His hands, her mouth. Marking, claiming. 

Fingers - gripping, imprinting. Nails - scratching, blunt lines. Red - her hips, ribs. Succoring her to move faster, harder against him. 

Lips - the base of his throat, collarbones. Teeth - grazing, nipping. Red - sporadic splotches. Cool metal - lip ring, her only remaining piercing, having taken out her nose, tongue.  

Air - heavy with shared expletives, desperate sounds, moans of encouragement. Hips - relentless against his, circling, fervid. Half dressed - her crop top, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, hanging off one shoulder. 

New - being able to have her at anytime, not having to hide away in the van, rushed encounters in bathrooms. Now - she was completely his.

London - a shared flat, their bedroom. Mattress, the floor - a new commonplace for them. Different, disparate - their escapades. Slower, craving - a newfound passion, less about getting off or fucking for the sake of it, now it was a desire to explore, feel every inch of each other. 

Experimental - confessions of turn on’s, kinks. Trust, vulnerability. And there was definitely a notable shift in dynamics - Penelope more often than not taking control, something Matty was in no way averse to. In fact - he quite enjoyed it, preferred it, when she was vocal with him, coaxing him, telling him what to do - where to touch her, when she made him beg for her. Both figuratively and literally. 

A focal point he had learned - his girl had a rather prominent sadistic streak. And he had an equally discernible masochistic one. But - only for her. And he knew damn well that she got off on it just as much as he did. 

Breathless sounds, distant hum of a Ramones record. 

Friction - pressure building, fire rippling. Coaxing - his hips jutting up, hers harsh, unforgiving against him. Closer, intensifying. Teeth - nipping at her lower lip, tugging at metal. Hot air - pants of breaths, curses. 

Sudden - pulling away, his eyes snapping open. Discontent sounds - a rasped whine, tearing away the high he had been building, fading. Fingers - reaching, but she’s already gone. Dark.  A frown - confused. Calling out for her. 

A hushed sound - dim light flickering, the lamp. A soft glow - illuminating bodies. 

Lips, swollen - curving, a half sadistic smirk. A look he knows all too well, one that signifies she’s just had a new idea, revelation. Something that causes a twinge - excitement, his stomach, a chill down his spine. 

Hands - cold, despite the heated engagement, pushing at his chest. Maneuvering him to lay back, mattress. Lips - back on his, messy tongues. Hips - hovering over his, fingers - endeavoring to pull her down, impatience. Denial. Her hands - taking his, pinning them over his head. Frustrated noises - his throat. Enticing fiendish giggles - echoing in his mouth. 

It’s when her lips begin to wander, down his jaw - he manages to ask why they’ve stopped. Although it sounds more like a whine, a plea - a strained sound. 

Pulling back, fingers - idly playing with a button of his shirt, blue eyes meeting his. Dilated pupils - alight, and in this light, he finds they’re absent, lacking any of the innocence they typically hold. 

A pause - silence, sparring uneven breaths, the record. Lips - a twitch, eyes flickering over him, and there’s a rasped sound surpassing her lips, a hoarse - “Touch yourself.”

The instruction bringing Matty’s eyebrows to shoot up, a disbelieving look. Mumbling out a, “What?”

But - his lips - a lopsided smirk, watching. Penelope - parting his thighs, kneeling between them, indigo blue restricting him. A firmer tone, unfaltering, demanding. “Wanna watch you touch yourself.”

Confident - but fuck if there wasn’t a underlying hint of desperation, a plea. Something Matty can’t reject, deny. Complying - lowering his right hand, fingers grasping. And her gaze drifts down for a second - to watch, before flickering back to his face. 

Inquisitive, curious - about how he did it. Rushed, heated - like many, most of their encounters. Or - did he drag it out, slow, holding himself back. And truth be told - she liked watching him, his face, while he was becoming undone. 

Skin - hot, under her gaze, close scrutiny. His eyes flickering down - watching himself. Slow, languid movements - a different source of pressure, pleasure with her watching. And he knows, she knows he likes it a bit too much. Being watched.

The sight already bringing Penelope to squirm between his thighs, a dull ache. A palm on each of his thighs, watching - observing his face. Reddened lips, tones of purple - earlier Malbec, lower lip caught between his teeth, suppressing groans rumbling through his throat. Cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly. Strands of hair - falling across his face, eyes cast downward. Her gaze following his. 

