Work Text:
1. Premeditation
"Morningstar."
"...Miss Morningstar?"
"Oh!! Here!"
"Glad to have you here among the living."
An exhausted girl sinks into her seat, unruly blonde curls falling across her face and blocking out the sight of her professor pressing onward with roll call. A few of her surrounding peers murmur with pitying giggles.
Charlie Morningstar is a prodigious student, but she has a tendency to overcommit and overachieve — a dangerous combination at the best of times. While this is born largely from her disposition, there’s an unspoken multiplier to her frenzied pursuit of academic excellence: her father is involved with local politics, and she doesn’t exactly see eye to eye with him on policies pertaining to incarceration and law enforcement. As a principled and proactive young woman, she takes her studies on ethics, human rights, and social work very, very seriously in hopes of one day counteracting the precedents her father has set.
In addition to fast-tracking a Master's in Social Work, she also dual majors in Psychology, volunteers weekends at a local soup kitchen, and takes an unrelated theater class to express her love for dramatics in a healthy and contained environment. Generational wealth and connections mean she can afford higher education without the burden of a part time job, which is an easy reason for her to justify stretching herself thin elsewhere. Charlie is hyper conscious of her privileged upbringing to an almost neurotic degree, and as a girl who grew up in the gentrified area of an otherwise fairly rough-and-tumble town, she feels she owes it to the world to help bring about positive change.
Still, whenever tests lurk around the corner, the put-together facade tends to crack. She’s been losing sleep, under-eyes bruised with the evidence of long study hours. Food has lost appeal, as her stomach has taken up an elective in gymnastics. Even a few pencils have met untimely ends in her white-knuckled grip. Her well-meaning friends have started offering unsolicited advice like, “Maybe you should get laid." Okay, only Anthony gives her that advice, but she swears he's said it every other day for, like, the past month, and Anthony is… What's a polite word for it? A very sex-positive person with a lot of love to give.
Charlie dismissed it as bad advice, but as she props her face against the desk and tries to internalize anything Mr. Baptiste is talking about (it's probably all super important and pertinent to the midterms, she realizes with despair as she pulls out her notebook and tries to focus), she finds herself fixating more on what her teacher looks like as he lectures than the contents of said lecture.
What is wrong with me?? No, I do NOT need to get laid, I need to take NOTES. She moves her hand and hopes to God it's transcribing Mr. Baptiste’s words.
Alastor Baptiste. She's on a first name basis with the man who serves as a teacher in addition to being the Chair of Psychology, which means she's had to interface with him quite a lot every semester she's attended this college. When they first met, she tried very hard to respect the man with the proper honorifics and call him Mr. Baptiste, but after she corrected him during her entrance interview, "Charlie. Just Charlie is fine, Mr. Baptiste," he fired back, "I'll call you Charlie if you call me Alastor, Miss Charlotte Morningstar." So they reached an impasse and agreed to address each other by their preferred names. She supposes he looks young, maybe just barely pushing thirty if she had to guess, so he probably doesn't want to be made to feel old. Yet she always notices that nobody else calls him Alastor. Strange, but far from the strangest thing about the puzzling man.
He's always smiling. The closest she's seen him come to a frown is when he presses his lips together so tightly that his mouth is almost a straight line, and if you have the misfortune of having that face leveled at you, you might as well just drop out and leave town. For the most part, though, he's a jovial and airy man, maybe a little detached from reality at times, but he jokes a lot and doesn't let much phase him, a good quality in someone who teaches Psychology of Criminal Behavior, which can be an otherwise heavy topic to contend with first thing in the morning. Charlie finds herself giggling at his dark sense of humor more often than she'd like to admit, considering her career goals all necessitate a sensitivity to delicate situations, but she can't help the edgy streak that never left her from her rebellious teen years.
He made a joke about antisocial personality traits the first day of class, and that if anti-sociality made for a criminal, then every single person in the Design and Illustration program should be put on trial, and she'd been the only person to really laugh at that. His eyes found hers among the students, and they shared a momentary smile before he continued on with the syllabus. She supposes, in retrospect, that was when she first should have known she was in trouble.
If the whispers she's overheard during lunch breaks where Alastor leaves the room are anything to go off of, most of her classmates just find him unsettling. Once or twice, someone's ventured to comment on his good looks, only to receive a dismayed, "Baptiste? Seriously?" and that's usually where the conversation ends. She finds it odd, personally. He's unconventional in some ways, but he's always clean and put-together, organized and punctual… Funny. At least to her. Cherrywood-colored hair cascades over the side of his angular face, sharp amber eyes bright against the backdrop of his swarthy complexion, glasses perched smartly at the bridge of his sloped nose. He's slight in build, but tall and broad-shouldered. Charlie may or may not have wondered once or twice what it'd be like to put her hands around that little waist of his. Would she be able to touch her fingertips together? Guilt always catches up with her before she completes the thought.
Come on, Charlie, focus. Just… three more hours of this class to go. Oh, Christ. Instead of focusing, her uncooperative mind decides to take note of a freckle on one of his wrists. She wonders, if you broke down the cost of college at an hourly rate, how much of her father's money has she wasted by fantasizing about the Chair of Psychology instead of internalizing the lecture? Probably not that much, but any amount is too much. This isn't helped by the fact that Alastor's got an attractive voice that tends to lure her mind elsewhere. His words are always crisp and clear without being piercing, the gentle peaks and valleys of his vocal range rocking Charlie like a sailboat cruising across ocean waves.
She thinks she's listening closely to his lecture. She listens so closely that she can't see the shape of a single syllable he utters. She listens so well that his voice continues into her dreams as she falls asleep at her desk.
The guy next to her should have nudged her awake. He always copies her notes. Now he'll have nothing to copy. Alas…
- — -
"...Mm…?"
When Charlie wakes up, the classroom is empty, and the only sounds she can hear are the ticking of an antiquated wall clock that sticks out like a sore thumb among otherwise sleek and modern amenities, and the brisk shuffling of papers against a desk.
On a second glance, the classroom isn't completely empty. The one shuffling the papers is Alastor, who seems to have a preternatural sense for Charlie at times, since he looks up right as she lifts her nap-addled eyes to him.
"Good morning, princess!" he greets, almost genuine. Charlie tries not to blush at the intimate greeting. “Cramming's got you winded, eh?"
“Fuck, how long has class been over?” Charlie wails, too distressed to realize she let less than professional language fly in front of a teacher.
Alastor makes a big show of hiking the sleeve of his dress shirt up enough to check a watch on his slender wrist. Of course he wears a watch. Charlie’s never actually seen him with a smartphone. “About an hour. But there are no other classes scheduled in this room for the next few hours, so there’s no rush.”
