just an unruly dog and not the highest power in the universe. "You need to think more about how your actions affect your Consort. Our jobs are to back up our Kings and make sure things run smoothly but a King's job is to protect their Consort. You're lucky that we've all been keeping him under watch—Dora even sped up her timeline on self defense. You leaving was just asking for someone to try to snatch or hurt him."

"This was going to be covered in your joint lessons," Dora adds in. "A Consort is never weak, but it is true that their position leaves them vulnerable."

"I'm right here," Tim reminds. "And I can take care of myself."

"That's the point," Lawrence huffs. "You're not supposed to have to. Our Kings rage and protect us so that we can focus on making sure the kingdom runs smoothly. They make us untouchable."

“I already apologized for leaving,” Phantom mutters, looking genuinely contrite. “I wasn’t thinking straight, and I reacted badly. But don't worry,” a low, guttural growl comes from his chest, reverberating through the room with a chill that makes even Dora’s posture tighten and Lawrence duck his head. The temperature drops sharply as Phantom’s voice deepens to carry the weight of his crown. Each word he speaks is laced with venomous promise. “I will take care of the Court. No one will disrespect my Consort again.”

It isn't a statement. It is a decree.

Tim wants to argue but—there's a part of him that likes the fact that he doesn't have to do everything himself. He's always been self sufficient; he had to be to keep Bruce from killing himself and to keep his own life in line. It's refreshing to have someone want to ease the burden for once.

Lawrence blinks away the weight of Phantom's power and gives one last point of his pencil. "You'd better. I like him and a lot of people will be upset if something happens."

"Touching." Tim looks over at Dora. "Have you spoken to Guardian of Eyes and Eye of the Void?"

"They're sorting through the candidates of the records position you wanted posted. Kestral is picky, but I'm sure she'll find a couple she can tolerate."

"Mm, good. The sooner we can get the backlog of mail sorted the better. Then we can focus on actually addressing them. We'll need to form departments, internal structure…" his voice trails off but his planning doesn't stop. His eyes flicker back and forth as he works out a road map.

Phantom’s arms tighten around Tim’s waist. He pulls him back into the solid wall of his chest as he bends down to nuzzle against Tim’s hair. The soft hum of his breath ghosts over Tim’s temple before Phantom murmurs, voice warm and full of pride, “So competent… this Consort of mine.”

Tim's words falter for just a moment at the praise, but it's noticeable enough that both Lawrence and Dora share an amused glance. His face flushes as he forges on with the resolute determination to simply ignore that it ever happened. Uncaring of his composure, Phantom purrs with contentment. The sound reverberates through Tim’s back and into his spine, as if determined to make a home out of every part of his body.

The contrast between Tim’s focused, calculating tone and Phantom’s indulgent affection is almost comical; Phantom seems perfectly content to listen to his Consort plan the world into order while holding him close, as though daring anyone to try and take him away.

Tim talks more logistics and goes over some of the currently visiting diplomats before Dora pulls Phantom back into the conversation.

"You must set a Court date," she tells him. "The kingdom is eager to see you both and we continue to receive an influx of invitations for your visitation."

Phantom’s shoulders square. The lazy warmth he’d shown moments ago vanishes in an instant.

He releases Tim only long enough to sit upright on the couch, glowing eyes sharpening with a regal edge that fills the room like a cold wind.

“Attendant!”

The word rings out, and in less than a heartbeat, a figure appears at his side, head bowed low in deference.

“Call for Court in three days,” Phantom orders, low voice carrying the undeniable weight of command. “All kings and queens are to come. It is an order.”

The attendant bows deeper, murmurs their assent, and disappears as quickly as they have come, leaving the air thrumming faintly in their wake.

Dora’s eyebrows arch high. Her sharp gaze flicks between Phantom and Tim. “Three days? Don’t you think that’s too little time for preparation?” she asks, calm but laced with warning.

Phantom leans back into the couch. He slides an arm around Tim’s waist again, pulling him close in a move both protective and possessive. His grin is sharp, the glint in his eyes bright enough to send a chill through the room.

“Three days is plenty,” he says smoothly. “I’m not planning to do anything drastic—just make the Courts tremble a little.” His fingers brush lazily over Tim’s side. The softness of his gesture contrasts starkly with the weight of his next words. “They should know my Consort’s gaze has fallen upon those who deserve punishment. A little fear will remind them where they stand.”

Dora’s lips press together into a thin line, one that is clearly meant to suppress a laugh. She says nothing, though, inclining her head in acknowledgment.

"Are you sticking with this form?" Lawrence asks. "I could make you some matching adornments, send a clear message."

Tim thinks back to the fractured core he saw mere days ago and has to fight to stay silent. Anything that will remove extra stress from Phantom's core is good in his books… but he's aware that there is danger and history outside their rooms.

Phantom stiffens instantly. His glow flickers in agitation as his form coils in on itself, claws curling into the cushions beneath him. “Absolutely not,” he growls, voice low and resonant, like ice cracking over deep water. His shoulders hunch as though instinctively shielding his chest. “I am too weak in this form.”

Dora’s gaze sharpens. There is no trace of her previous humor as she folds her arms and regards him with cool disapproval. “But your core is still damaged,” she reminds. “It is unwise to change forms when you are so weakened.”

“I said no,” Phantom snaps, words laced with a guttural snarl that rattles faintly in the air. Shadows curl at his edges, defensive and feral, as if daring anyone to press him further.

Dora only rolls her eyes at the display, clearly unimpressed. “You’re being dramatic,” she mutters under her breath, not backing down in the slightest.

Tim shifts to put his body between Phantom's chest and the rest of the world. He places a gentle, hesitant hand over where he remembers seeing it and thinks back on the weak glow Phantom arrived with. "What if Sam and Tucker are there? They won't let anyone hurt you—and neither will I."

He knows it, despite having no prior knowledge. He recognizes the kind of devotion he's seen in the three; the unspoken bond. It makes him miss his team.

