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Tim’s hand was shaking as he straightened his tie. The offending piece of fabric was choking him, making it impossible to draw a deep breath. And yet he didn’t loosen it. No, he would look disheveled with his tie open halfway down his neck.
Bruce would take one good look at him and see… no. Tim wasn’t going to think about that.
The sun was beating down on him, sweat pooling on the back of his shirt. The bus was already three minutes late, and Tim craved the instant relief of an overworked AC. He craved the buzzing of other people, their half-finished conversations, and the smell of puke and pee that penetrated every form of public transportation Gotham had to offer.
Usually, Tim hated taking the bus. That’s what chauffeurs were for, after all. Or Alfred – Tim hadn’t been part of Bruce’s household for long, but he already knew that Alfred was many things, but a simple driver was not one of them. Those past few months Tim had even occasionally taken his skateboard to get home from school, but today…
Today Tim had called Alfred and told him he would take the bus. Today Tim had been asked to stay late after school by Mrs-… by her.
“Timothy? Can you stay after class finishes? I think we need to talk about your grades.” Mrs. Montreal sounded as polite and chatty as she always did, when she passed Tim’s desk to relay her message. Dread pooled in Tim’s stomach – he didn’t have to look at the F adorning the essay in front of him, to know what exactly Mrs. Montreal wanted to talk about.
Tim was failing English. And Spanish. And possibly Math.
Which was bullshit! Tim could converse fluently in four different languages and was at least literate in another six. He could solve mathematical equations and chemical riddles in his sleep… but the moment a teacher asked Tim to answer a question or to write down his genius… Poof! It was all gone.
This talk Mrs. Montreal wanted was just the cherry on top.
His fingers returned to the tie choking him. Stupid school uniforms and their stupid ties. Gotham Academy was just as bad as the rest of them, no matter how often Bruce claimed that the school had been very lenient when he was a student there.
Fuck.
Tim would be more than happy should Gotham Academy get stricter regulations. Maybe not when it came to school uniforms, but Tim certainly demanded better background checks for the teaching staff. Not that Tim would think about that. No.
He wasn’t thinking about her.
He was just a sweaty teenager on a disturbingly hot Monday afternoon in May. He was just a normal boy craving a shower and some fresh clothes and something that was… he just…
God, if Tim could bleach his brain and erase the last hour from his memory, he would gladly do so. If he could just forget that this had happened, that she had… that he had… that…
Tim swallowed down the nausea. He could already see the bus round the corner, and Tim didn’t really want to add to the aroma of vomit that was already a part of Gotham. It didn’t matter that his stomach churned and cramped – it didn’t matter that his skin was ill-fitting and his face flushed.
He just wanted to forget everything – most of all the taste coating his tongue.
“Timothy, I am sure you’re aware of your situation. Your grades are slipping. At the end of the second-term your guardian-“
“Adopted father.”
“Your adopted father and you, you both promised the school that your grades would get better. As it is…”
Mrs. Montreal looked at him with eyes full of pity. In that moment Tim hated her. It no longer mattered that he’d thought she was pretty hot for a teacher when she joined the staff at Gotham Academy a year ago, or that she always made sure to give him extra time on his assignments due to his ‘home-life’.
He hated her – simply because Tim hated pity.
He was Robin, he didn’t need to be pitied.
“What? Please just say it, Mrs. Montreal. I can’t--- I have to get home before Bruce starts worrying.”
“Of course. There are two options here Tim. You can either attend summer school when summer vacation starts in two weeks or… well, there is no easy way to say this, but the school is seriously considering to just… not let you pass.”
“What does that mean?”
Fuck.
Tim was in so much trouble.
He had promised Bruce that he would get his grades under control. He had promised his guardian, dad, mentor that he would pass ninth grade without a problem. And now… now Tim was a liar. Fuck. Tim could bid Robin goodbye.
“Since Gotham Academy is a private institution, the school is not required to offer its students a continuous education should they no longer meet the academic requirements demanded by the school.”