“I’m so, so, SO, sorry. You seriously could have just woken me up, you didn’t have to sit there and wait for me!” She tries to phrase it like an inconvenience she imposed onto him, but she’s a touch irritated on her own behalf that he didn’t wake her up. What an embarrassing state to be left in. The notes in front of her are utter nonsense, and she's pretty sure she drooled on them to boot. She wipes her face for safety.
Alastor just bats his eyelashes in a way she could interpret as condescending if she was determined to. "If a student as attentive as you is passing out during my rousing recap on the history of crime scene forensics, then you must be truly exhausted. I thought it best to let you nap a while, my dear.”
Her ears burn slightly at the term of endearment, even though he says it all the time. It’s more a filler phrase than a nickname, or at least that’s what she assumes. “I really am sorry, again. I’ve just been so busy, and…” She trails off. He’s almost certainly heard the same excuse hundreds of times by now from other students.
“I just graded papers for another class while you slept, sweetheart. It’s no trouble.”
Oh. Sweetheart. That’s a new one. Does he mean it in a parental way? She sulks at the thought; though he’s in a position of responsibility over her, she’s no child… Even if watching over her while she naps is a pretty parental activity. Her posture crumbles; maybe she has no business being offended by the sentiment.
Determined, regardless, to establish her mature adult charms, she straightens herself as she gathers her things. “I appreciate it a lot, Alastor. Thank you for your patience.”
He raises a brow at the phrase, setting his pen down. “As much as you need, Charlie.”
She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and hesitates before leaving the room. The strange exchange rolls around in her thoughts for the rest of the day.
2. Degree of Control
Charlie usually hates the types of parties Anthony invites her to, but Molly and Vangelija are going to this one, and she desperately wants to catch up with friends after how intimate her nose has been with the grindstone for the past month. She's studied to maximum capacity, her papers are proofread, and her presentations are rehearsed and highlighted to hell and back. Just this once, Charlie feels she's earned a night to blow off steam before the storm.
She sits in an empty campus computer lab, waiting for the last of her research papers to finish printing so she can staple them and flit off to the event. As the ancient printer takes its sweet time spitting out page after page, she opens a compact and checks her minimal makeup. Anthony will backseat her if she shows up looking too plain. The house hosting is within walking distance of the campus, so she dressed for the party in advance and attended her Friday morning class on Crisis Intervention looking, well, a little flirtier than she'd like to for a class about crisis interventions. But she wore leggings and a cardigan to tame the less-than-church-friendly outfit by a shade or two.
Now that no one's around, though, and she's about to leave campus anyway… She shrugs off the cardigan and tucks it into her bag. Her top isn't scandalous per se—light, transparent chiffon with a cute rounded collar trimmed by embroidered lilies of the valley, drapey bishop sleeves, and capped in long buttoned cuffs with pearl buttons. She wears a simple white tank top underneath to give herself some decency, but the whole thing really leaves nothing to the imagination as far as her figure goes. She likes the balance; she feels covered up, classy and layered, but still adventurous. Her skirt is high waisted with box pleats, but she's a tall girl, so the skirt lands pretty high on her thighs in the grand scheme of things. She sits down to peel her leggings off, and just her luck, a voice calls out from behind her as she's to her knee. A shriek of surprise is barely suppressed.
"Putting on quite the show for the campus security, there!"
Her gut sinks. Why, of all the teachers, did it have to be… "A-Alastor!! You scared the sh—uh, the living daylights outta me!"
He laughs heartily at that, perhaps too heartily. His eyes flick down to her half-removed leggings with a raised brow but no comment, and yet Charlie finds herself entering a defensive stance.
"This isn't what it looks like!! Uh, actually, I don't know what else it'd look like… I just, thought I'd take off my leggings since I'm about to… leave…" Why won't her hands move? Sitting in a state of undress in front of her teacher feels perverse, but continuing to strip feels more so.
Mr. Baptiste stretches to his full height, and Charlie's tall but he's taller. He slides his hands into his pockets and looks somewhere halfway between sweet and mischievous as he looks down upon her. "It's a tad brisk out for bare legs, don't you think?"
"I'm going to this… dumb party that my friend Anthony invited me to…" She gets the leggings down to her ankles, but makes the mistake of hazarding another glance up at her teacher. His stare is unbreaking, sweltering, even; the back of her neck prickles, and she stammers for something to fill the silence. "I'm twenty-one, you know!! Twenty-two in March and old enough to drink! So—so you don't have to give me that look! Haha…"
He shifts his weight, untangling something in his mind that Charlie isn't privy to. "This Anthony… Will you be safe with him?"
Right, Anthony's in a different program, so he probably hasn't had any reason to cross paths with Alastor. The subtle undertone of anxiety in the question catches up to her and she waves her hands quickly at the implication. "Anthony's a good guy! And gay! He won't try anything on me no matter how drunk he is! Haha…!" She really didn't need to tell him that. Why'd she tell him that? She just didn't want him to think she and Anthony were… together. Not that it matters. But she sees Alastor's smile relax the smallest millimeter, and that's enough to make the clarification worthwhile. She hastily finishes rolling her leggings off, tucks them into her bag, and puts her shoes back on along with some low cut socks.
"Well, stay with your friends," Alastor says with a nod. He pauses, then adds more sternly, "You have to be careful around men, Charlie. They're wild animals, given the chance."
Her paper has long since finished being printed, but it sits coolly in the print bed as Charlie searches Alastor's eyes for some further explanation for the sudden shift in mood. They stare at each other until he claps his hands together once and laughs for some reason, shattering the spell.
"I better get going. Don't forget I have extra office hours tomorrow, if you have anything you want me to look over before you turn it in. Even for your other classes. I am your Chair, you know!"
Charlie latches onto the conversational escape route with a grateful smile. "That'd be great, actually! I feel good about most of my work, but there are a few things I wrote for my Social Welfare Policy paper that I'm a little… iffy on? And I'd love to get a second opinion—" The words die on her tongue as Alastor approaches and sweeps her hair to one side. His long fingers loom around her neck in an unlocked cage to, she realizes, simply fix her collar. He doesn't even touch her, not really, but the very suggestion of contact between the two of them is enough to make her hold her breath.
"Stand up for me, Charlie," he says. It's a neutral command, and yet the fact that it's a command at all makes her stomach tingle. She does as she's told, the back of her head buzzing with something akin to elation, gathering her stack of papers into her bag and slinging it over her shoulder before straightening in a way she hopes is flattering.
She sees herself, small and flushed in the reflection of his glasses. It's not so sorry a sight as she'd expected.
This time, his smile is contained and narrow, like it's on a tight leash. "You look lovely, dear. I really do think you'll get cold out there, but hopefully a drink and the good company of your gay friend will keep you warm! Maybe some thigh highs next time you want to show off those legs in the fall semester, though, hm?" He walks off with a chuckle and no space for her to interject.