"I saw your core," he says, staring at his hand as if he can see it even now. "It scares me, thinking that you could worsen."

A low, warning growl rumbles out of Phantom’s chest, vibrating beneath Tim’s palm like a distant storm. His eyes glow brighter for a moment, sharp and dangerous, though the tension in his shoulders betrays exhaustion more than anger.

He tears his gaze from Tim and fixes it on Lawrence and Dora, voice dropping into a commanding snarl. “Out. Both of you. Now.”

The air in the room seems to thrum with his authority, shadows flickering along the walls as if obeying his mood. Lawrence dips his head immediately, retreating without protest, while Dora lingers just long enough to raise a brow, her displeasure clear, before she sweeps from the room in a swirl of silk and frost.

Only when the door clicks shut does Phantom let out a slow exhale. His tail coils possessively around Tim’s wrist, tethering him close.

"I would appreciate it if you don't tell others my weaknesses, especially about my core," he grumbles, clearly trying not to snarl at him. "I don't need others knowing that I can be easily hurt."

"They're your friends. They share a seat at your inner table. Not to mention the fact that they already know." Tim's eyes narrow as his voice sharpens. He does not appreciate being accused of thoughtlessness. "I hardly mentioned the fact that your core is fractured. Or that Frostbite had to seal the seams.

And on that topic, do you have any idea how many questions I had to field, asking where you were while you were gone, trying to feel for information to exploit? I was taught politics as soon as I could speak, give me some credit. Or did you expect me to fix your Court and be your toy with no expectation of trust?"

He spits the term, his hurt as bright as a flare in the night sky for Phantom to see.

Phantom’s glow flares in response like a warning beacon. His voice cracks through the air, much like ice splitting under pressure. “My core is fine,” he snaps, every syllable sharp with pride. “I am as strong as I’ve always been. Stronger, even.” His claws flex against the couch. The crackle of frost creeping along the edges of the frame betrays just how tightly wound he is.

“They may sit at my inner table, but that does not mean they should know more than they need to,” he continues, his tone edged with finality. “Weakness is a weapon in the wrong hands, even theirs. I will not give them—or anyone—the sight of me fractured.”

He leans closer, his glow casting Tim’s face in pale green light. “I trust you,” Phantom growls, softer but no less intense. “You are doing an amazing job so that you can take back what’s yours. I’ve given you enough trust to guard me in my most vulnerable state. Do you expect me to what—” his voice deepens, becoming close to a hiss. “Hand you my core to keep?”

His tail lashes behind him as the room fills with the hum of ghostly energy, heavy and oppressive. He's coiled tight as a predator in a den, daring Tim to push further.

Tim takes that dare.

"You expect me to think you're at your strongest when mere days ago you could barely keep track of what was going on around you? When your shadows were gone and you looked like you'd be blown away by a stiff breeze?"

Tim pushes away from the couch to get out some of the tense energy in his body. It is a weakness but Dora's words echo in his brain, telling him to communicate, and what's one more weakness shown atop all the others?

"I expect you to take care of yourself. I expect you not to harm yourself to do something you've already done in spades. I expect you to stop throwing the fact that everything I build here is temporary back in my face!"

The glow is back in his eyes as he snarls those last few words. He clenches his fists together so tightly that his hands shake. His aura is stained in bright splotches of bleeding red hurt, sparking orange anger and ice blue loneliness.

Phantom bristles in turn, every line of his body trembling with the effort it takes not to lash out. Tim’s emotions—his hurt, his anger, his fear—radiates off him like a storm, and Phantom’s own instincts scream to meet it with cold, unshakable strength. His hands curl into fists, claws glowing with ghost-light. The air around him crackles with the power he holds back.

“Nothing is temporary in the realms,” Phantom bites out, voice low and edged with a dangerous growl. “Everything done here is permanent. Death is permanent. Choices are permanent. What I build for you here, Tim, will stand even after you’ve walked away. You will still have a place to return to when this—when this arrangement ends.”

The words taste like ash, but he forces them out; every syllable cuts him as much as it cuts Tim. He snaps his jaw shut. Shadows surge around him like a shield, swallowing the glow of his body in thick, protective darkness. He closes his eyes against the raw hurt bleeding off of his Consort, but even cloaked in his own power, he doesn't move. He can't. His presence stays tethered to Tim’s, as unyielding as the grave.

"What?" His voice comes out lost when he finally finds it again, like a child stumbling through the dark. The glow fades from his eyes as his anger stalls out. He searches that cloud of darkness for eyes, for a face, for anything that will help him understand. "What do you mean?"

“It means,” Phantom’s voice reverberates, layered and fractured into a thousand echoes, each one carrying its own timbre, its own whisper of power. The darkness around him deepens, thick and alive, curling through the room like a living thing. “That once you have your soul back and return to the human world, you will still hold a place at my court. It will remain empty, waiting, until your lifetime runs its course… and you come back.”

The shadows pulse, swallowing what little light remains. His voice is a chorus of promises and inevitability both. “You will have the choice to take it."

Eyes appear. Dozens, then hundreds, glimmering into existence within the depths of his shadowed form—cold, watchful, unblinking. When they finally open fully, Phantom’s body shifts. His King shape blooms like a nightmare from the dark: a silhouette of writhing shadows, face unreadable, voice an echo of thousands and stripped of warmth.

Tim's chest aches at the return of that form. He already misses being able to see Phantom's face; the way his cheek dimples when he smiles; the way his eyes widen and narrow according to his mood; the way his tail is always in motion, always giving away when he's thinking. He's spent more time around Phantom in his shadow form but it doesn't feel like it.

“You will be an advisor of the court,” Phantom says, all emotion leeched away. “And your position will remain, no matter the years, no matter the distance.”

"Frostbite said I was dying," Tim denies, desperately ignoring the way his hopes rise and fall with the word advisor. "I'll be dead before I can go back. Are you saying I'll just shift from being your Consort to your advisor?"