“But Bruce is paying for my tuition! And he donated money for the new library!”
“I know that, Timothy. And I know you’ve been trying… but right now? Most of the staff is inclined to let you go. Maybe another school… maybe you’d have better luck at another learning institution…”
Shit. This was quite the mess Tim had managed to get himself into. He couldn’t go back to boarding school! He would never be a hero should he be forced to share a room with McCallister and Smith Smithson for the rest of his teenage years.
And what would Bruce think? The man would be forced to reconsider taking Tim in. Just the thought of disappointing Bruce made his stomach churn.
“No. I have to stay here… Mrs. Montreal, there has to be a way? I can do make-up work. I promise. I- I’ll attend every day of summer school you think is necessary. I just- I have to stay at this school. Bruce graduated from here. Dick, as well… Jason attended before- It’s a tradition!”
Mrs. Montreal batted her thick eyelashes at him, something contemplative in her gaze. She was mustering him. Tim straightened up on reflex – whenever Batman got this kind of look, it usually meant Tim would have to do something dangerous.
He tried not to fiddle with his tie – it was loose after six hours of classes and a lunch period spent texting Steph while hiding in a tree.
“Hm. If I get the feeling that you are truly motivated… if you can prove it to me, Timothy… I might be inclined to put in a good word for you at the staff meeting tomorrow. To at least get you into summer school.”
And like the idiot he was, Tim spoke before he could think about it:
“Of course. I’ll do anything. Anything, Mrs. M.”
The AC on the bus was broken.
Of course, it was.
Tim was drowning in a sea of human misery and sweat. The air was stifling, and at every turn at least three strangers bumped against him. He wanted to scratch his skin bloody, and yet the completely accidental touch centered him.
It was nothing like her. It was nothing like her hands, and lips, and…
No.
Tim had to stop thinking like this. He had to stop thinking about it.
Bruce would notice that something was wrong if Tim showed up like this. And there was nothing wrong. No. Everything was perfectly alright. Fine. Wonderful. Tim was just the embodiment of glee and teenage exuberance. A real… sunshine boy.
He wouldn’t cry. Not in front of strangers, not in a public bus. But his eyes were itching, and Tim had to stifle a sob, when he saw a young woman enter the bus and for a moment… for a moment it had been her.
He needed a shower. And fresh clothes. He had to… no, if he got off the bus now, he would have to wait for the next one. And then he wouldn’t just be half an hour late – he would be almost two hours late to the meeting Bruce had told him about.
Tim wouldn’t disappoint his guardian, father, mentor any further. He had already disappointed him enough.
“You are a fine young man, Timothy. How old are you?”
What a weird line of questioning, but Tim replied, “Fifteen. I turn… um, I turn sixteen over the summer. Why?”
Mrs. Montreal pushed away from the desk she had been leaning against, to circle him, her eyes alight with a hunger Tim was unfamiliar with. Her next words surprised him. Shocked him, really.
“Did you ever have sex before, Tim?”
“What?”
“Answer the question.”
“Um… no. Not really. My girlfriend and I, we- uh- we had some heavy make-out sessions but…”
“She wants to wait?”
“No, she doesn’t want to accidentally get pregnant again. So, we – uh – thought we should wait until we can get birth control.”
Tim was blushing furiously, in parts because Mrs. Montreal seemed hardly affected by their topic of choice at all, and because, well, he was fifteen and not used to adults discussing sex with him. It was all kinds of awkward, really.
“Um, Mrs. M, why are you asking me this? We were discussing summer school.”
“It’s really important for you to stay at this school, right? And you would do anything for it?”
“Yeah, sure…”
Something was wrong. Maybe Tim was truly an idiot for only noticing it now, but something was definitely wrong. But Tim wasn’t ´quite sure what he was supposed to do… his legs felt like lead and his heart hammered away in his chest.
He was nervous. Expectant.