Charlie's left feeling oddly naked. She tugs her skirt down an inch or two. Her cheeks are hot, but not necessarily with shame; in fact, she feels emboldened. For what? She isn't sure.
3. Escalation of Emotion
The truth is, Charlie feels just fine about her paper for Social Welfare Policy, and in fact she already went over it a couple of times with the teacher actually teaching that class, taking her useful criticisms to heart and producing a finalized draft that Charlie would go so far as to say she's proud of. So why she shows up to Alastor's office hours the next day, she really isn't sure. For a peace of mind that the thesis makes sense to someone outside of the class? For some extra validation? Maybe to prove to one of her Chairs that she's a diligent worker and falling asleep in class that one time was a total fluke? Regardless, the campus is notably dead. Everyone's probably at home, furiously cranking out the flashcards. There's no one lined up for Alastor's office hours, so she taps a light knock and lets herself in.
From behind an old mahogany desk, the man adjusts with pleasure at the sight of his class pet. He folds one hand over the other and nods for Charlie to sit across from him. "Well, Miss Morningstar, fancy meeting you here!" he jests.
Charlie really does hate being reminded of her last name, but just this once, she finds the formality charming. "Well, Mr. Baptiste, I was told you could carve some time out of your busy schedule for little old me."
He chuckles sheepishly at that. "Even without students to see during office hours, rest assured I've quite the backlog of tasks to keep busy with! Idle hands are the devil's tools, after all."
The little catechism is one of many he sprinkles throughout casual conversation. Alastor's never struck Charlie as a particularly religious man, especially given how surprisingly nihilistic his outlook on human nature can be, but she knows he has a small crucifix he wears around his neck at all times. It's usually concealed under his button-ups, but sometimes it sits over the shirt and under his tie. It's such a tiny thing, she can't imagine anyone else has noticed it. Why would they? He draws no attention to it. He was probably raised in a religious family and holds onto some of those old values for comfort. She wishes it was appropriate for her to ask; she really wants to know more about him. Does he look more like his mom or his dad? What were his hobbies as a boy? Did he ever date?
So much she wants out of him. But she just slides her paper forward with an innocent smile. "I really do appreciate you making the time to see me—um, my paper."
He runs a hand through his wavy fringe, treating her to an unimpeded moment of his face. He really is attractive, she thinks, roguish and clean cut. He's always well-manicured and neatly dressed in fastidiously ironed shirts and vests. It isn't until he takes her paper into both hands that she realizes his right hand is bandaged.
"What happened?? You didn't have that yesterday!" she frets.
He plays at not knowing right away what she's referring to. "Hm? Oh, this? Nothing big, sweetheart, just a kitchen mishap! One really must handle knives with care, they can be slippery little bastards!" A peal of inappropriate laughter at the non-joke. Charlie's used to that from him by now. "A little extra iron in the soup never hurt anyone, eh?"
She giggles even as her brows furrow, instinctively reaching out with a touch meant to soothe but then pulling away when she realizes there's nothing she can do for him. "Poor thing! I hope it heals quickly."
"Not to worry. I take my vitamins and omegas every morning," he says with a wry smile and a dismissive shrug. "Your body starts to need the extra help at my age, I suppose."
Charlie's mind snags on the comment. There isn't a single wrinkle on his pretty face, and he's got a healthy glow to him that convinced her he couldn't be that much older than her, but then again, people in positions of authority over younger adults love to grouse about getting old, even if just by comparison. He catches and pins her thought like a bird of prey.
"You're wondering how old I am, aren't you?"
The young woman stumbles over her tongue. Lying on the spot has never been Charlie's strong suit, which Alastor clearly delights in.
"Maybe if this paper of yours impresses me enough, I'll reward you by telling you."
She should be asking why that should be considered a reward, or if such a conversation between a student and a teacher is even appropriate to begin with, but instead she nods in eager compliance.
"Is it alright if I mark this up? I like to underline the good parts, so it won't necessarily be just corrections."
She nods again, feeling a bit like a bobblehead. To vary things up, she chirps, "Go right ahead!" She didn't relish the thought of having to do another revision, but if it means she'll get some extra praise out of her elusive teacher, she'll happily append his corrections.
"Very strong opener," he says with a nod, underlining a passage. "It's clear you've had time to really let your thoughts on the topic mature. Remind me, you're already going into your fourth year next semester?"
"Yes. Going to finish my Bachelor's in Psychology and then just focus on my Master's in Social Work."
"It'll be sad to yield you over to the Social Work department full time," he comments, peering over the top of the paper with a playful look. "You sure you don't want to get a Master's in Psychology instead?"
Charlie smiles behind her hand. "Psychology is interesting, but Social Work is where my passion lies. I want to get involved in community organization, help advocate for policy changes, and maybe… oh, it's silly."
"Your passion could never be silly."
That's not what her dad said about it, but she clutches the words of affirmation to her chest like a starved child. "I want to help open a clinic for rehabilitating criminals. My goal is to find a way to combat recidivism and help acclimate ex-convicts into normal lives."
The paper in his hands says about as much, but it's far more interesting to hear it straight from the source. "When you shoot for the stars, you sure don't do it in half-measures, do you, Charlie?" he wonders, impressed. "That seems a near-impossible task for one girl."
Charlie reflexively pouts but catches herself and quickly trains her face into something more stern. "Even if it is, I want to try. The prison system is unjust and inhumane. It's… abhorrent."
The spark of near-anger in her voice intrigues Alastor. He leans forward, picking his words with delicate premeditation. "Quite a lot of empathy you've got there for the undesirables of our society." His smile is broad, challenging. When Charlie doesn't back down, he continues reading her dissertation in silence. He marks it all over, underlining the thoughts that entertain him, scratching smilies by the passages he finds particularly potent. Aside from a misplaced punctuation or two, he doesn't find much to fix. For such a young woman and from such a privileged family, Charlie's got a surprisingly good head on her shoulders. She's too idealistic, but that'll get sanded down with time and experience. Her sincere interest in the subject is apparent and backed by a lot of carefully cited research. Her goals are grounded, actionable. Not just nice-sounding ideals.
So interesting and strange for a pretty, outgoing girl like her with no actual personal investment in criminals to muster this level of care for their plights. If it was just a matter of absolving guilt she feels from her father's political leanings, she could be so much more surface level about this pursuit and still look just as benevolent to onlookers. Charity parties and flashy shows of philanthropy. But no, she wants to be on the frontline. He underlines another paragraph, almost the entire thing. Her written word is fiery without the filter of self-consciousness to cloud her message. How he'd love to see the day she brings that same fire to her spoken word.