That they'll stop sharing rooms and meals. That he'll go back to sleeping in an empty bed, always too big and cold to ever do anything but toss and turn in.

Phantom rises to his full height, shadows clinging to him like a mantle of living ink. For a moment, his body sways, the weight of exhaustion dragging before he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin, forcing himself into stillness. The thousand eyes behind him blink out one by one until only two glimmer like twin stars in the dark.

“If that is what you wish,” he says at last, voice flat but trembling beneath its calm, as though something primal strains to break free. The darkness ripples behind him, coiling tighter around his frame, betraying his tension even as he tries to remain composed.

What if it's not? A part of Tim howls. What if I—

He closes his eyes. Takes a breath.

"Stop it," he says tiredly, as the fight leaves him. He walks back towards Phantom, head tilting back to meet his gaze. "You're pushing yourself for no reason. Change back and rest. We still have three days."

Phantom takes a single step forward—and his shadows give out. He sinks back into the couch with a thud. The oppressive shadows slither away from him like retreating waves until he is once again his serpentine self. His chest rises and falls with sharp, uneven breaths, every inhale rattling with strain.

“I… need to get used to using my king form again,” he says between pants, voice hoarse but resolute. “It’s the safest.”

His tail coils loosely at his side, twitching faintly with each exhale as if to reassure Tim that, even like this, he is still in control.

Tim doesn't state the obvious—that to have to get used to it implies that he shouldn't be using it yet—he just picks up one of the bottles of ecto Frostbite left them and moves back to Phantom's side. He doesn't know when it happened exactly, but when Phantom is in the room he finds himself drawn in like a planet caught in his gravitational pull. It's hard not to be close to him.

"You need rest," Tim corrects, pushing the bottle into Phantom's hand. "If you insist on using your other form then you can practice in the ecto field Frostbite set up—and only after you've rested for two more days."

Phantom’s glowing eyes flick up to Tim, and for a moment, that familiar stubbornness seems to flicker in their depths. It fades just as quickly, leaving only fatigue in its wake.

“…Thank you,” he murmurs, quieter than usual as he accepts the bottle. The glow from his fingertips shimmers faintly as he uncaps it. He downs the ectoplasm in a few gulps before setting it aside.

With slow, deliberate movements, Phantom slides off the couch and drifts toward the bed, tail dragging limply behind him. He curls into himself the second he settles, wrapping coils tight around his body as if to shield himself from the exhaustion weighing him down.

“I’m… going to try to sleep a little,” he whispers, voice already fading as his eyes shutter closed.

Tim watches him for a few long moments, brow furrowed. He sits down on the couch with a quiet sigh and gives himself a moment to just. Process.

His place isn't temporary but his role is. What he builds here is—permanent, to a degree. It's similar to WE in that he's building upon someone else's legacy but this time he won't have to let go if he doesn't want to.

So Phantom doesn't want him to rule at his side as his Consort. He at least wants Tim to stay on as an advisor; to take up a place at his inner-most table.

Tim can... make a home here. He can—maybe—finally figure out what that means without being pulled in a hundred different directions by a hundred different responsibilities. And he's dying; not in the way that humans degrade or in the way that he expected, but it's happening all the same. He thinks maybe he should be more disturbed by this but one of the first things Bruce ever told him was that he was likely to die in his suit. Tim has had a long time to come to terms with his death. He's been at peace with it for years now. He always thought that he would die for the Mission but this... this seems suitable. To die to keep his place here. To simply complete the cycle he's always been a part of.

He glances over at Phantom once more and then at the staff sitting on the table in front of him. He still has people to protect here. Whatever has Phantom so afraid of being seen in anything other than his shadows is his next priority, starting with the list Tucker gave him.

He stares at the name at the top and purses his lips. He's going to have to talk to Sam and Tucker; preferably without Phantom there to keep them silent. But he can't leave him alone in this state—won't, after seeing how scared he is.

Tim huffs out a breath.

He misses his technology. He misses having everything at the touch of his finger tips. There's got to be a way to integrate that kind of technology here; he adds it to his ever growing list.

For now, he needs to keep reading about the conflict between the Ice and Fire Courts. He starts to get settled on the couch before pausing.

He glances over at Phantom again and takes in the little frown plaguing him even in sleep. He hesitates for a moment, torn between his own sense of pride and his desire before standing with a sigh. He moves over to the bed and touches a gentle hand to Phantom's scales.

"Hey," he murmurs, when Phantom's tail ripples. "It's just me. Can I join you while I read?"

Phantom stirs, blinking dim glowing eyes open. The tension in his face softens the instant he sees Tim, and without hesitation, he uncoils just enough to make space.

“Of course,” he mumbles, his voice already thick with sleep as his arms lift in silent invitation. “Always.”

His tail curls lazily around Tim’s waist the moment he crawls in, pulling him in close like a treasured keepsake. Phantom’s eyes flutter shut again almost immediately, but the relaxed expression stays as a silent testament to just how much he trusts Tim to watch over him in sleep.

Chapter Text

The day for Court comes too soon in Tim's opinion. Fortunately, he's an excellent liar when it comes to pretending things are fine.

Phantom is more stable after shifting under the crystal's field and downing half a dozen bottles of ecto. Only Tim and Frostbite know of what lays beyond the shadows. He will be insisting Phantom shifts back immediately once they're back in their rooms but for now they are playing into the image of Phantom's power.

"You're delicate and pretty and couldn't possibly serve as a threat," Lawrence tells him, as he does up the laces at the back of Tim's short white dress. "You're his treasure and no one robs the King's coffers and gets away with it."

Tim hums as he braces himself against the tug. His stomach is full from last night, his ass plugged after Phantom stirred himself into a possessive frenzy before bed. Thankfully, the dress doesn't constrict him that much, or else it would be uncomfortable. He double checks his thigh holster once the laces are tied and holds still as Lawrence fixes what look like chains of white ice to his bare legs. Crystals grow from them in pale shades of blue, purple and pink. They match his makeup, with his white ringed eyes and the eyeshadow fanning out onto the tops of his cheekbones like wings.