It felt nothing like being Robin. There was no power behind his nervousness, no plan backing up his expectations. There was just him, Mrs. Montreal, and an empty English classroom at the end of a school day.
“Then I want you to kiss me, Tim.”
“What?”
“If you want to stay at Gotham Academy, if you want to make your adopted father proud… I want you to kiss me, Tim.”
And Tim did.
The memory hit him out of nowhere, just as the bus started making its way out of the Gotham city center towards Bristol. The streets grew emptier, and skyscrapers turned into old Victorian townhouses.
Tim watched as the world outside passed him by, heat making the asphalt shimmer. Parents were watching their children play on the sidewalks, there was laughter and ice cream and music. Tim’s heart was ice cold. He was freezing, even as some part of his brain noticed the sweat making his skin clammy.
He couldn’t get the taste of his tongue. He couldn’t forget her smile even when he tried. He couldn’t push the memories of her voice down, down, down.
His head was a traitor. His heart was a bitch.
Tim just wanted to forget.
And yet the reflection of his own face betrayed him. The bus window showed him what he had already survived. It weren’t his own eyes staring back at him, no, Tim could see her light eyes, her dark lashes… Tim could see her smile at him.
He wanted to run.
The bus rounded another corner, leaving her mirror image behind. Unfortunately, the horror stayed.
She tasted like coffee.
That was the first thing Tim noticed when his lips met Mrs. Montreal’s. Shitty, teacher’s lounge coffee. It was easier to focus on the taste than the feeling of plush lips and hot skin.
No. Tim would rather not think about that.
He liked… coffee. Yeah, usually he liked the Columbian brew Alfred bought, and it wasn’t really tasty, since it was a stale aroma left on Mrs. Montreal’s lips, but it was safer to think about the coffee waiting for him at home than...
Coffee made more sense than kissing his teacher did.
Fuck.
Tim was kissing his teacher.
None of the training Bruce had put him through had prepared him for this. What was he supposed to do? Fight her? But then again, he had been the one to insinuate the kiss. He had started this… now weirdly sexual encounter of theirs.
It would be weird if Tim were the one to fight it, right? Or at least… if he hurt her now… would he be suspended? Thrown out of the school?
What would Bruce say? And wasn’t that just the question it all came back to: what would Bruce do or say or think? Would Tim disappoint him should he stop his education at Gotham Academy?
Tim continued to kiss her.
That was, until Mrs. Montreal put a stop to it. Tim tried to ignore the immense relief flooding through his veins, as she pushed him away. Finally. He felt immediately better now that they were no longer touching.
She was smiling, her lipstick slightly smudged, whem she looked at him. Tim didn’t even want to know what he looked like – probably, like a mess. His hair askew, his tie somewhere.
“That was…” Tim wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to say, he only knew he had to say something. Something to ease the awkwardness. Something to make the uncomfortable feeling in his chest easier to bear.
“That was a good first try. Now tell me Tim… have you ever given a woman head? It’s a very important skill for a young man like you to possess.”
“What?”
Tim must have misheard her. It couldn’t- She couldn’t- Mrs. Montreal hadn’t just said that, right?
That would be sexual misconduct. Sexual assault, really, since Tim was fifteen and not all that interested in any women besides Stephanie. And Stephanie always asked if he felt up to it before they started making out.
“Giving head. Probably the superior method of pleasuring a woman, if you ask me. But then again… personal preferences differ. I was asking you a question, Tim. Answer.”
“This- This is all kinds of inappropriate! The kiss- the kiss already crossed a line, but- No! I won’t!”
“But I thought you would do anything to stay at this school.”
“Yeah, well… I won’t do that.”
Tim didn’t sound as sure as he wanted to, and he only hated himself a little bit for that. He wanted to say a hard and fast no. He wanted to run out of this classroom and tell someone, demand that someone took care of this for him. And yet… and yet he didn’t run.
