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Argus Filch in the Hogwarts Staff Room with a Howler
Title: The Sound of His Voice
Author:alwaysasnapefan
Character: Argus Filch
Location: Hogwarts staff room
Object: Howler
Other Characters: Lucius Malfoy (indirectly)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Some semi-violent thoughts.
Word Count: 1,012
The Sound of His Voice
He was a goner as soon as he opened the first one, because, horror of horrors, he hadn't looked at the information on it properly yet, which in retrospect would have been a good idea to do first anyway because he was, indeed, writing such information down to mark what was in each Howler, but the letter turned out to be Lucius Malfoy's and, oh, how he loved it when that man got to talking, and when he got to yelling, yes, that was even more magical.
"Dear Hogwarts Staff. . . YOU ARE A BUNCH OF FOOLS AND VAGRANTS," the first sentence sounded, and Argus Filch moaned softly.
"IF YOU CANNOT EVEN PROTECT MY IDIOT SON," continued the Howler.
"Yes," groaned Argus. He tossed his head. The sound of Lucius's voice always got to him especially. He'd always loved a good, rich pure-blood with a commanding presence and a voice like silk warmed by the fire, or blazing with the fire, maybe, either way it didn't matter. He willed the fingers of his free hand to stay put on his thigh, on his knee, some place remotely proper. His fingers shook as he wrote down the man's complaints, the writing shaking as well.
"AND, I WILL SAY IT AGAIN: A SCHOOL IS NO PLACE FOR SQUIBS, FRAUDS, AND HALF-GIANT OAFS—"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Malfoy, Sir," Filch grinned. Even he had to agree with the Squib thing—he was a disgrace to their world, after all, and he knew it. His hand slid carefully down and worked its way into his trousers and pants. He stroked just a fingertip over himself at first.
"—LET ALONE WEREWOLVES! To picture my child, my Draco, murdered in cold blood—"
Oh, the thought of bleeding, dead children! The year before, if Mrs. Norris hadn't been harmed as well, he would have rejoiced at the bratty little children finally getting what had been coming to them for their rule-breaking -- for the instances he was aware of and, Merlin on firewhisky, the ones he wasn't, the little sneaks. He cupped himself firmly in his hand, stroking slowly. His right hand's fingers still trembled on the quill and, though he was looking straight ahead and not down at the desk, he had a feeling the ink was forming a blot on the parchment, but, ah, there were more important things playing out at the moment.
"—from such a GRIEVOUS LACK OF JUDGMENT—"
"Oh, yes, it was, wasn't it?" murmured Filch. He stroked himself more firmly, dropping the quill to brace himself against the desk a bit. He began to move his hips, licking his lips as he imagined what sort of a foul, revolting picture he made. He reveled in that.
Lucius Malfoy loved civilized things. He hated creatures like house-elves who were lowly and self-hating, and he hated creatures that were stupid, like giants, and he hated creatures like werewolves who were untamed and snarling. Argus Filch had no delusions about himself—he was a Squib and he knew he was self-hating, stupid, and wild, and, by Rowena, if that poncy pure-blood knew, even for a moment, what he was doing to an old Squib with his rich tones of flaming silk, oh, Filch imagined he'd shut his prissy gob right away.
"THIS SIMPLY WILL NOT DO!"
"No, it won't . . . gotta have you," Argus groaned. His pace was punishing now as he stroked up and down, up and down, so quickly, and now, so close, so close, ah, it was so wrong and right and so, so at the present, in the now . . . Filch even suspected he wouldn't mind being caught, not while he was being so terribly dirty.
Lucius Malfoy continued to yell something, but, oh, he was having a hard time hearing now, so he yelled, over the lovely voice, "GOING TO POUND INTO YOUR ARSE, MAKE IT BLEED, TEAR YOU," and he panted and panted until he came, and as he came he was chanting, "Malfoy, Malfoy," until he couldn't chant anymore, and leaned his head against the cool wood of the desk he was supposed to be writing at.
He vaguely noticed the ending of the Howler, in normal tones once again, in which Lucius threatened to go to the board of governors like he had before.
"Do that, yes, do it, you little power whore," Filch muttered. If he had had the will to look up, the signature he would have seen on the Howler would have been perfect and prim, or at least he guessed so, had to settle for guessing, not knowing, because by the time he sat up, the Howler was gone, and all that remained was the quill, the ink, the parchment, and the mess he'd made all over himself and the corner of the staff room in which he'd set up shop.
It was at that moment he noticed he was not alone, and the man behind him flicked a wand to clean up the area.
"Perhaps we should assign someone else the job next time," said Snape carefully, looking utterly appalled, but not really knowing what else to say.
"I don't know, I rather enjoyed it," said Argus with a filthy, unabashed grin. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Snape curled his lip. He fixed up the ink blot on the parchment and then turned back toward the door, only pausing for a moment to look back. "First of all, you might want to tuck yourself back into your pants," he said with disdain, "and second of all, Lucius always tops."
Argus's eyebrows shot up. He watched the staunch professor walk away and wondered if — well, alright, he supposed, there really wasn't much "if" about it — wondered just how many times that pert, half-blood arse had been reamed by a pure-blood.
Interesting.
But, now, onto the next Howler. After all, it wasn't every day a teacher at Hogwarts was outed as a werewolf. Argus grinned again. "I loves it when they get howling mad," he announced to the empty room. "It gets me howlin' too."
