
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/304149.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Argus_Filch/Peter_Pettigrew
  Character:
      Peter_Pettigrew, Argus_Filch
  Additional Tags:
      Consent_Issues, Fanwork_of_Fanwork, Cross-Generation_Relationship
  Collections:
      Crossgenerational_Slash
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-12-07 Words: 1738
****** To The Letter ******
by pauraque
Summary
     Snow shoveled, detention served, but Filch doesn't send him away.
Notes
     A sequel to Delphi's wonderful fic "Kindred Spirits". I can only hope
     I did it justice.
     Thanks to Caesia for the excellent beta.
  This work was inspired by
      Kindred_Spirits by Delphi
Peter's icy fingers hurt as he clasps his hands around the mug of hot cocoa,
but he holds them there, wanting them to thaw. Filch locks the door, locks out
the windblown snow and the dreadful chill of dusk. And he turns, looks at
Peter. Seems to study him, eyes never still. There's something in his look that
Peter can't put a name to, but it makes his snow-numb toes curl up inside his
boots.
'It's all right,' Filch says after a moment. His voice is rough and swallowed-
up, like he's not used to saying something kind. 'Drink up.'
Peter is suddenly aware that his mouth is hanging open, and he snaps it shut.
He lifts the mug with both hands and sips. The chocolate's searing hot over his
tongue, and after that there's a different kind of burn at the back of his
throat, a sharp smell he didn't notice at first. He remembers the bottle of
whiskey James nicked from the kitchens that one Christmas.
It warms Peter's insides, and he drinks again more deeply, letting the foam
come up over his lip. He looks across the table at Filch's windowsill, dusty
and lined with strange trinkets. A seashell. A rusty bell that looks like it
came from a cat's collar. Peter can feel Filch's eyes on him all the time.
He places the mug down on the table and starts to say thank-you, or may-I-go-
now, or maybe something else, but before he can get it out, Filch is standing
beside him, over him.
'You've got&#x2014;' Filch starts hoarsely, and then his hard, dry hand is on
Peter's cheek, and his thumb gently passes over Peter's upper lip. Lingers
there. Then he raises his hand to his own mouth, and licks off the bit of hot-
cocoa foam. Peter sits very still, not sure what he's meant to do, not sure
whether this is strange.
'Important to keep clean,' Filch says.
*
Filch's bed isn't as soft as the ones in the dormitory, and his sheets are old
and pilled. Somehow he never thought about Filch having a bed. Peter is on his
back, and Filch is lying propped up on his elbow beside him, undoing Peter's
tie with one hand. Peter feels it slither round the back of his neck as Filch
pulls it loose, and he shivers. Filch is looking at him the whole time, and
this close, Peter can see all the wrinkles around his yellow-flecked eyes.
Filch rolls forward a bit to start working on the buttons of Peter's shirt, and
Peter can feel that Filch has got a hard-on in his trousers, bumping warm and
heavy against Peter's thigh.
'Don't worry, boy,' Filch murmurs, and strokes the front of Peter's shirt for a
moment, like petting a cat.
It's funny having Filch all pressed up against him this way. His body is thin
and sharp, and he's not really someone you're supposed to be this close to. He
smells of dust and silver-polish, and in the quiet, Peter can hear the little
wheeze at the end each time he breathes. Peter's palms are sweating; he rubs
his fingertips over them.
When Filch gets Peter's shirt off, he touches him. His hard callused hand
caresses over Peter's soft belly, and he jerks, ticklish. Filch grins a bit at
that, teeth crooked and yellow. He tickles Peter deliberately then, fingertips
scrabbling below Peter's belly-button; Peter lets out a little yelp of laughter
and tries to squirm away, grabbing reflexively at Filch's hand. They wrestle
briefly, and Filch laughs, a deep dry chuckle.
Filch stops and lets him catch his breath, and they're just looking at each
other. Filch is breathing hard too, and his eyes are bright. Then Filch closes
his eyes and slides his palm up to Peter's chest&#x2014; with a flush of
embarrassment, Peter wonders if Filch is imagining he's a girl&#x2014; and rubs
his thumb over Peter's soft pink nipple. Peter's breath catches and he arches
his back; he touches himself like that while he wanks, sometimes, and he's
getting stiff now, face growing warm again.
Then suddenly Filch is leaning up close and his mouth is on Peter's, the skin
around his lips rough like sandpaper, and his tongue&#x2014; slimy and strange.
This is Peter's first kiss, and he was really starting to think he would never
have one, that no-one would ever want him (that ache deep down when he sees
James and Lily laughing arms around each other by the lake)&#x2014; Peter
kisses back desperately, not because he likes it but because he's supposed to,
because it needs to be right. Filch's hand slides down as they kiss, over
Peter's erection through his trousers.
'Ohmygod,' Peter squeaks into Filch's mouth, though he doesn't mean to.
'Please&#x2014;'
Filch pulls back, a grin of surprise curling his wet, reddened lips. His eyes
are gleaming. 'Well, well...' he says softly. 'Eager, are we?'