"You know," Alastor begins, though he seems more like he's thinking out loud than talking to her. "When a person gets away with something once… it's hard for them to turn back. The adrenaline propels them forward. A slippery slope…"
Charlie's not sure what he's specifically talking about, but replies quietly, "Well, you know I'm a firm believer in second chances."
He exhales in what might be a laugh or a sigh. "That you are. But you take Psychology of Criminal Behavior with me, so you should know I think about these things quite often."
"With all due respect, I am of the opinion that you talk about criminals as if they're lost causes, sometimes."
The otherwise combative words are folded up in such a perfect little academic bow. She's such a good student. He scrawls a few notes at the bottom of the paper for her to consider later, wincing slightly as he does. "I'd love to see you prove me wrong. Sincerely."
She opens her mouth to counter him in some way, but her eyes widen as they drift to his writing hand. "Alastor!! You're bleeding!"
"...Ah," is all Alastor says, surprised to see that his injury is, indeed, bleeding through the bandages. Quite profusely at that! He must have reopened the wound, too lost in his heated notations. He puts the pen to the side and slides the paper back to Charlie with his good hand, remiss to sign her hard work with his blood. She whisks it into her bag and pulls out a small first aid kit in exchange.
"I can redress it for you! I took a first aid course over summer break!" She puts out an expectant hand with a confident smile that quickly falters. "Uh, not that… putting on a bandage is really all that complicated. But still."
Alastor really can't help but laugh when this girl is around! She's so earnest. He gives her his hand. "Then I'll gladly let you show off your bandaging skills."
Charlie pouts for real this time, her rosy cheeks twitching in what might be a stifled smile. Her amber eyes are bright, eager. If he didn't know better, he'd say she looks pleased to unwrap his injury, like it's a gift just for her. She gathers his hand lightly and carefully, removing the bloodied bandages with more caution than strictly necessary, but neither of them are in any particular rush.
"You seem quite sober today. I assume the party last night didn't get too rowdy, then?" he chatters conversationally.
“Oh, I only had a couple of drinks and then chugged water for the rest of the night. I knew I wanted to come into office hours today, so I didn’t want to overdo it.”
“Good girl.”
Charlie breathes in sharply, a quiet little sound, but Alastor hears it and smirks. Finally, the length of soiled bandages are off. He takes it and throws it in the trash can under his desk.
“This is a deep cut,” Charlie says with some anxiety, cradling the injured limb like the heartbroken saint that she is. Her soft fingers are feather light against his calloused body. “You probably should have gotten stitches for this…”
“Well, lucky me, having a first aid certified young woman in my office, hm?”
He actually is in luck and she learned the basics of stitching a wound shut, but she’s only ever practiced on fake skin. The real deal is another matter entirely. Her trusting eyes widen at what he’s asking of her. “It’ll hurt.”
“I’d assume that it would, yes.”
The weight of his high expectations for her makes her drop her shoulders in an obedient acceptance. She starts collecting the necessary supplies out of her kit. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thirty-eight.”
Charlie looks up from threading her needle. “Hm?”
“I’m thirty-eight. I said I’d tell you if your paper impressed me, so!”
She finds herself caught between preening at the praise and boggling at the number. It’s still not old by any stretch, but he’s only two years younger than her (in all fairness, very young) father. “You look so young,” is the first thing she can think to say. She uses a small sanitation pad to clean around his wound.
“I’m glad you think so,” he says, resting his cheek against his spare hand and smiling with satisfaction.
Charlie takes a few stabilizing breaths and smooths the unbroken skin of his palm bracingly. “I’m going to start now. Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”
The sterile needle slides in and out of him with surprising ease. He doesn’t flinch, not at the puncture. His pulse does seem to stutter when she touches him directly, but she chalks it up to nerves on his part. The steadiness of his gaze, trained almost searingly on the movement of her mending hands, never wavers with pain. If anything, it’s like he’s entranced by some beautiful display, but surely that’s just her imagination.
“I wanted to learn this kind of thing, just in case… I mean, you know. Social work deals with a lot of high risk people. I really want to be ready in case someone ever needs my help.”
Alastor could have guessed as much, but there’s a note of confession to her words that he hasn’t solved yet. He gives her room to fill in the blanks.
“I, uh. I’ve always been kind of squeamish. I saw a dead bird in the yard once as a kid, and I cried all night over it.” She chuckles nervously. “My dad has told me a million times that I’m not cut out for this, that I have no clue what I’m signing myself up for. And it pisses me off because I know he’s right, at least a little bit, but I want the chance to become someone who can handle it. I feel like so many people discredit me before they give me a chance.”
If there’s a bit of double meaning to her words, well. That’s just a bonus.
“And yet, look how beautifully you’ve sewn me up,” Alastor finally says as the knot is tied and the blood is wiped away. “I really owe you one, my dear!”
Charlie giggles, shy and sweet. She wraps a fresh bandage around him, her hands hesitating to leave once she’s done. Emboldened once more, she brings his covered palm up and lays a daring kiss to it. His hand is so big, he could probably smother her with just the one, an unbidden thought that springs heat into her face.
“Is that what you learned in your first aid training?” he questions with a penetrating gaze.
“No,” she answers quickly.
“Good. I would've had to have a word or two with your instructor.” He reels one of her hands back to himself, returning the favor to her knuckles. His lips are hot. One of his canines pokes from between them and presses against her flesh. For a moment, she thinks he means to bite her, but just as quickly his touch is gone, and a professional veneer is reaffixed to his smile. “Thank you for your help, Charlie. Your writing is splendid. I’m sure you’ll do just as wonderfully on my midterm.”
Feeling all at once like she’s been tranquilized, Charlie nods slowly and gathers her things in a daze. She thanks him again for his time and scampers off. The office door closes heavily behind her.
4. Risk Level
Monday, the day of Mr. Baptiste's exam, Charlie is much more relaxed than she expected she would be. She feels silly for repeating an outfit twice in one week, but the combination she wore to the party made her feel cute and confident, so she wears it once more with a different cardigan—and some thigh high socks, in respect to the chilly fall weather.
As she strides into the classroom, she feels buoyant. Maybe her studying efforts paid off; maybe it's the secretive grin her professor levels at her as she walks to her desk. Her calm is further justified when the tests are passed around and her cursory glance reveals questions that she's already brainstorming answers to.
Tidy cursive letters flow from her pencil without stopping, not even to steal glances at the man sitting at the front of the classroom.
She finishes her final essay answer in record time and brings it up to Alastor's desk to submit it. He looks up with a relaxed smile, which she meets with one of her own. She turns, and he catches her by the wrist before she can leave. His voice is low and conspiratorial. "Any chance I can have you see me after class?"
"Huh…?"