Because Mrs. Montreal had his future in her hands. Because Bruce would be so disappointed if Tim got thrown out of Gotham Academy. Because Robin would be taken away should Tim fail even more academically.
Because at the end of the day Tim craved approval like other’s craved a drug.
“Well, I don’t want to force you, Timothy. Really. But if push comes to shove, if it is my word against yours… Who do you think the faculty is going to believe? The troubled teenage boy accused of assaulting a teacher, of the teacher who just wanted to help her favorite problem child before being offered a kiss?”
Blackmail.
Tim was being blackmailed.
He… panic tightened like a steel band around his chest, his lungs constricting under the moral dilemma he was being presented with.
Nobody would believe him.
Nobody ever believed Tim.
Bruce would not only have a failure as an adopted son, but a rapist.
No. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to pass his summer classes and he had to keep his name free from any sexual assault charges. He… he…
“How… what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to get on your knees and use your tongue.”
The nearest bus stop to the Manor was still a couple of hundred feet away from the entrance gate. Normally, Tim enjoyed those last few minutes spent walking.
Because normally the sun would shine, or the wind would howl, and Tim would feel alive. He would breathe, and for once, it wouldn’t be smog clogging his lungs – it would be fresh air, untouched by the dirt Gotham collected.
Today… today each breath hurt, the tie like a noose around his neck. It was still warm, but a slight breeze had picked up, and Tim shivered when it touched his sweat covered skin.
He could still taste her. He would always be able to taste her now.
Why couldn’t he forget? What was so special about her that she managed to haunt him more than his parent’s death ever did? Why… why did it have to happen to him?
He had just become an after-school reality TV special.
He was one of those kids now. He had been taken advantage off.
God, Tim wanted to throw up, but he pushed the urge down. No. Bruce would be able to smell the bile, should Tim falter now. Bruce would notice something was amiss, and he would press on and on and on, until Tim broke.
No matter how often Tim told himself that Bruce would understand; that Bruce would help him out… he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk the Wayne name. The school. Robin.
There were things out there that were more important than Tim’s dignity and self-worth. Tim understood that, had always understood that, and now… now that meant keeping his mouth shut. It meant staying silent. It meant saying nothing.
Thank God, Tim was used to people not listening to him.
Her panties were made out of red lace.
That was the first thing Tim noticed when he kneeled down between her legs. Mrs. Montreal was sitting on her desk, legs spread to allow him easy access. She wore a flowy skirt, and Tim’s hands shook as he pushed it out of the way.
His palms were sweaty.
He was hyperventilating.
He couldn’t stop. Not now. Not ever.
His fingers traced over the red lace, and Mrs. Montreal let out an appreciative hum, when Tim did the same thing again – only this time with more force.
“Good boy. I can see that your girlfriend taught you well.”
Tim didn’t want this reminder, didn’t want to think about Stephanie at all. He didn’t tell Mrs. Montreal that… no, Tim kept quiet, his lip bleeding where he bit down. If he opened his mouth, he would scream. He would cry.
Tim couldn’t… he had to finish what he started. He had to do what he had come here to do.
It was hard to push the fabric out of the way, and yet it was also too easy. If Tim had to struggle, maybe his brain would suddenly come up with a rescue plan. Maybe the extra time would be all he needed to find a way out of this sticky situation.
But, no, the lace was easily pushed to the side, allowing him access to her pussy. No… pussy was too sexual a word. Too nice and sexy and passionate.
Vagina.
Tim could now see Mrs. Montreal’s vagina, and he had never wanted to see anything less. Dead bodies were more appealing if the churning in his gut was anything to go by. Tears sprang to his eyes, but Tim wouldn’t let them fall.
He would have lost something – his dignity, maybe? – should he cry in front of her.
“You should hurry up, Tim. You want to get those summer classes, right?”
For a moment Tim allowed himself to breathe, and then he moved his head forward. His lips ghosted over Mrs. Montreal’s cropped pubic hair, and he counted to ten in his head, before he let his tongue dip into her… her… vagina.
