Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/952779.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Argus_Filch/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Argus_Filch, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Drama, Alternate_Universe_-_Non-Magical, Manipulation, Class_Issues,
      Reform_School, Dubious_Consent
  Series:
      Part 1 of Snape_of_St._Brutal's
  Collections:
      Kink_Bingo_2013_(Round_Six)
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-03 Words: 3052
****** Schoolboy Blues ******
by Delphi
Summary
     Severus Snape knows every shortcut at St. Brutus's Secure Centre for
     Incurably Criminal Boys, including a few of his own devising.
Notes
     Written for the 2013 round of Kink Bingo. Kink: Class Fantasies
As a sixth year veteran of St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal
Boys, Severus Snape was an expert on shortcuts. St. Brutus's—or St. Brutal's,
as the boys of the senior school called it—was housed in a Highland castle,
which consisted of a seemingly infinite number of twisting corridors and
draughty staircases hung together with crumbling brick. Over the years, large
portions of the building had been boarded up for the sake of security and the
heating bill, and what remained was an archipelago of classrooms and
dormitories interspersed with dead ends and locked doors.
Some of the shortcuts were well-known. There was the unused cloakroom on the
ground floor that ran straight through from the central corridor to the west,
and there was the third-floor stairway that looked as if it should only lead to
the barred entrance to the junior school, but which had an extra door off the
landing that opened onto the music room. The dining hall saw nearly as much
traffic in between class bells as it did at mealtimes, and you could always
spot fresh meat by the way they would arrive in the Science lab by the main
door instead of by the courtyard.
Other shortcuts were more subtle. For example, on this particular spring
Sunday, just after Chapel, Severus was making his way down the corridor with a
bucket in hand. The bucket contained a rag and a spray bottle and had been
liberated from the downstairs supply cupboard, to which Severus had been
granted access owing to his status as a prefect and a building monitor.
He was careful not to walk too briskly or too slowly, but rather with the
slightly reluctant gait of a student on an errand. So it was that he proved
entirely invisible to Professor Binns and Professor Flitwick, who were speaking
together outside the English room, and though Professor McGonagall looked up
when he passed her office, he was not delayed with any inconvenient questions.
Building monitor had not been Severus's first choice of assignments. He'd had
his heart set on being the library monitor, but due to his interrupted fifth
year, the job had gone instead to Lupin, whom Severus suspected was only going
to piss on all of the books the next time he went off his medication. There
were some advantages to his current role, however. For instance, he knew when
and where the teachers patrolled, and he knew from the caretaker's diary when
surprise inspections were planned, and he happened to know that the corridors
were cleaned on Mondays.
He halted just past the French room and reached behind the painting of a
seascape to retrieve his cigarettes. A left, a right, and a flight of stairs
brought him to a deserted alcove, where he removed his lighter from his shoe
and lit a fag. He turned the bucket upside down and stood on it, brought up to
the level of the high, narrow windows. He manoeuvred his fingers between the
iron bars to open the latch, and he blew the smoke outside so that the smell
wouldn't linger.
Three storeys below, he could see Mr. Filch, the senior school caretaker,
working on the van. It was parked outside the carriage house with the bonnet
up, and even though the afternoon was cool enough for Severus's breath to steam
in the air alongside the smoke, Filch had his coat off and his shirtsleeves
rolled up. Severus watched him for a while, the way he might watch an ant
carrying a leaf.
Filch wasn't all that much to look at, objectively speaking, but in a place
where an enterprising student could sell baking chocolate and jelly powder
pinched from the pantry for nearly as much as cigarettes, standards were
inevitably relaxed. He was middle-aged and ordinary-looking, with a face made
for scowling, and his shoulders were wide and his arms well-muscled and he had
an enormous prick.
There wasn't any telly at St. Brutal's. Severus had learned to make his own
entertainment.