"I know you're already done, but…" His eyes flit to the rest of the room for just a second as he searches for his next words. "I need to talk to you about something one on one."
Her heart sinks. Did she do something wrong? Is there some issue with her answers that he's already spotted? She can't fathom what the problem would be, but what else could it be? Alastor seems to pick up on her deflated mood and amends, "It's nothing bad, my dear. Don't look so frightened."
The reassurance only slightly allays her anxiety, but she nods. How could she say no? She has to know what's going on. She was originally planning to use this extra bit of time to treat herself to some coffee before her next exam of the day rolls around, but now she has no choice but to kill time until the rest of the class finishes their tests and leaves. With some exasperation, she sits in the hallway and fidgets with her phone, nothing on the screen registering to her. All she can think about is what Alastor could possibly want from her.
5. The Crime Scene
After a particularly dejected student trawls out into the hallway, Alastor peeks from around the doorframe and spots Charlie playing a time-wasting game on her phone. He calls out to her, "That's the last of them!" She hops to her feet and bounds after him. He holds the door open for her like a gentleman, clicks the door shut, slides a card key, and takes his place back at his desk.
Charlie stands opposite of him, shifting her weight from leg to leg, nervousness written all over her. "Mr. Baptiste, if I messed something up, I'd be happy to fix i—"
"Now, now, Charlie. I thought we dropped those kinds of formalities years ago!" He rests his chin on one hand and picks up a red pen to mark up whichever test is in front of him. Charlie strains to read it upside-down and is somewhat relieved to find it isn't hers. "You haven't messed anything up."
There's a beat where Charlie waits for the "but." But it never comes, so she fusses with the hem of her skirt, which feels like it's sitting too high again. She shimmies it down her hips a bit. "Um, so then…"
"Sorry, dear, do you mind if I just finish grading this one first? I'm about halfway through it and I'm afraid I'll lose my train of thought."
"Oh… okay." Charlie just stands there, feeling a bit like she's being pranked. He called her in, yet he clearly isn't ready to talk to her. The test required essay format answers, sure, but each answer is only half a page long at most, so it couldn't possibly be that hard for him to finish whatever answer he's on and then grade the rest after they've talked. She glances down at her phone, but no one's texted her, and she isn't sure if it'll look rude to be glued to her screen in the classroom, even if class isn't in session.
She stands and shifts and fusses. She pulls up a slipping sock. She becomes acutely aware of the ticking of the analogue clock on the wall. Worse yet, Alastor keeps casting pointed looks at her, like he wants something from her but won't say what it is. Charlie never imagined standing in one place for a few minutes could feel like such a punishment.
Finally, he takes a bit of pity and throws her a conversation starter. How he manages to talk at all while writing a fairly lengthy critique in the margins of the unlucky student's essay, she'll never know. "I see you took my advice."
His penchant for giving himself a headstart in conversations is starting to feel antagonistic. "Um, which… advice?"
"The thigh highs," he says simply, gesturing with his grading pen. "Much more suited for this weather, don't you agree?"
She blushes for a reason she's not sure of. "Oh! Yeah, heh. I mean, I'd never show off that much skin at school, even if it was summer."
Alastor just spins the pen a few times before crossing out an entire sentence. "That's good," he says, and she can't tell if he means her or something in the essay he's reading. Unlikely that it's the essay, though, because he draws another harsh line through a paragraph, then follows up, "You're too… tempting."
Charlie's mind goes blank, and just as quickly fills with a million conflicting thoughts. Surely she misheard him just now? Or, no, he really is talking about the essay. He must be. Maybe he read a part of the essay out loud to himself? But what the hell kind of answer would call the reader tempting!? This is a class on the psychology of fucking criminals, not an erotica writing workshop!
Alastor's eyes rake over her, perhaps in hopes of squeezing a response out of her, but she just squirms under his inspection. "I really do feel bad that there's nowhere for you to sit up here." The seats for the students are all unwieldy benches, no good for moving. "Oh! Here's an idea. Why don't I share my seat with you until I'm done?"
"..." Charlie doesn't breathe for a moment, and it even feels like her heart stops, like she's a small mammal playing dead and praying for mercy. "Ha… ha!! Okay, Alastor, I get it. You can stop making fun of me now."
"Who's making fun?" he chimes with a malevolent smile as he scoots his chair back and pats his lap enticingly. If this is his way of belittling her, then she doesn't want to back down and come across as timid. It's already hard enough to be taken seriously in her majors with the reputation her family name carries, in addition to the assumption that she's a dumb blonde bimbo trust fund baby wasting her time at college. She can't have people thinking she's a wallflower they can push around as they please, on top of all that.
At least, that's her internal reasoning as she marches around the desk and plants herself on his lap, her legs across his, his chest to her back. She gives an indignant huff for good measure and wishes she could see the look on Alastor's face. She hopes he's regretting pushing her buttons. She's fond of him, but he's crossed a line this time. The girl waits for him to shove her off, or apologize profusely, or anything to tip the scales back into the realm of acceptable student-teacher banter, but none of that ever comes. Instead, he leans into her, bringing his arms up around her to rest one on the desk and resume grading with the other.
She really can't believe him.
What's even more unbelievable is the realization that she's never breathed in his scent so strongly before. He smells clean, like a myriad of products. Aftershave, conditioner, the undertones of a tobacco-scented cologne. Underneath those superficial smells is him, his essence, his metallic human musk. She wants to burrow into it, bask in it until it assimilates into her. Where is this thought coming from?? Anthony's advice echoes in her head like a hex. That must be it; he's cursed her. He put an evil witch's curse on her. The malicious magic whispers into her ears, sending a small shiver down her spine.
Or maybe that was just Alastor's breath tickling her.
Damn him and damn whoever filled this particular test sheet out. Their answers are all terrible, and it's taking Alastor forever to fill the margins with his scathing critiques. It occurs to her that she could just leave his lap, but she's caged in by his arms now, and standing in place staring at him was somehow worse anyway. At least now she can read what he's writing.
'...clear to me that you've never opened not only the textbook, but perhaps any book in your life, if you think this is a remotely acceptable way to write…'
Boy, she sure is glad she isn't this guy.
She sighs and squirms, trying to get comfortable. Alastor's much bigger than her in most regards, but his legs are fairly thin, so his lap doesn't have much real estate to work with. She wiggles and readjusts, probably to his irritation, but that's not her problem. It isn't until the sharp sound of Alastor sucking in air startles Charlie that she realizes she's settled her bottom against a hardness. They both freeze in place, each waiting for the other to act first.
