Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/249707.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Argus_Filch/Original_Male_Character, Argus_Filch/Apollyon_Pringle
  Character:
      Argus_Filch, Apollyon_Pringle, Original_Male_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Smut, Dubious_Consent, Authority_Figures, Abuse_of_Authority, Object
      Insertion
  Series:
      Part 2 of Hard_Men
  Collections:
      Kink_Bingo_2011_(Round_Four)
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-09-05 Words: 1949
****** Up the Alley ******
by Delphi
Summary
     A young Argus Filch is caught out after curfew.
Notes
     Written for the 2011 round of Kink Bingo. Kink: "Authority Figures"
It was well past midnight when Jim McKinnon caught sight of Apollyon Pringle's
pup skulking through the streets of Hogsmeade, and if on any other night it
would be none of his business what mischief a mate's weedy little apprentice
was up to, tonight was the exception.
“You there!” he called out from across the main thoroughfare. “Arse over here,
now!”
You couldn't count on Aurors in Hogsmeade. They were city folk—worse,
Londoners—and they weren't to be trusted to know the goings-on up in Hogsmeade.
So they had the volunteer constabulary to keep an eye on things. Patrol the
streets, break up the odd brawl, look after anyone sleeping rough, and all the
other everyday troubles the Aurors couldn't be arsed with. Jim himself had made
sergeant some years back. He might not be much with a wand, but he was an
upstanding local business owner who could break down a beef carcass in under
ten minutes, and he wasn't above knocking heads when the situation called for
it.
The lad had heard him, all right. He'd halted where he was, his pale eyes
perfectly round and startled. Maybe if Jim had been in civvies, the lad would
have chanced running, but at the crook of gloved fingers, he came slinking
across the street, his shoulders hunched and his expression guilty.
Jim caught him by the ear when he was in reach. “Your master know you're out
and about?”
“...yes?” The lad was a bloody awful liar.
A clip around the ear sorted that out. “Care to try that again?”
“No,” the lad said sulkily, then smartened up. “Didn't tell him, sir.”
That was better. “What're you up to, out this late?”
The lad hesitated, his shoulders hunching even further. “Went to Aberdeen.”
“Aberdeen? Skived off to the city without your master knowing?”
Even in the faint glow of the streetlamps, he could see the lad's cheeks go
red. With a wiggle, the lad extricated himself from Jim's grasp. He didn't run,
though. He only fidgeted, then licked his lips and breathed out in a great
rush: “I'll suck your cock if you don't snitch on me.”
Jim nearly laughed aloud. Bloody hell, Polly must have his hands full with this
one. He managed to keep his expression stern, however, and he grabbed the lad
by the collar and dragged him into the nearest alleyway, into the shadows. “Is
that what you were doing in Aberdeen?” he asked, his mouth against the lad's
ear. He could smell ale on him, but nothing stronger. “Sucking cock?”
The lad shook his head. “Wasn't.”
Jim crowded him up against the wall. The lad was hot-blooded for such a scrawny
little whippet. The warmth of him made its way through the chill, heating Jim
up in turn. Polly would cut his stones off if he took the lad up on the offer,
but there was no saying he couldn't have a little fun doing his job. “Doing
worse, then? Thieving, maybe? Peddling your arse for poppy or hex?”
“Wasn't,” the lad insisted sulkily. “Just wanted to see the city, didn't I.”
Jim had done it himself as a lad, of course. They all had. As soon as the leash
had any slack in it, you hopped a train to Aberdeen or Edinburgh or even to
London for a night, and you got pissed and bought some French postcards or
maybe hired a prozzie if you had coin and balls enough, and then you tried to
sneak in before sunrise. Of course, just because they all did it, and their
masters had done it before them, didn't mean it would be stood for.
“Turn around,” he said. “Hands on the wall. Let's see what you've been up to.”
The lad obeyed, his pale hands—still half-smooth as a girl's—pressing flat to
the bricks.
“Feet apart, you little miscreant,” Jim said, punctuating this with a sharp
kick to the lad's boots.
Spread out against the wall, the lad looked even more runty, swimming in a
hand-me-down coat. Jim couldn't help but wonder if Polly ever had the little
brat like this, all braced and fidgeting, legs spread wide. Nah, probably not.
Like him, Polly probably had about six inches on the lad. He'd have to bend him
over, maybe get him down on hands and knees, or even put him on his back with
his knees around his ears and take him like a lass.
He licked his lips, getting good and warm as he pressed close and dug through
the lad's coat. “Tsk,” he said, confiscating a pack of cigarettes. Then his
hands slipped into the lad's trouser pockets. It was a tight fit, and the lad
sucked in a hard breath as Jim made a thorough check. There was nothing but a
few coins and what proved to be a shredded beer label, but he traced every inch
of each pocket, and then the dip of the lad's narrow hipbones.
“Please,” the lad murmured, something strained and embarrassed in his voice,
and Jim didn't have to look to know that the little pervert was getting hard.
“What are you hiding, hm?” he said, crouching and starting a proper pat-down.
He took his time, fingers slipping down into the lad's boots, then feeling
their way up skinny legs. The street was deserted and they were out of the
range of prying eyes. No hurry.