"Act as arm candy," he murmurs. "Make Phantom appear strong. Got it."

He appreciates these little sessions. They remind him of mission briefs and help him get into the correct mindset for his role of the day. Though he can feel Phantom's many eyes staring at him, threatening to distract.

The necklace comes next; a choker made of the same chains on his legs, with droplets of blue jewels fixed to the very ends. The biggest rests below his collarbone; it matches his eyes.

"Alright," Lawrence claps, stepping away to give him one more once over. He picks up Tim's cloak of stars and hooks it into the crook of his arms like a shawl.

Tim moves to Phantom's side, where he is immediately caught by an arm around the waist.

Lawrence hums his approval at the image and nods. "Perfect. You look small and delicate and all those marks really sell the Beloved Consort angle. Now go make me proud."

Tim's painted lips curve up into an amused smile. "Yes, mother."

He wraps his arms around one of Phantom's and leans into his side. His cheek presses lightly to the shadowed surface as he cranes his head back to peer up at him through his lashes, already playing up their roles. "Are you ready, my King?"

Phantom squares his shoulders. A low hum reverberates in his chest as his voice fractures into a thousand ghostly echoes.

“Yes,” he intones, every word carrying the weight of a kingdom. “Let us go, my Consort.”

They sweep into the Chamber of Meetings like a storm rolling in, cold power trailing behind them like mist. It's different from the room Tim is used to; this one is at least ten times the size of the more intimate room Phantom uses for territories that flank his castle. Gone is the seemingly endless table with its just as endless amount of chairs. Instead, he is greeted by tiers upon tiers of seating—all of which have been built into the walls of the circular chamber—filled to the brim with figures of every shape and size. Fae and revenants, crowned monarchs and armored emissaries, creatures of flame, frost, bone, and shadow all rise from their seats, both above and below the the vast stone bridge they enter from.

It stretches forward like a blade, suspended over an open expanse. Ice seems to crack and groan like age old glaciers beneath their feet, but Tim does not lose stride. He is confident with every step, sure that Phantom will not let him slip.

He sees bowed heads out of the corner of his eyes. Phantom does not acknowledge them, so Tim does not either. His stride is steady, predatory even, and utterly confident.

At the far end of the bridge, a raised platform awaits. Phantom's throne stands there, carved from a stone so dark it appears to darken the dais simply by existing. There are veins of pulsing light shot through it almost like lightning, pulsing in time with their every footstep. It appears shaped from figures but when Tim tries to concentrate on them enough to figure out their shape, they shift and threaten to make his vision warp.

When they reach the throne, Phantom sits with effortless grace. He pulls Tim easily into his lap, positioning him sideways with an arm curled firmly around his waist. One clawed hand rests possessively on Tim’s stomach, thumb stroking idle circles against the painted silk there as though to remind every watching eye exactly who he belongs to.

There is no modesty as Tim lets himself melt into Phantom's embrace; no attempt at fixing the ruffles that ride up his thighs to flash the lace underwear beneath it all. He lays his head against Phantom's chest and peers out at the Court from behind lowered eye lashes, his expression soft and doe eyed, almost shy.

No one knows that he is calculating just who in this room poses the most threat. Nor do they see the silent machinations in his head; the plans already built and the ones being made. They don't notice how close his hand is to the holster on his thigh, ready to snap into defense at any moment.

The room is thick with tension, hungry gazes lingering on Tim’s delicate frame. Phantom’s darkness spills into the chamber, above and below, filling the space with thousands of winking eyes. They look over the still standing crowd like drawn knives just waiting to be thrown. Dozens stay locked on Tim as if daring anyone to covet him too openly.

“I see you all came when I called,” Phantom says smoothly. His voice is layered in tones that seem to thrum with life, building upon themselves with every echo. Lines of light like the ones on his throne pulse outward, traveling into the walls to surround all inside the chamber in his power. “Good. I am glad we can begin.”

His eyes narrow, glowing brighter as they sweep the room with dangerous focus. “Sit.”

Whispering movement fills Tim's ears as the gathered royalty obey without hesitation.

From one side of the chamber, a lower king speaks up, voice cautious but probing; his seat lights up, making it easy to tell who is speaking: “Your Majesty… forgive me, but where have you been?”

A low chuckle escapes Phantom, curling through the air like smoke. The bridge fades like it'd never been and the dais they sit upon floats gently down to the speaker's level.

Phantom's claws slip into Tim’s hair, combing through the soft strands almost lazily. His eyes swivel to focus on the speaker.

“I left my Consort in charge of my Court,” he tells him. “While I did a little… cleaning… for the Master of Time.”

The reaction is immediate. Every monarch flinches as though struck. Many avert their eyes entirely, while other expressions twist into something between fear and respect. The tension in the room thickens; none dare speak further of that name.

“Yes,” Phantom continues, tone soft as he capitalizes on their fear. His claws continue to card through Tim’s hair, as though he is nothing but a pampered, spoiled creature in his arms. “It was a quite sudden affair, as you might know. Delicate as well.”

He lets that statement linger like a storm cloud before leaning back, his grip on Tim firming ever so slightly as his eyes rove over the court. Their platform floats back upwards, gentle, lazy even.

“I also left my Consort as my eyes and ears while I was gone," Phantom tells them, approval warm in his dulcet voices. “And I am very pleased with how he has managed things in my absence.”

Several of his largest eyes blink slowly, each one glowing brighter as they scan the tiers. They dare anyone to contradict him; to even breathe in disapproval. His smirk curves sharp and knowing when no one does. It is painfully clear in the possessive caress of his hand on Tim’s waist and in his hair—Tim is his. Untouchable and more than worthy of his throne.

He lets them all linger in it.

Tim leans into his touch, eyelashes fluttering in a display that is both show and truth all in one. His heart is racing in his chest, but it is not from fear. The control and power Phantom is giving off, the way he is completely smothering the presence of the many beings in the room, is almost suffocating. He's embarrassed to admit that there are stirrings of arousal between this legs—though it adds well to the image they're going for.