Charlie's a good girl, but she's no fool, and she knows exactly what she's gotten into. Her thoughts feel like molasses as she tries to wrench some sort of intelligent thought out of herself. A solution. Something funny to say to break the tension. Anything. Literally fucking anything. But her mind works against her, and to her own vague horror, her body does too. She feels a familiar heat and stickiness pooling within her, and her heart is beating like a marching drum. Bracing her trembling hands on the edge of the desk, she rubs herself ever so slightly against that hardness, and it feels like taking a step onto a tightrope suspended a hundred feet off the ground. Her mouth goes dry, her gut plummets, and a line pulls taut and dangerous within her.
Alastor's right hand stays firmly clenched around his grading pen, but the other one slowly, tentatively drifts down to Charlie's thigh. It's agonizing, the way he lightly skims it over the top of her skirt, not even gracing her with the relief of direct skin contact. His rough fingertips feel like a salve once they slide across her leg proper, dragging the hem of her skirt up, every action methodical to the point of torture. Even through just that small bit of contact, she can feel the rigidity of his muscles, every tendon stretched to its limit. He's holding something back with all his strength. Himself?
His hand reaches the waistband of her panties, teasing along the elastic like he's waiting for an invitation. Charlie realizes they're standing at a precipice, one that she could run away from, or push them both over. He's giving her a moment to decide which it's going to be. She sighs because the choice is already made; she wouldn't have come so far as sitting on his lap if it wasn't. The blonde lifts her hips just enough to urge his fingers forward, and she doesn't need to tell him twice. He dives into her, teasing her clit with insistent touches, dipping in and out of her wetness, spreading it around and making a right mess of the both of them.
Somehow, the bastard is still turning pages and circling grammar errors. It's both tantalizing and infuriating to be treated like a secondary action, something he can play with absentmindedly while his thoughts are elsewhere. She grinds against him, this time with intention, and he plunges a finger into her in retaliation. The ragged moan she lets out is humiliating, but she's too far-gone in this already humiliating scenario to care anymore. She doesn't need her dignity. She needs to be fucked. The needy girl tries to thrust against his finger, but every time she does, he goes still, seemingly redirecting the entirety of his attention to writing notes. She writhes and whines, doing everything in her power to coax him into doing what she wants, but he just laughs cruelly.
"Now, now, Charlie. You've got to wait your turn. I'm busy with another student right now, see?" He taps the paper with his pen. She watches as, at long last, he writes a grade on the goddamn thing. Relief washes over her. She never thought she'd be so happy to see a D- on anything. Finally, he's done with this stupid game and they can— "How about I grade yours now? Wouldn't that be interesting?"
Charlie is so irritated, she just lies her upper body defeatedly against the desk. If he's going to torment her like this, she refuses to be an active participant. Even more maddening, he chuckles with genuine amusement, not at all deterred by her surrender.
"Lift your hips slightly for me," Alastor whispers. Despite her current boycott against him, she doesn't dare to disobey. Her panties are pulled down a little further, her skirt flipped up. The deafening sound of a zipper nearly makes her whip around to see what he's doing, but he grabs her hip and guides her back down. Down onto his…
"Oh, god," Charlie mutters in utter disbelief, burying her face in her forearms to make sure he can't see her expression. She feels the bluntness of his hot, wet tip, feels the stretch of her opening as he patiently works his way into her. Her cunt is embarrassingly well-lubricated already; she could cry from how badly she wants this. Has it been three years already? She'd felt the pull between them from the very day he told her to call him by his first name. She thought a shameful amount about scenarios just like this one, about seducing him in his office or some supply closet. But she knew she was too young, too inexperienced; there was no way an aloof, inscrutable man like Alastor would ever think twice about her. Other students have tried to make passes at him in the past only to be so thoroughly rejected, it made rumors go around for a while about him being gay until a male teacher tried to shoot his shot and was given the same treatment—maybe worse. Why should she be the exception?
And yet here they are. Every time she thinks he must have bottomed out by now, he continues guiding her down more and more of himself. She's sufficiently horny, so her body doesn't resist drinking up the intrusion, but will there be enough of her to accommodate him? Her face burns feverishly.
"No notes on this first answer. It's concise and comprehensive. Wonderful job."
Charlie's head is spinning too much for her to understand what he's praising her for, so she just whimpers weakly. The penetration is starting to feel like too much, too big. He'll break her. She feels every millimeter profoundly. When her ass meets his lap again, she lets out a small sob she didn't realize she was holding back. The lack of communication, the ambiguity of his intentions with her, the too-much and not-enough of their points of contact, it all leaves her lost at sea. Her sanity teeters precariously, thrown further into peril as she shivers. Alastor rests his free hand on her stomach, fingers splayed but immobile—another suggestion of friction without any relief in sight. Charlie tries really hard not to cry at how vulnerable yet unrewarded she feels.
"Shhh," is his only acknowledgement of her suffering. He's fully pressed into her but refuses to move. That would destabilize his writing hand, after all.
The red pen bleeds a smiley face next to one of her answers. She can't be arsed to care which it is. She's never hated a pen more than she does right now. Her eyes trace the bandaged hand that holds it, wondering if writing hurts him. Wondering if her stitches are holding up okay. Will the injury scar? A dark part of her hopes so—an eternal love mark of the time she sewed him back together.
"Your answers are always so full of hope and optimism," Alastor observes with a hum, startling her from her thoughts. "One might think you've a fetish for criminals!"
The sentiment shocks her enough to force relatively normal speech from her. "What, because I give a shit about what happens to them??"
His teasing tone drops. "Because you think too highly of what they're capable of." He gives her a few sharp, shallow movements, nothing more. It leaves her breath stuck in her chest, another discontented noise forming at the back of her throat. "...But that isn't a criticism. Just an observation."
"This… better not be some elaborate ploy to get me to beg you to raise my grade or something. I'm walking out of this room right now if it is."
Alastor's thrown off by her stern threat, evidenced by the curious lilt to his response: "I wouldn't think of it, sweetheart! Besides, your grades are already high by your own merit. You don't need to resort to bribery for that." Charlie's not too far-gone to melt a little at the praise.
He turns the page. Why can't she remember how many pages long this handout was? Three? Five? This is torture, plain and simple. Every fleeting second of pleasure only serves to make the depths of her agony deeper. She'd rather he pull out and send her to the corner, at this rate; at least that way, she wouldn't be pressed right up against relief she can't have. The desperation is aching enough that she tries to touch her own clit, knowing she could get off with just that if she tries hard enough, but Alastor slides his hand down her abdomen and blocks access. This forces a vexed cry from the poor girl. The man curled around her only hushes her again, rocking her in consolation, and it's so painfully, miserably close to the friction she wants.
The clock on the wall ticks. Tears of frustration trickle down Charlie's red cheeks and plip-plop onto Alastor's desk. She sniffles quietly, rubbing her face with a careful finger so as not to smear her eyeliner.