Ankles, calves, then knees. When he reached the thighs, the lad's legs start to
shake. He squeezed them hard, then stood up and made a lengthy investigation of
the lad's backside. Bloody hell, he might have a face like a slapped arse, but
he had a pert little arse that any man would like to slap. His hands then moved
to the lad's wrists, working inwards. Those arms were putting on muscle, but he
was still narrow in the shoulders and chest. Stiff nipples poked at the thin
fabric of the lad's shirt, and Jim patted at them far more than was necessary,
making the lad's breath come out in a shiver.
Down a hollow stomach, then bumping up against an impressive hard-on. He
managed to keep back a chuckle. “What have you got down there?”
The lad looked over his shoulder, one eye visible, narrowed impertinently as if
to say 'What do you think?'
“Eyes front.” He drew his truncheon and gave the lad a light smack on the hip,
just hard enough to hopefully leave a bruise.
A yelp was all the backtalk he got, and he let it slide, more interested in
giving the lad a good grope between the legs.
“Oh...” The lad pushed forward into his hand, frotting like a randy pup.
He pressed the tip of the truncheon behind the lad's stones, pushing until he
heard a whimper, and then he reached for the lad's belt.
“Wait—“ the lad said, looking wildly at the street as if expecting to see full
Quidditch stadium seating.
Jim gave him a firm prod with the truncheon. “Right now, lad, you're being what
we'd call co-operative. If you're giving me lip, though, I'm going to have to
take you in.”
“But someone could...” The lad took one hand off the wall, making a grab for
his trousers.
He smacked the lad on the hand, and the trousers fell all the way down. “You
think your master will drag himself out of bed to pay bond on your sorry arse?
We've got two constables down in the cells who won't be keen on having to watch
you all night. They'd pass you around like a bottle of whisky.”
The lad's breath caught, and his hand reluctantly returned to the wall.
The little tart could pretend to be horrified, but another pat proved that his
cock hadn't flagged one bit. Jim rubbed the truncheon along the length of it,
hard against harder. “Bet we've got a couple of drunks in there for the night
too. If they've been behaving themselves, I reckon the lads would let them at
you. Four, five loads up your tender little arse, or down your gullet if you're
lucky...”
A small sound eked from the lad's throat, and Jim could hear his fingernails
scrabbling at the wall.
“Awfully fidgety,” Jim said. “Ants in your pants?” He stepped back, admiring
the lad's arse, and then spread those pretty cheeks apart with his thumbs.
The lad moaned softly, his hips thrusting into empty air. Jim snorted,
remembering the age when you'd fuck a brick wall if you had to.
“Have you got something up there?” One of his thumbs rubbed over the lad's
entrance.
A violent shake of the head, but the lad didn't try to pull away.
“We'll see about that.” He rubbed at the pucker, pushing until the lad started
to open for him. Then he spat copiously on the end of the truncheon and forced
the end of it in.
The lad cried out, sharp and hot. Somewhere across the street, a light came on
in a window.
“If you don't keep quiet,” Jim said, sinking down to his knees, needing to
look, needing to see it close up, “it's going in all the way to the handle,
understand?”
“...uh-huh,” the lad said breathlessly, up on his toes and grasping at the
bricks.
Jim gave himself a rub through his trousers, then steadied the lad's hip.
Merlin, but it was a pretty sight: the thick, glossy piece of wood stretching
the lad wide. The lad was tighter than he'd figured, given Polly and his
appetites, and he could hardly get the truncheon in more than an inch, but that
seemed more than enough to satisfy the little trollop, who was rocking on his
heels, all but fucking himself on the thing as he gasped and hiccuped.
If he were a crueller man, Jim might have pulled it out right then, leaving the
lad hard and gaping, but there was a certain repentance in the lad's eager
submission. He probably could have pulled him down and fucked him raw on the
dirty ground and the lad wouldn't have done anything but show his throat. In
that moment he was tempted as hell, Polly be damned. He was a man of principle,
however, and so he only thrust the truncheon harder, giving the lad what he
wanted, angling it to scratch his itch just right until the lad was letting out
a soft, strangled cry, his hips hitching in an unmistakable rhythm.
Jim felt it for himself, his hand stealing around and stroking the lad's cock,
which was trembling, wet with come and not yet softened. He snorted, wiping his
hand off on the wall and then drawing out the truncheon and standing up. He
gave the lad a hard smack on the backside. “Now off with you, pup. Mind
yourself—and I'm keeping the ciggies.”
The lad scrambled to pull up his trousers and buckle his belt, and then he was
flying out of the alley, headed towards the castle. Whistling to himself, Jim
proceeded at a rather slower pace a few doors down to his shop and let himself
in. He built up the fire and then threw in a pinch of Floo powder and stuck his
head in.
“Oi!” he called and waited for several moments for the connection to open.
Apollyon Pringle glared down at him, obviously fresh from bed and in no good
humour. “It's fuck-all in the morning, Jimmy,” he said, rubbing the sleep from
his eyes. “This had better be good.”
“Just thought you'd want to know where that apprentice of yours was tonight,”
Jim said.
Really, he thought, it was for the lad's own good.
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