He gets a few moments to breathe before Phantom’s hand stills in Tim’s hair.

In an instant, the room seems to grow colder. Mist floods the lower levels, seeping out from the walls in thick rolling waves that obscure and confuse. Through the curtain of it, Phantom's eyes become beacons. Every monarch present holds their breath as they glowing brighter, sharper, until the mist is shaded in their pale, unholy light.

“When I returned,” Phantom says softly, his echoes carrying like whispers through a crypt, “I received… disturbing news.”

The court is utterly silent. No one dares to so much as shift in their seats.

“Before we get to business,” he continues, “I’d like to… address it.”

His smirk returns, slow and wicked. In one smooth, predatory movement, Phantom rises with Tim in his arms. The mist parts, giving everyone a clear view of the way he lifts his Consort like a precious artifact; turning to place him daintily upon his throne. Tim’s legs swing gently over the edge as he settles, feet still several inches from the ground. Phantom bends close as the dais spins gently, allowing all to see the way he tilts Tim's chin up with a clawed hand to allow the full glow of his eyes to fall upon him.

Phantom's smile, frightening thing that it is, declares both adoration and doom.

“Now, pretty thing,” he purrs, his voice a low, resonant growl beneath the eerie echoes of a thousand whispers, “can you tell me…”

His smile widens by impossible, inhuman degrees as he tilts his head. Through the mist, shadowed, awful things flicker in and out of sight.

“Who,” Phantom drawls as he trails a possessive hand up along Tim’s thigh, “is the one who told you… that the sands would hear your screams?”

The question slithers through the chamber, suffocating in its sweetness. A ripple of unease passes through each tier of seating like water overflowing—there are flinches, gasps, sounds of distress. The tension becomes electric, like the air before a lightning strike, and even Tim, calm and composed in Phantom’s grasp, can feel the razor edge of power in every word.

The room seems to shrink around them, every shadow stretching long, as if attempting to reach Tim himself. Phantom’s glow intensifies to an almost blinding degree, until Tim has to fight not to squint against it. Whether reading the strain or to unsettle his subjects further, Phantom's eyes turn outward. His teeth glint with something wicked and hungry.

“Go on, love,” he coaxes, so soft it sends a shiver through even the steadfast of rulers. “Tell me their name.”

Tim is not immune to the effect. His own shiver strokes his spine but unlike the rest, his is not out of fear. He's always had a weakness for the strong and capable types; even though he knows part of it is an act, the weight of Phantom's devotion closes around him in the most tantalizingly dangerous of embraces.

He makes a point to let his body stay loose and relaxed in Phantom's grip, body swaying forward as if hung on his every word, hypnotized by his very gaze. His legs spread wider; his lips part around a soft, moaning exhale.

"Mistress of Silent Dunes," he whispers back, as if they are simply lovers exchanging secrets.

In the quiet of the chamber, his voice seems to scream.

Phantom’s clawed hand cups Tim’s cheek. The sharp edge of one talon traces a line along his jaw with featherlight precision. “Good boy,” Phantom purrs, reverence lacing his voice like silk. He leans closer to press a kiss to Tim’s forehead with the air of a worshiper at an altar.

“My King, I wa—”

Queen Nyxariel’s words die in her throat.

Phantom vanishes.

One heartbeat, he is there, gazing at Tim with glowing adoration. The next, he hovers at least a dozen tiers below. Nyxariel's seat lights up to give away her position, allowing the entire court to see the way Phantom's shadows part and snap forward like jaws. She has no time to scream—there is only a muffled gasp before she is engulfed. A wet, echoing CRUNCH reverberates through the chamber as Queen Nyxariel is devoured whole, her incorporeal body collapsing into ribbons of shrieking ectoplasm that splatters across the her now empty seat and onto the walls below.

The room erupts into gasping cries, but Phantom’s towering silhouette remains calm, regal, his aura suffocatingly cold. The swirling shadows beneath his feet drink greedily from the mess, pulling the glowing ichor into the ground as the Realm itself reabsorbs her essence.

In the center of the carnage, Phantom turns his head back towards Tim, who still sits where he left him. Tim stares back at him, eyes wide. The last time they'd discussed killing another ghost, Phantom had seemed adamant that it was too permanent a solution for him to make on his own. But now… He's eliminating threats. For Tim. To keep him safe. To keep him his.

One by one, Phantom's many eyes lock onto Tim with adoring focus, bathing him in their ghostly light. The contrast is chilling: the bloody ruin at his feet, and the softness in his voice when he next speaks.

“What was the other name, my treasure?” Phantom asks gently, as though they are still whispering to one another in private. He steps forward, gliding through empty space. “The one,” he continues, voice low and dangerous, “who was going to pass you around to their stables?”

His hand extends toward Tim again, palm open, fingers curled just slightly in a silent demand to come back into his grasp.

Tim swallows. His knees feel weak as he hops down off the throne. For the few strides it takes to cross the dais, his heels fill the silence of the chamber. He does not hesitate when he reaches the end of the stone. There is still several feet of space between him and his King and Tim cannot allow anyone to see weakness in this display.

His stomach flutters, threatening to end up in his throat as he takes the first step into the yawning abyss. A fall from this height will certainly kill him but he risks it all the same.

Shadows solidify beneath him, rising to meet his every step. Even knowing Phantom would not harm him, would not let him fall, the relief still has Tim letting out a single, controlled breath.

In moments he is within reach of the looming mass of Phantom's body. He takes Phantom's offered hand, slipping back into his space easy as breathing. He's not afraid as the same shadows that glutted themselves on carnage greet him with gentle, curling touches.

"Marchioness of the Ashen Bloom," Tim tells him. His head tilts to the side as he asks sweetly, "What's a horchriox, by the way?"