Alastor, the fucking bastard, has the audacity to harden further while inside her. She thinks she's imagining it at first, but somehow he shifts and forces himself deeper, impossibly so, until Charlie feels like she's going to burst. "Alastor, please, either fuck me or let me go," she wails, tormented to her breaking point. She trembles on his lap, scared of being ignored but even more scared of rejection.
Luckily for her, rejection is a million miles away from Alastor's thoughts. "Alright, darling, alright. Just a little bit, okay?"
She doesn’t see it from her position, but the smile that tears across his face is mean beyond belief. He couldn’t be happier to see her reaching her limit. He’s only dreamed a hundred times of hearing her say such dirty words, of her wanting this so badly that it shatters her facade of composure. His hands clasp the exposed skin of her thighs, the thighs he's wanted to himself for so long, the strip of exposure between her skirt and her socks only serving to highlight the luxury of the smooth, white skin. Calloused fingers sink into unmarred flesh bracingly as he starts to set a steady pace, fucking into Charlie's delicious heat like something to be savored.
She is decadence in all regards, a salty-sweet prize that he intends to pace himself with, at least for now. Her insides accommodate him well, tight and hot enough to make him feel like he's melting, enough to make his vision feel hazy and warped; he could almost believe she's a mere Fata Morgana, an unkind trick of an unwell mind, but the sensations she wrings out of him are no mirage. The indecent sounds falling freely from her lips are greater than his imagination could conjure. The real thing is so much better than he could have ever hoped, and he doesn't intend to ever return to fantasies again after this.
He rests the crown of his head against her shoulder as he bucks into her with a helpless desperation, and distantly, he registers the sound of himself laughing. A breathless, incredulous sound. The tremors of his thrall vibrate through Charlie's chest. She casts a glance at him, maybe concerned at the spill of mirthless spasms that overtake him, but his hold on her thighs tightens painfully and his bucking increases in brutality, leaving no room for conversation.
His pace grows unmetered as sweat trickles down his nose and his thoughts blur into a miasma of violent lust. The man has to take a slow, shaky inhale like he's pulling from his last cigarette and reminds himself, patience, patience. He's waited this long; the least he can do is enjoy his reward to the fullest. Charlie, on the other hand, is unraveling at an exponential rate, if her shrill gasps and moans are anything to go by. She scrabbles for leverage on the desk, doing everything she can to maneuver her hips and slam into his thrusts, despondency from the wait turning her into a pathetic animal begging to be sown. It's so cute—her want, her need. Alastor could get addicted to persecuting a girl like her.
The riptide of their incoming crest pulls violently at the edges, so Alastor stills, yanking her down into immobility hard enough that his nails will leave little crescent marks on her legs. The frazzled cry that tears through Charlie could break the hearts of even the staunchest sadists. "Alastor!!" she heaves. Her arms are too weak to support her upper body anymore, so she collapses onto his desk again. He tugs the papers out from under her elbow. "Please, please, please don't stop, I'm going to lose my mind…"
"Hmm, is that such a bad thing?" he wonders as he re-arms himself with his trusty pen and continues on with drawing smilies on her test. "They say the difference between insanity and genius is paper-thin."
"God, no, please… I need this… Please let me cum…" She lets out a pathetic noise as he rubs her back. He can feel the thundering pulse of her desire all around his length. His angel withholds nothing, baring herself and asking only that he grant her reprieve. "Please, just…"
"Maybe if," he begins, tapping his pen against his bottom lip in contemplation, "you can articulate well enough to me what you want, I'll give it to you. Like you learned in Speech class, yes?"
"You fucking asshole," she bleats without the energy for malice. When no retort comes, it sinks in that he means it, and she has no choice but to cave to his cruel whims. "Please, Alastor... I've touched myself for years now thinking of you. I've wanted you since… the day we met. It feels like a dream come true to think that you might want me too, but this… this is a nightmare… I need you to move, e-even just a little bit. I'll do anything…"
His bandaged hand flips her test back to the first page and writes a grade with a flourish. Through her bleary vision, she can't tell what her score is, but she really does not care anymore. "Excellent work as always, Miss Morningstar. You're a consummate professional! It's been an honor watching the growth of your ideals and goals over these past few years, and I look forward to seeing where those ambitions land you in the future."
Charlie just shivers.
Alastor's hands both curl around her waist. He dips a pinky finger down to tease at her clit, and even that small scrap of attention is enough to make Charlie whine. He presses his lips to the shell of her ear, not quite a kiss but she leans into it all the same. "What do you say we celebrate?"
With some quick maneuvering, he turns her around in his lap and immediately ruts his way back into her core, loath to have left it for even a second. He bounces her lightly, though takes the chance to soak in her debauched expression. Her hair is ruffled, her cheeks are ruddy and tear-stained, her plump lips part for air that she can't seem to get enough of, and her neck is sheen with sweat. Without thinking, he starts to undo her blouse, an action she reciprocates, undoing the first few buttons of his shirt but unable to go much further due to his vest. He swats her hands away for the time being, too selfishly one-track minded about exposing more of her skin to care about what she wants to see. She shrugs obediently out of her blouse and helps him yank the tank top off, too. The bra underneath is simple and cream-colored, no particular embellishments other than a thin lace trim and a ribbon at the center. Not that he cares—it's coming off anyway. It clatters to the floor without a second thought as he cups the soft flesh beneath with the reverence of a disciple.
"Alastor, go easy on me… I'm sensitive there," Charlie pleads. But how can a predator resist after having his prey's weak spot presented to him on a silver platter like that? He pinches her nipples into hardness as he fucks more roughly into her, tormenting her poor buds as she sways on top of him. The answering cries to each thrust are music to his ears. He leaves her breasts alone for a bit to wrap his arms around her, squeezing her close, her breath hot and moist on him now that her face is so near. She looks unfocused and ruined, a sight that pours gasoline onto the wildfire burning in his gut.
"Oh, Charlie," he coos, leaning into her, dipping her backwards slightly. The change of angle makes her flinch. "My sweet Charlie. You don't even know what you're doing to me."
As usual, she has no idea what he's talking about, but she likes the rumble of his voice against her chest. "Alastor…"
"Say you're mine."
"Hm…?"
He all but growls, "Just say you're mine. And I'll give you anything you ask for." He's aware that the intensity might scare her off, but he can't mask his fervor anymore. Not when he's got her right where he wants her.
And yet, her response is the last thing he expected. "Alastor—you're bleeding." Charlie manages to push through the fog of pleasure and forces her hips to slow to a stop.
At first, he assumes his hand wound has opened up again, the accursed thing, but his partner points to his face. He reaches up and touches sticky wetness on his lips. He has a nosebleed. "...Huh."