He gazed down at Filch's broad back and inhaled the smoke slowly as he traced
the cold iron with his fingertips. The headmaster was in favour of removing the
bars, or so Filch had said, disapprovingly. Professor Dumbledore had also been
behind installing the new trophy case, which was made of real glass, and of
allowing steak knives in the dining room, even if they were counted after every
meal. He wanted to change the name of the centre too—or at least the "Incurably
Criminal" part.
'Thinks because he's a doctor he can do what he pleases,' Filch was fond of
grumbling. Severus had attempted to explain to him that Professor Dumbledore
had a doctorate in Psychology, which was not the same thing as being a doctor,
but it didn't seem to have made an impression.
Severus was personally in favour of amending the name if it was going to be
divulged on his university applications. After all, he himself was already
cured, and he had a copy of Professor McGonagall's letter to prove it.
He had been eleven years old the first time he was sent to St. Brutal's, after
the business with the deadly nightshade and his father's whisky. To his
surprise, he had found he quite liked reformatory life. The classes were far
better than those on offer at Cokeworth Primary School, not to mention the
revelation the library had presented. The food was plentiful, and the rules
were clear, and people rarely pretended to be any nicer than they were.
With good behaviour and consideration for the failure of his murder attempt, he
had been released after four years. He knew the difference between right and
wrong, Professor McGonagall’s letter said. He was capable of exercising self-
restraint and making constructive life choices.
Of course, he had found his way back within six months, but that was entirely a
matter of practicality, not recidivism. As he had said, an education at St.
Brutal’s was far more rigorous than any offered in Cokeworth, and there was the
school prize to boot—a bursary for each year’s top student accepted to post-
secondary study. Planning for the future was an integral part of making
constructive life choices.
Filch finally spotted him, shading his eyes as he frowned up at the window.
Severus blew out a long plume of smoke. His stomach tightened. He held Filch's
gaze for a long moment until he won and Filch looked away in defeat. The bonnet
of the van slammed shut. Severus climbed down and sat, stretching his legs out
in front of him.
He didn't have to wait very long. It was a hard habit to break, tensing at the
sound of footsteps, but he crossed his ankles and leaned back against the wall
as if he hadn't heard a thing. His eyes were half-shut, and he took a long drag
from his cigarette as Filch rounded the corner.
Sometimes he worried that Filch was going to have a heart attack one of these
days. His face was presently very red, and his grey eyes were very wide, and he
looked as if he had seen a ghost. Severus rather liked that; a ghost was a
different sort of monster entirely. That said, if Filch dropped dead, there
would probably be an investigation. They would look through Filch's rooms,
where Severus was certain he had lost a sock. There would be questions. It
could prove awkward.
"Good morning, Mr. Filch," Severus said piously. He took another drag.
Filch's gaze narrowed. He stomped forward and plucked the fag from between
Severus's lips.
"I could write you up for this," he said crossly. He stubbed the fag out
against the wall, only a few inches from Severus's ear. "That's five stripes
off your backside the next time the magistrate's in."
Severus didn't flinch; he had practice. He rolled his eyes and then made a
certain tight-mouthed expression that he understood communicated moderate
remorse.
"Sorry," he said. He wasn't, but he would be even less sorry in three weeks
when Magistrate McLaird came for his monthly visit, so the point was moot.
Besides, while he wasn't afraid of a birching, he did not need the demerits on
his record.
It worked. Filch tucked the fag behind his ear and frowned down at him. "It's
not good for you," he muttered.
Severus was tempted to ask him if he thought it would stunt his growth, but he
held his tongue. He had the impression that "seventeen" was not the appeal for
Mr. Filch the way it was for Professor Slughorn, or even—in his strange, chaste
way—for the headmaster. Being reminded of Severus’s age seemed to make Filch
more twitchy than anything.
"I was bored," Severus said honestly enough. "I needed something to keep my
mouth busy."
He looked at Filch's zip and licked his lips.