It didn’t matter that Tim tried to think of something else, that he forced himself to recite math formulas in his head… the taste overwhelmed him. It was salty and musty and like nothing he had ever tasted before.
Tim gagged.
He almost succeeded in pulling his head away from Mrs. Montreal’s vagina, before her clawed hand came to rest on the back of his head, pushing him forward into her womanhood.
No.
Tim couldn’t…
He wouldn’t…
Obediently Tim licked into her once more. Mrs. Montreal hummed, her thumb rubbing circles into the back of his head. Tim must have done something right… maybe if he was good at it… maybe if he made her cum… it would be over sooner.
God, Tim just wanted it to be over.
Tim buried his face in her crotch, his eyes pressed close, his breathing a symphony of short gasps. For a moment he tried to hold his breath, but it was impossible, her nails in his hair a constant reminder of what was happening, even in these short moments of reprieve when he didn’t have to smell her, taste her.
He licked into her. Again and again and again.
Her thighs quivered next to his face, her moans sounds of pleasure so ill-fitting to the situation, Tim feared getting whiplash. Why was she allowed to enjoy this, if he had to suffer? Why was his tongue the thing bringing pleasure, and her body the one receiving it?
Why was it Tim who got abused and used and raped?
Why did he have to be an active participant in his own horror-show?
Nobody answered his questions, Mrs. Montreal only moaned louder.
Tim must have been doing something right because Mrs. Montreal pushed back against his face, his nose buried in her short pubic hair. It was hard to breathe that way, his nose filled with the smell of her skin and slick.
He had to… he wanted to…
He couldn’t throw up.
Instead, Tim continued. His eyes closed, his hands sweaty, his heart beating a rabid pulse.
When she finally came, wetness coating Tim’s entire lower face, it was almost surreal.
Tim wasn’t sure what was going on anymore, but Mrs. Montreal pushed him away from her crotch, and when he glanced up at her, she looked as if nothing had happened. Well, that wasn’t entirely true: her cheeks were rose tinged, and her skirt wouldn’t fall quite right. But otherwise? She looked like the same Mrs. Montreal who had assigned him English homework just this morning.
Something inside of Tim shattered.
Something else began to grow – it felt an awful lot like shame.
“Why don’t you go clean up, Timothy? And don’t worry – I am sure the staff will accept my proposal to transfer you to summer school. As long as this stays our little secret, of course.”
With a last smile – thread – she was gone.
Tim could only helplessly follow her lead.
Bruce was home when Tim pushed the door open.
Of course, he was.
There was a meeting today – a dinner party to be held at Wayne Manor. Tim had promised he would help set everything up after school. He was half an hour late, sweaty, and miserable.
Bruce was prone to notice it:
“Tim? You okay?”
It usually filled Tim with immeasurable warmth to see Bruce openly concerned. The man had been an ice block of suppressed trauma when they first met, and it had taken almost six months before Batman had first admitted he cared about Tim. Robin. Almost the same thing. After Tim got adopted, Bruce had grown warmer and warmer… Tim would even describe him as fatherly, these days.
And yet… today the concern only made the nausea worse. His stomach tightened, his pulse an uneven mess. He couldn’t… Tim couldn’t bear Bruce looking at him like this, couldn’t live with the shame in gut and the taste on his tongue.
It was no longer his tie slowly strangling him, it was the weight of his own actions that threatened to suffocate him.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure? You don’t… if you’re sick, I can cancel dinner. It’s no problem. Really.”
Bruce looked so earnest. So loving.
What a failure of a son Tim was.
“You’re just offering because you want to get out of it yourself. No, I think I just ate something weird. The worst of it has passed – I do need a shower, though. So… see you.”
Tim didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t wait for Bruce to realize something was wrong – he ran.
Maybe a shower would help. Maybe his room would provide a sanctuary. Maybe he would finally stop smelling her.
Tim didn’t even believe himself.