He swipes it with a thumb and observes it with detachment, the fluid nearly black with saturation. He acts on his next impulse without thinking too deeply about it, pressing the thumb against Charlie's lips until she parts them and accepts the intrusion, licking meekly at his bloodied digit. As he rolls it against her, she fellates him with increasing enthusiasm, as if relieved to have something to occupy her mouth, and he's only all too happy to keep her busy as he resumes grinding into her. He slips his index finger in too, allowing her to thoroughly lubricate it with her naughty tongue. As another impulse, he pinches her tongue between his fingers and pulls it out of her mouth. Her eyes dart up to him in confusion. Drool drips messily from her. He simply admires her for a moment, relishing the filthy sight he's turned her into, before he finally kisses her tongue.
"Mmph," is the cute little sound of surprise that Charlie offers him, though she's quick to surrender herself as he suckles her tongue and works his way down into her mouth. He tastes the faint metal of his own blood mixed into her saliva. He feels his control starting to crumble.
They kiss, or something like it, voracious and impure. Alastor drags his tongue across the roof of her mouth, prodding the backs of her teeth, laying claim to everything he touches and more. Charlie moans defenselessly into him as his thrusts turn hard and heavy. The push of her breasts against him, the fistful of his hair she grips, the frenzy of her mouth sliding against his, it all makes it clear that she's begging for more. He honors her wishes.
They aren't using protection, it occurs to him with a pang of glee, and he has no idea if she's on the pill. The controversy of him knocking up a student… How amusing! Even funnier, though, is that she hasn't said a thing about contraception either, and shouldn't she be the one worried in this situation? He fucks her frantically, with a giddy, sort of out-of-body high washing over his mind, making him lightheaded and manic. Maybe he laughs again, just a little bit, but it's hard to hear over the wet slapping of skin, over her steadily climbing mewls, so maybe he just grunts like the animal that he is as he paints her insides, marking them as his own. The sensation of such fullness immediately snaps her into a noisy orgasm, her walls shuddering around his release delectably. She drops her forehead to his shoulder and hyperventilates as he rocks her through the waves of pleasure. Once she's calmed slightly, he kisses her forehead.
“That’s a good girl, there we go,” he murmurs, squeezing her thighs in fluttering pulses. “Can you give me a little more?” Charlie nods quickly, even though her lungs are burning. “I knew you could.”
He has to more or less pose her manually, so pliant and boneless she's become in her relief, but he's happy to position his little doll to his liking. He stands up, pushing his chair back, and rests her front on the clearing of his desk. With one hand between her shoulder blades and the other scooping his dribbling cum back into her wrecked pussy, he leans over her and takes no time at all to grind himself into fullness again. She's easier to slide into this time, and this position lets him reach even deeper into her. He presses a sadistic hand to her belly.
"Do you feel how deep I am in you?" he asks in a tone bordering on threatening, but his permanent smile twists it into something cheerful. "Do you feel this?" His fingers prod searchingly against her.
She tearfully nods, unable to speak anymore. Her studious mind has abandoned her. She feels like she's become an entity that can only experience pleasure, or the absence of it.
"I've always wanted you too, Charlie. Same as you. From the day I laid eyes on you. Do you know what it took for me to control myself for so long?" She shakes her head. "I'm sure you don't. You're a good girl, so you have no idea what it's like for someone like me to temper their wants…"
To prove his point, he pounds ruthlessly into her, crushing her back to pin her in place, compressing her lungs and making her gasp for air in hiccuping stutters. She's overstimulated, but he feels like he could do this for hours, and neither of them communicate these thoughts out loud. Alastor just partakes, happily, without remorse. Charlie accepts whatever he gives her, inebriated off the knowledge that he wants her in this way.
"Tell me you're mine, darling," Alastor sings as he folds himself onto her, stroking her hair. She's soft, so soft, every part of her. He wants to test her every limit, see what she can withstand before her soft little body falls apart, and then he wants to put her back together and do it all again.
"I'm yours," she chokes out. "All yours. And you're mine."
So she's staking a claim too. He beams at that. This side of her—this bratty streak—is what really ensnared him from the beginning. Prey is the most fun when it fights back. It whets his appetite. He bites and sucks at her nape until he draws blood, and he doesn't let a droplet go to waste as he licks blissfully at the delicious wound he created. His hands grab at whatever they can, not content to settle in any one place on her for too long, though as he feels his veins burn hotter and hotter, he grips her hips and endeavors to fuck her into total collapse. She shrieks and writhes, an avalanche of indecent pleas spilling from her.
This time, she loses control first, arching her ass into him as she cries through a powerful clenching that breaks like a rubber band and sends fluttering waves of relief down her legs and up her spine. Alastor follows soon after, his necklace dangling free from his unbuttoned shirt like a taunting talisman, but it's not enough to stop him from filling the angelic womb of his favorite student. The depths of his depravity can't be abated by even the holiest iconography, and he doesn't yearn for atonement anyway. He has exactly what he wanted most under his claws, gasping his name.
Once they've come down from their shared high, Charlie redresses as if sleepwalking. Alastor helps slide her panties back on, not out of kindness or a consideration for her decency, but a desire to stain them with his release. The girl can barely stand, her knees wobbling like a newborn fawn's, and as much as he wants to carry her home and continue having his way with her, he wrestles himself back into some semblance of control and gentility.
"Are you alright, my pet?" he asks, smoothing her hair down into something a little less chaotic. She tilts her chin up and closes her eyes serenely, enjoying his touch to the fullest.
"I'll… need to stop by the girls' room for some cleanup," she admits, squeezing her legs together unsubtly. "But I'll be fine. I just have one more exam and then I can go home."
"Good."
After a pause, she decides to pry. "What are you doing with the rest of your evening?"
"Heading home as well, making dinner, finagling my curriculum. Nothing fun."
Charlie steels her nerves and summons all her courage. "I've always wondered what your place looks like. Since you like antique things so much."
He folds his arms and smiles, a lazy baring of teeth. "Would you like to see it for yourself?"
The way she immediately brightens is contagious. "I would!! Um, write down the address for me and I'll come by after my next class ends! Uh, and I'll probably stop by my apartment so I can… shower and change." She winces.
"No need. I've a perfectly good shower you can use, if you wish."
Sweet Charlie, his star pupil, an intelligent young woman who's going to change the world, the naive creature he's sunken his incisors into, blushes like a maiden and adjusts her skirt. "...Okay!"
Alastor sees her out of the classroom like the good professor he is. "Good luck on the rest of your exams, darling," he bids to her. As she walks away, he catches the smallest glimpse of his bite mark on the back of her neck, peeking over the collar of her innocent white blouse. He laughs to himself and retreats to gather his belongings.