Snape's Favorite Student

When Argus Filch returned to his office, he found a folded Ravenclaw uniform on his desk. He raised an eyebrow. He drew closer and noticed the scrap of parchment that had been placed next to it, and picked it up. With a disapproving frown, he kept hold of it for another moment after the initial read, and then he slowly began to obey.

He felt disconcertingly nervous, and a bit ridiculous, as he stood outside the door to the Potions classroom. The door opened suddenly, startling him, and the younger man was in front of him, saying, "Come in, Mister Filch."

"Yes, Professor." He kept his voice low.

"Welcome to my detention. You will start by scrubbing out these cauldrons." Argus shivered at the tone of voice. "You should be used to it by now, no doubt," he said with disdain.

He nodded submissively. His yellowish eyes peered up at Snape, his teacher, and then he looked back down at his feet. He made his way over to the cauldrons. He took the dingy scrub brush and the bucket from Snape's hands, and sighed, getting to work. He knew he was being watched, and a couple times he threw an inquiring look over his own shoulder. Snape would merely raise an eyebrow superiorly in reply.

"Is . . . that good enough . . . Professor, sir?" He showed him the inside of the cauldron.

Snape eyed his work in silence, taking the cauldron from him. "Adequate. Certainly more quickly finished than most of these idiots, a majority of who have never done a real day's work in their life. Good job, Mister Filch. Five points to Ravenclaw."

He felt an inexplicable rush of just . . . being . . . pleased. With himself. He almost felt like a real student of Hogwarts. He grinned at Snape, his professor, with stained teeth. Snape smiled softly back.

"Well, since you've finished so early, I think I'll make you write lines."

Filch nodded. He sat down in one of the chairs as Snape arranged some ink, parchment, and a quill in front of him.

"Write, Mister Filch, 'I will not proposition a teacher.'" Argus arched an eyebrow and scratched at his short, brown and grey hair. "Please. Do not make me repeat myself. It is bad enough your presence requires I be here. If you weren't such a naughty child," Filch's breath caught as he was called naughty so sensuously, "I wouldn't have to assign you such detentions."

"I understand, sir," he whispered.

"Write it fifty times, and then come and show me. And make sure you've counted correctly—a Ravenclaw should well be past having to be told how to count."

He nodded, writing. He got to fifty after a while, his hand starting to cramp. Maybe it would have been easier if he hadn't been forced to write so small, having no more parchment. He stood in front of Snape's desk, where Snape was reading a text. He cleared his throat to get the man's attention.

"What?"

"Fifty times, sir."

"Read them aloud," said Snape, looking back down at the text.

Filch scowled, but did so. "I will not proposition a teacher . . . ." all the way to number fifty.

"Alright," said Snape, taking the parchment from him. "Now, can you tell me why you are not supposed to proposition a teacher?"

"It's illegal?" Snape shook his head with an evil smirk. "It . . . I don't know, professor," he said after a moment.

Snape stood. "Dear boy," he started, and Argus shivered again as he advanced, "You are not supposed to proposition a teacher because it is the teacher's job to proposition you."

"Oof!" was the sound Argus made as he hit the floor. And Snape's mouth was on his face, kissing him as if he were a loyal Death Eater kissing Voldemort's robes. He nosed at the tie with that sharp nose ("You look good in blue, Mister Filch."), loosened it a bit, but did not remove it. He parted the shirt and ran fingers delicately over his torso, looking at the body with a hunger Filch himself could not explain. He was gaining some pounds; his skin was losing its elasticity. And yet . . . Snape looked at him as if he were a young student, utterly ravishable and full of youth and vivacity. Snape seemed utterly enchanted by his old, squib body, and if that didn't make him hard, no thought would.

"On your knees, you slut," said Snape, and his jaw dropped at the term. He'd never heard such filth fall from the professor's lips. Hands were at the clasp of his pants. "Fine, then. You stand, and I'll get on my knees, and I'll lick you."

"Cripes, Professor," said Filch with a moan. Snape in professor mode was such an aphrodisiac that Filch almost wondered if he actually did this with any of his students.

Snape shook his head as he pulled Filch to his feet. "You, Mister Filch, are my favorite student."