Filch's face went even redder. His hands clenched. He took half a step back and
looked away. "Ought to be studying if you're bored. Is that history essay of
yours done?"
"I handed it in yesterday," Severus said. It was never wise to leave finished
work lying around, even with a semi-private bedroom.
"You've got time for cleaning, then," Filch said, although he sounded neither
convincing nor convinced.
Here was another shortcut: the one that ran through Filch's rooms, and the dark
and empty metalwork shop, and maybe today, the nearest supply cupboard.
"After," Severus said. Not that he had any intention of spending his Sunday
with a scrub brush.
He stood up in the scant space between Filch and the wall and leaned back
invitingly. His index finger slipped in between two of Filch's shirt buttons.
Filch moved in at the smallest tug, as if Severus could drag him around with
one finger. He was warm and heavy as he pressed Severus against the wall.
It didn't take much for Severus to get hard, and he had half a stiffy with just
a little wiggling against Filch's solid frame. He liked the way that Filch
smelled—like somebody else's father. Like old-fashioned aftershave in the
morning, and like lager when he came back from the pub on his night off, and at
the moment like motor oil and the outdoors.
"Please?" Severus asked, as though Filch would be doing him a personal favour
by letting him suck his prick.
"Shh." Filch glanced about nervously.
Severus waited out the moment of indecision. It never lasted long, not since
the first time.
"In here," Filch finally said, his grip finding Severus's elbow as he led him
to the cupboard.
Even this door had a lock, for all that no one but Severus wanted to pinch
paper. It was ridiculous, really. If you were going to stab someone with a
pencil, you could just as well use your own. Filch shut the door near-silently
behind them and then turned the bolt. Severus braced himself against the
shelves and loosened his tie.
Filch's hands found his waist in the dark. His lips fumbled over Severus's
cheek before landing on his mouth. Kissing was hard to come by at St. Brutal's.
Handjobs and blowjobs were commonly traded among the boys, and even buggery if
you could find a secluded spot and pay someone off to stand watch. Kissing was
for fairies, however, and no one wanted to be a fairy at St. Brutal's. You were
put under Special Supervision if you were a fairy, and if you didn't watch
yourself, you would get sent off to Grimmauld Children's Home with the hustlers
and the perverts.
Severus parted his lips gladly. He rather liked kissing, and the logic of it
somehow being poofier than cocksucking seemed spurious. It was hard and urgent,
like being eaten alive, and the thrust of Filch's tongue against his own was
accompanied by a thorough feeling-up. His jumper was rucked up and his shirt
and vest tugged loose from his trousers. He squirmed in pleasure as Filch's
callused palms stroked over his stomach and back and sides.
His own caresses were more precise. His right hand slid up Filch's thigh and
over his stomach while the left inched down and closed around the key ring
hanging from Filch's belt. He held the keys in a tight grasp to keep them from
jingling and rubbed Filch's prick through his trousers to divert his attention.
Filch’s prick was substantial even when soft, and Severus traced the full
length of the impressive endowment as he pinched the clasp on the key ring and
eased it free.
"Christ," Filch whispered, shoving his hand down the back of Severus's pants.
"You'll be the death of me."
Severus allowed a moment’s groping and then dropped to his knees, keys in hand.
Air and shadows stirred as Filch unzipped his flies and got his prick
out—hastily, like he thought Severus might change his mind.
As it happened, Severus actually liked this part. Sucking off a grown man was
more entertaining than fooling around with boys his age. Filch's prick wasn't
up and squirting and done in thirty seconds. Not only did it provide a bigger
mouthful, but it took its time—could last while Severus came at least twice—so
really, it kept Severus out of worse trouble by distracting him with lesser
sins when the boredom set in.
He rubbed his cheek along the warm length and licked it slowly, feeling it rise
under his tongue. His fingertips traced the shape of the keys. Small. Rounded
top. Equally spaced teeth. He worked the pantry key off the ring.