"My King!" Lilavyn gasps, several tiers up from where they are. She throws herself from her chair and bows low in supplication. "P-please I meant no disrespect! It is a common training method for our pleasure pets! Our stable hands are always very happy—we use the horchriox to break in the new ones, it is a gift—I would offer one if you wish it—"

"A horchriox is a massive beast," Dorothea says, voice ringing stern and absolute. She's far above, at the level where they first sat on the throne. She stares down at Lilavyn with dispassionate, hard eyes. "Easily three times the size of a horse, made of flesh and living flowers that drug any it determines to be a suitable mate. They are notorious for killing their partners through both enthusiasm and sheer size."

"Oh," Tim breathes, staring up at Phantom with wide, innocent eyes, as if he has completely missed the underlying message: that he will die were this mating to ever occur. He lifts Phantom's hand to his face to nuzzle into it like a kitten. His voice is a lilting, worshipful sigh. "If my King wishes it of me."

Phantom’s claw traces Tim’s cheek with slow, reverent precision, as though petting something impossibly fragile. His voice is a velvet purr, dripping devotion and threat in equal measure.

“Oh no, my tiny, delicate human,” he croons, glowing eyes boring down into Tim’s. “If you are ever to be torn apart, broken, and bred full…” His head tilts, and his smile sharpens into something feral; something that has Tim's knees going weak all over again. “It will be by me. Not by some disgusting beast.”

His hand slides from Tim’s cheek to his throat. His hand is big enough that it overlaps when ringing his neck. His fingers curl loose, but with just enough pressure to make the gesture possessive. Tim breathes easily, unafraid, leaning into Phantom’s hold like it’s an embrace instead of a collar.

“Lilavyn,” Phantom says suddenly, his purr turning cold.

The court falls utterly silent.

“My King, please,” Lilavyn stammers, desperation cracking her voice. “It was all in the name of your pleasure—”

“Of course it was,” Phantom says smoothly. “And I thank you for your… creativity.”

Relief flickers across her face, a tremulous, hopeful smile starting to bloom. It dies the moment Phantom speaks again, his voice shifting to the cold, commanding tone that shakes the very marrow of the realm.

“Lilavyn Sootpetal,” he intones, his words echoing with the King’s authority, the Realm itself bending to his will. “You are stripped of your titles and lands. From this moment until the day your core fractures, you will live bound to one of the beasts you so adore—mated by it daily, until you learn the taste of your own cruelty.”

A horrified hush settles over the court. Shadows twist and curl around Phantom like dark, eager serpents. Tim’s wide eyes glimmer with something dangerously close to awe as he lifts Phantom’s hand and nuzzles into it like a beloved pet, utterly unbothered by the display of wrath.

Phantom’s claw strokes his cheek again, feather-light and almost tender. His smile softens, but his voice remains edged like a blade.

“After all,” he murmurs for all to hear, “you dared to try and take what is mine to break.”

Attendants sweep into the chamber like shadows given form, faces hidden beneath bone masks and cloaks that ripple like smoke. They don't speak; they don’t need to. The weight of Phantom’s decree binds Lilavyn’s limbs, her body twisting and writhing as they seize her arms. Her screams tear through the room—first frantic, then choked, then breaking into guttural pleas.

“Mercy! Mercy! My King—!”

Phantom doesn’t so much as flick an ear in her direction. His gaze stays fixed on Tim, burning, bright and otherworldly, all his focus narrowed to the mortal in his lap of power.

The bone-masked attendants drag her from the chamber and into the shadows. Her cries echoing off the walls before silencing abruptly as they vanish. A quiet follows—a quiet that breathes, heavy with fear from the courtiers now kneeling before their seats, their heads pressed low to the floor.

Phantom’s fingers trace Tim’s jawline, claws grazing just enough to raise goosebumps, both reverent and possessive. His voice, when it comes, is a deep, resonant purr that rolls through the chamber and rattles in the marrow of those who hear it.

“Who else, pet of mine?” He leans closer, breath cool as a ghost’s kiss against Tim’s ear. “Who else dares to covet my treasure?” His hand circles Tim’s throat again, thumb resting over his pulse as if savoring it. “Tell me their names… and I shall see them properly punished.”

The shadows stir amongst the mist, flexing like they ache for violence, for the chance to rend and tear.

He tilts his head almost like a bird. A cruel smile curves his lips as he gazes into Tim’s eyes, expression softening in contrast to the threat beneath his words. “You are mine. Mine to cherish. Mine to keep safe. Mine to break… if breaking you is ever to be done. No other will lay claim to you.”

One hand slips into Tim’s hair, slow and deliberate. His claws scrape gently against Tim's scalp, possessive but affectionate in equal measure. The court holds its breath, waiting, terrified to even shift.

“Well, little one?” Phantom coaxes softly, as if they aren’t discussing executions and vengeance. “Speak their names to me.”

Tim's breathing feels too loud in his own ears, drowned out only by his pounding heart. His body tingles all over, knees threatening to give out from underneath—not from fear, oh if it was only so embarrassing as that—but from arousal, hot like lava running through his veins, scorching him from the inside out.

He has to clutch at the wrist of the hand wrapped around his throat, not to pull it away but to keep himself upright. He sways towards Phantom like a tree caught in a windstorm; pupils blown wide.

His shudder is slow and obvious when those claws run over his scalp once more, sending goosebumps out over his skin. A soft, needy whine escapes his lips, completely separate from the image he's been playing into. This one is real.

He wets his lips, feeling suddenly out of his depth, unsure if Phantom will save him or simply be the wave that drowns. "Warlord of Iron Hunger," Tim whispers. "Duke of the Bleak Howl. Duchess of Forgotten Bells. Chancellor of the Dim Star. Princess of the Glass Sepulcher."

Phantom’s tongue slides over his lips in a slow, deliberate motion, savoring something no one else can taste—Tim’s desire, raw and unguarded.

The court freezes all over again under the weight of that feral smile.

The names Tim whispers into existence echo like a death sentence.

Those named begin to back away, instinct clawing at them to flee, but there is nowhere to go. The chamber’s exits are sealed with a ripple of black. Phantom’s shadows creep up the walls and bleed across the ceiling, turning the very air thick with dread.