And so he was up, and then Snape was down, and he didn't even have time to truly process what Snape had just professed before he was licked once, then twice, and then thoroughly licked all over—all over!—and then truly sucked, and he was going weak at his aging knees, threading calloused, working fingers through hair dark as night and greasy as Mrs. Scower's Magical Mess Remover, and he was groaning and unable to think of anything above one word, one idea, which was "More."

But he was denied his release, groaning a rough, whiny, "Whyyyy?"

Snape looked amused at the tone of voice. "Well," he said, "I had something else in mind."

"What?" he said, fighting the urge to reach down and fist himself until he had come all over Snape's black robes and earned another detention.

"Mister Filch," he cooed in that dangerous "you've just answered wrong and you have absolutely no idea what I'm going to say, you imbecile, do you?" teacher voice.

"Mm?"

A hand ran across his backside. "Are you a virgin?"

Filch froze. "Wh-what?!" he spluttered. He tensed and backed away a bit.

"A valid question," said the man in that dangerous, silky tone. He reached down and undid his own trousers. He let them fall, and then removed his briefs, but by then Filch was already salivating.

"You can taste this," Snape said reassuringly. "The question is, though, dear Ravenclaw, whether you want to taste it with your lips or with your arse."

There was dead silence.

"Come here." Filch did not move. Snape sighed and moved closer, slipping his wand into his colleague's hand.

Filch shot him a hurt look. "You know I can't—"

Snape placed his hand over Filch's and pointed the wand at one of the student desks. It transformed into a plain, white mattress with only sheets on top. "Impressive work, Mister Filch. Extra points for cleverness."

Even though it wasn't him, and they both knew that, he couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. "I learnt from the best," he said with a soft smile, looking at the place where their hands were joined on Snape's wand.

Snape led him over to the bed with the hand he had over Filch's, and they situated themselves on top of the mattress. "Even I won't hurt a child when it comes to sex."

His breath caught at the word coming from those thin, unattractive lips. Lips he'd come to love. Another swish of the wand and their clothes had moved to the floor at the foot of the bed . . . all except the tie. Snape was a weird one, alright. Argus grinned to himself.

Snape conjured some lubricant, and, just like the times before, Argus could feel—oh he could, he could!—the magic rippling through the wand, just slightly. The feeling made him tremble in anticipation. "We won't be needing magic anymore, Mr. Filch." He removed his hand from the equation, and Filch tossed the wand over the side of the bed.

Snape's fingers danced across his body, tickling and arousing. He eventually reached the erection again. "3 points to Ravenclaw for your patience," he said, eyes glittering almost fanatically as he viewed the dark, throbbing shaft. He stroked it carefully, and his other hand was all slick with lube. He pressed a finger to Filch's hole, and he stared him down as if to say "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

He stroked him faster, his fingers—now there were two—stretching the entrance.

"I . . . don't know if I like this," he said, imploring Snape to let them do it the normal way, with him doing all the penetration. Snape's brow furrowed and he started changing the angle of his fingers' thrusts. "What are you—oh you cunt, what did you . . . ."

Snape's smirk was truly wicked. "Spread a little more—good. Now, give me a sec...," he greased up his shaft, "and . . . here." He pushed against Argus until he slid in.

"Erg . . . ."

"Sh." He pressed in farther and farther . . . .

"Oh, hold still."

He paused for a moment, waiting, and then he seemed to think it was okay to start moving again. He pushed into him even more, hands moving to clutch at hips that were certainly not a teenager's. "Tight," commented Snape, stroking at the left side of the hip. "Very nice."

"Ohhhh," Filch groaned.

Carefully, he waited until the passage seemed to adjust, and then he pulled back a bit, and thrust in once more. He changed the angle—where was the blasted thing again?—and then when he found it, he moaned aloud, though it was covered up by the frantic sound Filch made. That's more or less when he lost control, and started fucking Filch erratically, fucking him into the mattress "they" conjured. Filch shot first, in an arc that looked too good to be true, and Snape kept going until his own release finally arrived as well.

"This won't feel good," he warned, and pulled out slowly.

"Unn . . . ."

"Told you. Well anyway, I think this marks the end of our detention."

"Does that mean I have to proposition you again to get another?"

"Why don't you try it, Mister Filch," he said lovingly, "and we'll see what happens. 1,000 points to Ravenclaw."

"The house cup is ours for sure," Filch said with a grin.