Filch's breathing covered the sound of metal sliding along metal. His hands
were all over, here and there, tugging at Severus's collar, fitting around his
neck, playing with his hair. It felt good. This too was different from fooling
around with his fellow students. It made the twisted wire in his spine unwind a
little. It made his eyelids heavy and his prick strain at his zip.
He started sucking in earnest. The stretch of his jaw was curiously satisfying,
and so was the fullness at the back of his mouth. He eased the clip back onto
Filch's belt. The pantry key went into his own pocket, and then he got a hand
into his trousers, pulling at himself as his arousal sharpened. Filch's prick
was jutting straight out now, heavy and hot and wet all over with Severus's
spit.
There was a sound.
Severus froze, and so did Filch. The tap of footsteps on the stairs was barely
audible, but it was the shape of the sound as much as the volume that alerted
them. Filch's hand tightened abruptly around his shoulder. Severus held still,
his mouth full. If he were stupid, he might have been tempted to tease—to rub
his tongue and hollow his cheeks to make Filch squirm. He had no desire,
however, to be discovered on his knees with the caretaker's prick halfway down
his throat.
He swallowed very carefully when the urge to dribble threatened. Filch
twitched. The footsteps continued on their way up to the fourth floor without
pausing.
Filch breathed out slowly, and Severus waited a second longer to make entirely
certain before carrying on. Distantly, he was aware that his heart was beating
slightly faster. Common sense said that he should look out for himself and
finish up while he could. His fingers curled tighter around his prick, stroking
quickly as he bobbed his head. The taste, the weight on his tongue, the rhythm
and the squeeze at the back of his neck—that and ten good passes of his hand
were all he needed. The rush of release broke forth, and for just a moment all
was quiet in his mind.
He didn't make a sound save for a pause in his breathing, but his mouth
faltered, and that was enough for Filch to take notice.
"Did you come?" Filch whispered, breathing heavily. He sounded excited. He
seemed to care that Severus enjoyed himself, as though he took credit for it,
even when Severus was only wanking. It was annoying.
Severus frowned in irritation and let Filch's prick pop out of his mouth. "Give
me your handkerchief," he said. He refrained from adding 'or else,' undecided
as he was whether it would be fitting punishment to stop entirely or just wipe
his hand off on Filch's trousers.
Filch reached into his pocket; Severus heard the key ring jingle reassuringly.
The handkerchief was passed down in quick enough order that Severus cleaned his
hand without further comment and got back to work. He went a little slower now,
still tingling a little and feeling warm and satisfied as he always did for
that brief bit of pleasure right after coming. He followed the faint nudge of
Filch's fingers as they urged him back and forth. He sucked harder, the wet
sounds smacking wickedly in the dark. Filch's breathing grew to panting, quick
and dirty like a dog. His fingers pressed harder at the back of Severus's
head—more, faster.
Severus took in as much as he could when Filch finally came, and he felt the
first spurt of spunk slide down his throat. His lips closed tighter, greedy,
and he made certain to get the rest of it on his tongue. He liked the taste,
nasty though it was. Salty, slick, sort of like he had once imagined blood to
be.
"Christ, boy," Filch was whispering. "Jesus Christ..."
Severus did not let him catch his breath. He wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand, fixed his shirt and trousers with practiced efficiency, and got to
his feet. Filch reached for him clumsily, pulling him close and kissing him
again. Severus let him and then leaned his head on Filch's shoulder for a
moment. His hand stole up and lightly plucked the fag from behind Filch's ear.
"I forgot," he whispered once the fag was stowed away. "There's a maths test on
Monday. I ought to go study."
With that, he kissed Filch on the cheek and reached for the latch. It turned
with a sharp click, and then Severus slipped out of the cupboard back into the
narrow shafts of sunlight streaming down the corridor through the barred
window, leaving Filch zipping up frantically behind him.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!