Title: The Sound of His Voice
Author:
alwaysasnapefanCharacter: Argus Filch
Location: Hogwarts staff room
Object: Howler
Other Characters: Lucius Malfoy (indirectly)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Some semi-violent thoughts.
Word Count: 1,012
The Sound of His Voice
He was a goner as soon as he opened the first one, because, horror of horrors, he hadn't looked at the information on it properly yet, which in retrospect would have been a good idea to do first anyway because he was, indeed, writing such information down to mark what was in each Howler, but the letter turned out to be Lucius Malfoy's and, oh, how he loved it when that man got to talking, and when he got to yelling, yes, that was even more magical.
"Dear Hogwarts Staff. . . YOU ARE A BUNCH OF FOOLS AND VAGRANTS," the first sentence sounded, and Argus Filch moaned softly.
"IF YOU CANNOT EVEN PROTECT MY IDIOT SON," continued the Howler.
"Yes," groaned Argus. He tossed his head. The sound of Lucius's voice always got to him especially. He'd always loved a good, rich pure-blood with a commanding presence and a voice like silk warmed by the fire, or blazing with the fire, maybe, either way it didn't matter. He willed the fingers of his free hand to stay put on his thigh, on his knee, some place remotely proper. His fingers shook as he wrote down the man's complaints, the writing shaking as well.
"AND, I WILL SAY IT AGAIN: A SCHOOL IS NO PLACE FOR SQUIBS, FRAUDS, AND HALF-GIANT OAFS—"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Malfoy, Sir," Filch grinned. Even he had to agree with the Squib thing—he was a disgrace to their world, after all, and he knew it. His hand slid carefully down and worked its way into his trousers and pants. He stroked just a fingertip over himself at first.
"—LET ALONE WEREWOLVES! To picture my child, my Draco, murdered in cold blood—"
Oh, the thought of bleeding, dead children! The year before, if Mrs. Norris hadn't been harmed as well, he would have rejoiced at the bratty little children finally getting what had been coming to them for their rule-breaking -- for the instances he was aware of and, Merlin on firewhisky, the ones he wasn't, the little sneaks. He cupped himself firmly in his hand, stroking slowly. His right hand's fingers still trembled on the quill and, though he was looking straight ahead and not down at the desk, he had a feeling the ink was forming a blot on the parchment, but, ah, there were more important things playing out at the moment.
"—from such a GRIEVOUS LACK OF JUDGMENT—"
"Oh, yes, it was, wasn't it?" murmured Filch. He stroked himself more firmly, dropping the quill to brace himself against the desk a bit. He began to move his hips, licking his lips as he imagined what sort of a foul, revolting picture he made. He reveled in that.
Lucius Malfoy loved civilized things. He hated creatures like house-elves who were lowly and self-hating, and he hated creatures that were stupid, like giants, and he hated creatures like werewolves who were untamed and snarling. Argus Filch had no delusions about himself—he was a Squib and he knew he was self-hating, stupid, and wild, and, by Rowena, if that poncy pure-blood knew, even for a moment, what he was doing to an old Squib with his rich tones of flaming silk, oh, Filch imagined he'd shut his prissy gob right away.
"THIS SIMPLY WILL NOT DO!"
"No, it won't . . . gotta have you," Argus groaned. His pace was punishing now as he stroked up and down, up and down, so quickly, and now, so close, so close, ah, it was so wrong and right and so, so at the present, in the now . . . Filch even suspected he wouldn't mind being caught, not while he was being so terribly dirty.
Lucius Malfoy continued to yell something, but, oh, he was having a hard time hearing now, so he yelled, over the lovely voice, "GOING TO POUND INTO YOUR ARSE, MAKE IT BLEED, TEAR YOU," and he panted and panted until he came, and as he came he was chanting, "Malfoy, Malfoy," until he couldn't chant anymore, and leaned his head against the cool wood of the desk he was supposed to be writing at.
He vaguely noticed the ending of the Howler, in normal tones once again, in which Lucius threatened to go to the board of governors like he had before.
"Do that, yes, do it, you little power whore," Filch muttered. If he had had the will to look up, the signature he would have seen on the Howler would have been perfect and prim, or at least he guessed so, had to settle for guessing, not knowing, because by the time he sat up, the Howler was gone, and all that remained was the quill, the ink, the parchment, and the mess he'd made all over himself and the corner of the staff room in which he'd set up shop.
It was at that moment he noticed he was not alone, and the man behind him flicked a wand to clean up the area.
"Perhaps we should assign someone else the job next time," said Snape carefully, looking utterly appalled, but not really knowing what else to say.
"I don't know, I rather enjoyed it," said Argus with a filthy, unabashed grin. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Snape curled his lip. He fixed up the ink blot on the parchment and then turned back toward the door, only pausing for a moment to look back. "First of all, you might want to tuck yourself back into your pants," he said with disdain, "and second of all, Lucius always tops."
Argus's eyebrows shot up. He watched the staunch professor walk away and wondered if — well, alright, he supposed, there really wasn't much "if" about it — wondered just how many times that pert, half-blood arse had been reamed by a pure-blood.
Interesting.
But, now, onto the next Howler. After all, it wasn't every day a teacher at Hogwarts was outed as a werewolf. Argus grinned again. "I loves it when they get howling mad," he announced to the empty room. "It gets me howlin' too."