InsaneJournal

POEM: The Raven, Filch/Snape
Title: The Raven
Author: Delphi
Pairing: Argus Filch/Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A play on Poe's famous poem: Filch receives a rather persistent late-night visitor.
Notes: Written for the Hallowe'en Challenge. Please consider any liberties with scansion either an homage to the original or, if I can't get away with that, the forgivable weakness of a very unpracticed poet.


Once upon a midnight sleazy, Argus Filch thumbed pert and breezy
Through the very-slightly sticky pages of Brunets Galore.
While he fondled, nearly fapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the bloody door.
“Bugger off,” he crossly muttered, “little twits outside my door -
Or I'll beat your arses sore.”

Ah, the air was crisp and sober on the last night of October,
With the stench of mischief reeking, wafting from each wing and floor.
Sourly he dreaded morning, whoops and shrieks his only warning
Of the mess and muck and mire that waited for him past the door.
Yes, the pups and poltergeist who dwelt beyond his stout oak door
Made his life an endless chore.

And his one consoling pleasure, one night of illicit leisure,
Wilted feebly at the wretched knocking he could not ignore.
Flesh and spirit all too willing, Argus planned a righteous killing.
“Any nasty youths who've come a-knocking at my office door -
Beastly curfew breakers come a-knocking at my office door -
Mustn't want their teeth no more.”

Buttoning his parted placket, Filch addressed the vexing racket:
“There's about to be a caning like this school ain't seen before.
You out there, you're due a strapping for all that incessant rapping,
If it ain't a death that's brung you...” Here he opened wide the door -
Finding Severus Snape, esteemed professor, just outside the door.
Him that Argus did adore.

Fumbling, bowing, scraping, fearing that the rant had reached his hearing,
Argus Filch was shaken by the mien the Potions Master wore.
“Eros Nectar,” Severus muttered, “in my tea.” - T'was all he uttered
'Fore he nearly tackled Argus down upon the concrete floor.
Turgid, pressing, flushed and gasping, grasping on the cold stone floor.
Bless the brats in Gryffindor!

Faced with such impatient yearning, lust rekindled, nearly burning,
Argus barely got his hand around the latch to lock the door.
“Hold up, now – let's get this sorted!” But he was most sorely thwarted,
As a hand the contents of his tenting trousers did explore.
How those quick and clever fingers ably, surely, did explore.
“...there's some oil in the drawer.”

Lurching to the desk, he stumbled – understandably he fumbled,
As his braies were treated like an unattended candy store.
Severus, such a lovely raven, pale and black-eyed - crying craven,
Filch sank to his knees upon the cold and craggy office floor.
Popping buttons, yanking, bringing clothing tumbling to the floor,
Mouth employed and seeking more.

Thus ensued an eager sucking, hips aquiver, nearly bucking,
Savour and desire engaged in lewd and wanton open war.
With a skill long-honed by trial, Argus brought him off in style,
Full with arch and shudder, and a bellow like a dying boar.
Wait, not dead – unflagging, he revived, this saucy springtime boar!
Panting still, Snape pleaded, “More?”

Barely had the seed been swallowed when the act was swiftly followed
With a dab of oil and a murmur: “Who's my little whore?”
Filch's fingers stroked and entered, his attention squarely centred
On that lovely little spot that shook his Severus to the core,
Rubbing forth another wicked spending from his very core.
Still Snape, breathless, ordered: “More.”

“Poor young devil,” Argus muttered, as his prick he lushly buttered.
Bending Severus o'er the desk he gave the oil one more pour.
Then he breached him, roughly fucking, twice as eager as the sucking,
Having at him with a passion that he'd never loosed before.
Working to a lather, trying not to shoot, at least before -
Damn...Snape growled a waspish, “More.”

Coughing up a sheepish, “Sorry,” Filch seized one more chance at glory,
Thinking dirty thoughts 'til once more stiff (although a little sore).
Muffled moans all too inspiring, still he rutted, never tiring,
'Til his mewling little tom let out a joyous lion's roar.
Wild and hoarse, what man could last through such a rare and winsome roar?
Wretched Snape, who snarled, “More!”

Dashed and drooping but persisting, Argus settled on a fisting,
Dragging Severus, sweating, starving, through the private bedroom door.
“Get your knees up, little harlot!” With a smack that left him scarlet,
Argus slickly stretched him with a finger – two, then three, then four.
Tight and tender, hot and yielding: “There,” he whispered, “Up to four...”
Snape so sweetly begged for more.

When All Saints' was newly dawning, Severus Snape was finally yawning,
Stretched out pale and sated, lying loose-limbed on the bedroom floor.
Oh, his lips were smugly curving in a manner most deserving,
As the early glow made dirty lace out of the silver hoar.
Sharp, the first true whiff of winter carved out in the morning hoar -
Sweetened by a gentle snore.