Their hands bump together as they both move to the buttons of Peter's trousers
at the same time. Filch chuckles again, and pushes Peter's hand away.
'Lift up,' he says, nudging Peter's hip with his knuckles, and Peter obeys;
Filch pulls his trousers and underpants down and off. Now that he's been out of
the cold for a while, now that he's naked, Peter realises it isn't warm in here
after all, and he shivers, getting gooseflesh.
Filch's gnarled hand pushes Peter's soft pale thighs apart and strokes his
penis, hard against his belly. Peter grunts and wriggles&#x2014; he's never
felt a touch there but his own hand, and it's&#x2014; he's not in control
anymore, can't use just the right amount of pressure, the way he always
does&#x2014; Filch strokes him lightly, fingertips lingering to tease just
under the head of his dick, grinning as he watches Peter writhe.
'Oh&#x2014; please&#x2014;!'
Peter can't help it, he reaches down to touch himself&#x2014; and quick as a
flash Filch is up on his knees and he's got both Peter's wrists clutched in one
wiry hand. He pins Peter's arms up above his head, and Peter isn't fighting but
he's never felt more naked, miles of soft skin all right there to be touched
however Filch might want. Filch's face is half-shadowed and his hair hanging
down in strings, and Peter's heart is pounding.
'Don't trouble yourself,' Filch says, trailing one knuckle up the side of
Peter's aching erection, and it's sort of a growl but there's some kind of
smile in his voice too. 'Allow me.'
'Ohgod,' comes trembling out of Peter's mouth without his meaning it to, and he
twists his legs together, pulls at Filch's grip on his wrists.
Filch clucks his tongue and shakes his head, rubbing at the very tip of Peter's
dick. 'Now, now... do as I say, lad. Don't want to have to muck up those
manacles after you polished 'em up so pretty.'
Peter doesn't know if Filch is joking or not, doesn't know if he's more scared
or excited, but he lies still and spreads his legs, staring and breathing open-
mouthed. It's only then that Filch wraps his fingers around, presses hard at
the base and rubs, and Peter twists hard and comes in Filch's hand and all over
his own belly.
Peter shuts his eyes and breathes, Filch's palm warm around his dick as it
softens.
Warm, wet breath in his ear: 'Good... good. Now we've got to make it perfect,
boy.'
Peter opens his eyes, and Filch is taking off his trousers. Filch's cock is
bigger than Peter's, dark and heavy-looking and veined. Peter is embarrassed by
that, but excited too. Filch's hips are narrow and bony, and his legs are
scattered with dark hair.
Filch pulls himself up to sit against the headboard, his cock bobbing stiffly
as he moves. A spurt of anxiety in Peter's stomach&#x2014; he doesn't know what
he's meant to do.
'Come here. Just here.' Filch pats the mattress between his legs, and Peter
crawls over obediently on hands and knees.
'Now...' Filch says, caressing Peter's hair, damp from sweat and melted snow.
'...you're just going to take me in your mouth. Gentle. Wet your lips.' The
same careful way he tells Peter how to polish the armour or shovel the snow.
Doesn't leave things unsaid, doesn't give Peter a chance to feel stupid.
Peter does as he's told, and Filch's cock is heavy in his mouth and tastes of
salt and something sharper, and there's a yeasty smell like bread.
'Use your tongue, now...' Filch says, and Peter can feel the vibration of his
voice. 'Never your teeth. Yes...'
Peter does as he's told, and this is his second kiss, kissing the slick head of
Filch's cock, sucking lightly and feeling the veins move under his tongue.
'Perfect,' Filch breathes. 'Just like that.' He rocks his hips forward and
back, and Peter learns the rhythm. 'Look at you. So...' And Filch runs his palm
over Peter's shoulder, over his back. 'You've got to swallow it when I come,'
he says in a firmer voice. 'You&#x2014;'
And then Filch stops talking and just groans and holds Peter's head, and starts
pushing rougher into his mouth until he lets out a cry and pushes in so hard
Peter chokes, mouth flooding with hot salt. And Peter does as he's told and
swallows and swallows while Filch clutches his hair in his fist.
*
Filch sits on the bed and watches Peter as he gets dressed.
'You can come to me,' Filch says, voice rough again. Peter pauses and looks at
him questioningly. 'Don't have to wait till you get a detention. You can come
and visit me here, of a night.'
Peter nods quickly and stumbles over his good-byes, and goes back out into the
cold.
*
It's late now; the castle is quiet as Peter goes up the tower steps, as he
comes into the dormitory. He tip-toes past the three occupied beds, and into
the bathroom.
Once the door is shut, he puts on the light and looks at himself in the
mirror&#x2014; hair messy and clothes dishevelled. Will they be able to tell?
Will they smell it on him, his orgasm, Filch's skin?
He's never kept a secret from them before. But this isn't for them to know.
He smiles tentatively at his reflection.
Peter brushes his teeth and gets in the shower, scrubs hard under the near-
scalding stream. It's important to keep clean, he thinks.
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