The light disappears.

Tim’s world narrows to the crushing grip at his throat and the presence of Phantom—warm, cold, everywhere. The darkness moves like a living beast; it devours sound, swallows space. Screams rise sharp and panicked only to be cut off so abruptly they might as well have been swallowed whole. Time unravels in the endless void—minutes, hours, ages, all bleeding into one heartbeat that hammers in his ears.

Through it all, Phantom’s hold never falters. Steady. Claiming. A tether in the chaos.

When the shadows finally recede—the mist along with them—it is as though the room exhales in relief. Phantom stands at the center, upon the dais of his throne once more. Tim is held delicately against him, the only soft thing in the carnage. Lit up by speaking lights, some of the once named lay, cores shattered, ectoplasm pooling around them in sticky rivers. The others tremble on the floor, broken, dismembered, their power stripped bare.

Phantom’s gaze never leaves Tim’s face, reverence softening the razor edge of his expression. “Attendants,” he calls, velvet and venom entwined. “Those strong enough to survive are stripped of their haunts, their titles, their very names. See that they receive… exactly what they promised my Consort.” His fingers trace along Tim’s jaw with deadly tenderness, claws barely grazing his skin. “But let it last for eternity.”

The attendants scramble to obey, dragging away what is left of those still alive. Their cries echo faintly, swallowed by the vastness of the realm. Phantom tilts his head once more, eyes glowing like cold fire as he drinks in Tim’s flushed cheeks and blown pupils.

“You name them,” Phantom murmurs, voice dipping low, intimate, “I make them suffer. That is how it shall always be, treasure of mine.”

Tim's chest heaves as his knees finally give out. He's caught around the waist before he can fall even an inch, swept up by another of Phantom's arms. A second goes under his thighs to steady him as he's lifted into the air.

Act entirely forgotten, Tim winds his arms around Phantom's shoulders and leans in close. "Please," he begs, "kiss me."

Phantom's core rumbles with a purr so loud it shakes the room. He draws Tim in closer with the hand at his throat and kisses the air from his lungs. When he finally pulls away, the entire Court gets a view of that long, wicked tongue withdrawing from Tim's gasping mouth.

Phantom moves with unhurried, terrifying grace as he glides back toward his throne, the echo of his footsteps muffled by shadows that still cling to the corners of the chamber like a living thing. His hold on Tim is firm but careful, as though carrying something both precious and untouchable. The heavy crown of his presence seems to press down on the Court, every eye lowered in fear as he settles onto his throne once more.

He shifts Tim into his lap with the same reverence one might handle a relic of great power, his hands adjusting his body until Tim rests perfectly against his chest. Tim’s pulse still thunders in his throat, but Phantom’s claws trace idle circles at his hip, grounding him with an intimacy that promises protection—and possession.

“Now that this matter is resolved,” Phantom says, “we may continue with the affairs of my Court.”

Those still present flinch at his words, bowing low, too terrified to meet his glowing eyes. The air itself seems heavier, thicker, as though the room hasn’t yet recovered from the darkness that had swallowed it whole.

Dora, ever poised despite the oppressive atmosphere, inclines her head in respect. “Will the Lady of the Verdant Realms or the Weaver of Reality be joining us today?” she asks carefully, her voice steady but her posture deferential.

Phantom flicks his wrist in an almost dismissive gesture, the dark power clinging to his fingertips making the very shadows ripple. “No. Gaia and Proteus have better things to do than trifle with the petty squabbles of this realm. Everyone knows as much.” His glowing eyes slide lazily across the gathered courtiers, daring anyone to object. None do.

“Proceed,” he commands.

Dora bows again, relief flickering in her expression as she stepped forward. “As you wish, my King.”

Her voice raises as she begins calling forth the next set of matters for discussion, her control over the Court returning seamlessly.

Through it all, Phantom remains seated like a monarch carved from obsidian, one clawed hand resting possessively over Tim’s stomach, holding him flush against his body. His other hand idly traces along Tim’s thigh as he leans back into his throne, the purr in his chest a quiet, constant hum that resonates through Tim’s bones. The Court dares not look too closely, though every soul in the room understands the message perfectly: Phantom’s Consort is untouchable.

It's difficult to pay attention after that, though Tim tries. Phantom doesn't make it easy, especially not when the simple weight of his hand over his stomach is enough to remind him of the plug keeping him full. He makes quiet note of the power shifts already happening at the table, now that a handful of rulers are gone. There are some he'll have to keep an eye on and others that will do well as allies.

Eventually, Court is brought to a close and they transition to the hall Tim is more familiar with. The floor is opened for public hearings, where denizens of the Realms may seek out an audience. It's a less strict affair, where everyone mingles and Phantom moves amongst his people with Tim by his side, legs once again steady.

A woman catches Phantom's attention, though she is not trying to. Her eyes are directed elsewhere; a place that everyone else is avoiding, after his earlier show. She nearly bumps into him in her distraction and blanches when she looks up to see just who it is.

“I'm so sorry! Please excuse me, Your Majesty, I just—” Her voice wavers as she cranes her head around Phantom’s imposing frame, eyes straining past the reach of his shadows. For a heartbeat she looks as if she's uncertain if what she's seeing is real, then her breath stutters out of her lungs. A hand flies up to her mouth.

“Robin?” The name breaks from her in a quivering whisper, carrying both disbelief and desperate hope. Her eyes glisten, locked onto the Consort standing just beyond the King’s presence. “Is that—no, it can’t— but the aura—”

Phantom stiffens, a ripple of green light curling through his shadows. He starts to shift, instinctively protective, especially after his earlier show.

Tim turns at the sound of his old name. His conversation with the attendant beside him cuts off mid-sentence as he locks eyes with the stranger. The silence that follows seems to drag the air out of the chamber, leaving it hollow and heavy.

Her lips part as she says it again, firmer this time, voice cracking under the weight of certainty. “Robin.”

His eyes widen—recognition and sorrow flashing across his features in equal measure.

“It is, isn’t it?” Her hand reaches out, shaking, but she dares not step closer, as if one wrong move might shatter the fragile thread between them. She doesn't seem to even realize Phantom is there anymore.

Tim descends the steps with measured calm, brushing his hand against Phantom’s arm as he bristles beside him. The simple touch is steadying, a quiet reassurance. “It’s alright,” Tim murmurs before focusing wholly on her.

“Hello,” he says, his voice as soft as someone carrying the weight of a ghost. He takes her hands in his own as her knees buckle. When she collapses with a sob, he doesn't hesitate; he follows her down to the cold floor, folding into her grief like it's familiar.

“What’s your name?”

“Annabelle,” she gasps, clutching his hands as though he might disappear if she lets go. “You—you probably don’t remember but—No Man’s Land, you saved my little brother. You were so small, so skinny—but you gave us food and said we needed it more. You said you’d take us somewhere safe and you did—you came back and got Derek out before the building collapsed.”

Tim’s gaze dims with memory, shadows of ash and smoke flickering behind his eyes. “But I couldn’t get you out,” he remembers, voice dropping down to a whisper. “Your legs were pinned under the rocks and we didn’t have the medical supplies.”

“You made Nightwing take my brother away,” she presses on, tears streaking down her face. “But you—you stayed. You promised you would make sure he got out. You took your mask off and told me you would stay with me until—”

“I did.” His jaw clenches, but his words carry a solemn weight of truth. “Annabelle Decks. I remember you. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a proper burial.” He exhales, hands squeezing her own. “Your brother’s application came across my desk before I had to leave Gotham. Engineering program.”

Her laugh breaks into a sob, tangled and raw. “He loves it there. I check up on him when I can.” Her hands tremble in his, but her smile blooms even through her tears. “You're his hero. Thank you.”

Tim bows his head, silent for a long beat as though he can't carry both her gratitude and her grief at once. His thumb brushes across the back of her hand—gentle, human, achingly alive.

Phantom, still glowing faintly like a storm barely held back, swallows hard enough that Tim can hear it.

Tim turns at the sound of the sigh that follows and catches Phantom's gaze. The King’s eyes are locked on him—lit with a quiet wonder that startles Tim, heavy with a kind of awe and pride he doesn't feel he deserves. He looks away too quickly, forcing his focus back to Annabelle, but the feeling lingers like a warm hand pressed between his shoulder blades.

Phantom moves then, drifting forward until his cloak of shadows curl at the floor. To Tim’s surprise, he doesn't remain aloof, doesn't tower or loom. Instead, he bends down as if the simple act of lowering himself is an unspoken vow: I will meet you where you are.

Annabelle's breath hitches as she glances up at him. Her lips tremble, but not from fear—Tim knows that expression too well to mistake it. What she wears now is something closer to reverence, the kind of stunned awe of someone glimpsing a miracle. Like a child who had once prayed for help and is startled to discover the answer standing before her.

Phantom’s voice is quieter this time, a low rumble that seems to warm the air around them rather than chill it. “Are you comfortable here, Annabelle?”

Her wide eyes flicker between them. “I—yes. Yes, Your Majesty.”

His head tilts. “Would you like to work closer to my court? As a personal attendant to my Consort?”

Annabelle blinks rapidly, clearly caught off guard. “I—me? I couldn’t possibly! I’m just a seasonal court attendant. I don’t have the rank or—”

Phantom lifts a hand. The heavy veil of shadows that clings to him stirs, peeling back as if tugged by an unseen current. And then—Tim’s breath stops—what extends toward Annabelle is no skeletal claw, no spectral glow, but the hand of a young man. Human. Skin a washed out brown-tinted-green. A hand that might as well have been inked from Tim’s own memories of late nights and scraped knuckles.

“Well,” Phantom says softly, an edge of playfulness breaking through his regal weight, “I wouldn’t be the High King if I couldn’t scout talent where I saw it, could I?”

A startled laugh bubbles up from Annabelle's throat, half-disbelieving, half-overjoyed. She reaches out to place her trembling hand in his, bowing her head as tears shimmer in her lashes.

Tim doesn't join in the laughter. He's too busy staring too hard at that human hand. Not the shadows. Not the crown. Not the King. The boy inside.

After the brief exchange, Phantom rises from his position, the weight of his crown and shadows settling over the court once more as he turns away. He carries Tim through the corridors in silence, his form still cloaked in crushing darkness, tendrils curling protectively around Tim’s shoulders like a living mantle. The courtiers and attendants who catch a glimpse quickly avert their eyes, bowing deeply, as though to look too long at their King and his Chosen Consort will invite ruin.

When they cross the threshold of Tim’s chambers, Phantom moves with deliberate care, lowering him onto the edge of the bed as if he is made of glass.

Finally, the darkness peels back.

It's not dramatic—not this time. The oppressive shadows that wrap around him like a living crown simply slip away, retreating into the corners of the room. In their wake, Phantom’s monstrous grandeur collapses into something rawer, smaller. His body unravels, shifting down into his true, serpentine form, coils dragging heavily across the floor before curling in on themselves. His shoulders heave with every ragged breath, the aftershock of his earlier display vibrating through his entire frame.

"You pushed yourself too hard," Tim scolds, lifting his hands to cup Phantom's face between them. All traces of previous arousal fades into worry as he does his best to ease him through the strain. Being in the ecto field helps but it can't completely fix what energy has been spent.

"You could have terrorized them without the grand display at the end, but," his voice softens as he strokes the hair back from Phantom's face, "thank you—for protecting me. I'm not used to not having to do it myself."

"Always," comes the rasped answer.

Tim prods Phantom into bed and makes sure he drinks another two bottles of ecto. He contorts to get himself out of his outfit before joining him to press a kiss to his forehead, body entangling itself with that long tail. "Rest, my protector. You've done well. It's my turn to watch over you now."