Fingers - tight around himself, working himself in a slow pace, Penelope’s eyes glazing, parted lips - almost entranced by the way his veins protrude, skin dragging. Palming - the head, thumb catching drops of precum, smearing, using it as an extra lubricant. Quiet whimpers, fingers squeezing - when his eyes dart up, watching her watching him. The slight look of awe masking her features has him near writhing, and he’s craving her touch. But - holding back, waiting for her to crack first. 

Heat - coiling, her stomach. Nails - involuntarily grazing, digging into sensitive flesh, his inner thighs. Evoking displeased sounds, faint hisses. 

Licking her lips - curiosity, blurting out, “What do you think about?”

“You.” - rasped, strained. Admittance. Eyes finding hers again - wide, innocence returning. Enticing a muffled moan. Blue - flickering between his face and his hand. 

“What do I do?” - her voice wavering, the steadiness she had started out with diminishing. Nails - grazing, pain mingling with pleasure, displeased hisses. And he’s stuttering over her question, at a loss. Because - she’s right there, and he’s beyond craving her touch, delicate fingers, her mouth. Working himself at a faster pace. Building. Shameless moans resembling her name.

Penelope - shifting closer, eyes heavy - lust. Matching his own.  

“Close your eyes.” 

Jagged breaths - brow furrowing, but this time he obeys without questioning. His movements halting, assuming, hoping she was going to take over. Aching, throbbing. Breath shortening when she orders him to keep going, her hands not moving from his thighs, nails digging - and he suspects she knows that he likes that sensation all a bit too much. Twitching, but keeping his eyes shut, envisioning her. Like he’s done countless times before, alone.

Her voice - hushed, repeating the earlier question. 

“What do I do?”

A shaky sigh - giving in, his voice low - gravelly, each word enunciated with want, need. Desire. 

“I - you ride, you’re usually riding me,’ - eventually managing to stutter out,  feeling - hot breaths, his collarbones, sloppy pecks. Even the slightest touch from her causing him to become overwhelmed, flustered. And that really isn’t like him at all, especially not around her. He’s typically vocal, brash - no qualms about telling her what he wanted, but now - she has him crumbing, breaking when she’s barely even fucking touched him at all. 

Heightened senses - hand working a steady pace along himself. Penelope - surging through him, igniting sparks. Thoughts drifting, clouding - imaging her, her hand wrapped around him instead, and he’s suddenly craving her mouth. 

“I think lots about your mouth,” - more steady, regaining some of his inner equilibrium, a quiet hum in response. Eyes - snapping back open, heavy, lidded, zoning out for a second or two before focusing. Her face - eyes cast down, watching him, teeth tugging at metal, cheeks flushed. Straddling - his thighs, hand gripping onto his hip.  

Breaths - jagged, sweat coated skin. Penelope - eyes flickering back up, meeting glazed hazel. Lips, swollen - parting when his thumb, free hand, traces over them. Voice - rough, rasped, “You look so fucking gorgeous when your mouth’s wrapped around my cock…” 

Trailing off - his breath catching, swollen lips, his thumb, taking the digit in, sucking. All while blown out pupils stay locked on his, indigo darkening, holding a vindictive glint. Sending jolts, electricity coiled with lust spiraling through him.

Irrefutable - eyes shutting on their own accord, jaw falling slack, before his teeth catch his lower lip. Striving - but ultimately failing to suppress the string of desperate sounds in forms of moans, whimpers. A mix of profanities entangled with her name, and fuck if he can take it any longer. He needs her. An insatiable urge.

Lips, hot breaths, gasps - his neck. Tongue - trailing, tracing over skin, bringing him to swallow thickly. Hips - instinctively jutting up when her teeth sink over his jugular. A sharp hiss - jumbled begging, for her to touch him, nearing the edge.

Nails - grazing over his stomach, muscles clenching, heat spilling. Lips - pressing kisses, his neck, shell of his ear, a hoarse sound, breathless - “Wanna see you cum for me, baby.”

And fuck if he doesn’t almost lose it then and there. A low groan, whimper of ‘fuck, what are you doing to me, Pen’ because if he’s honest, he’s never really thought she would have this in her. Such a sadistic vindictive streak. But - he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t fucking love it. 

Fingers - brushing over his, pulsing. His hips - unwittingly bucking up, again - craving. Desperate, breathless sounds. 

Heavy breaths, whispers - his ear, piercing through him, trails of fire. Coaxing - like he’s done to her so many times before. And it doesn’t really take much, already hovering over the edge. 

So when she lowers her hips, pushing herself against him, not taking him in but letting him feel just how ready she was for him - he shatters in seconds. Heat, Penelope, surging through him, sparking his veins. Harsh breaths, pants. Feeling her gaze on him, only intensifying the pleasure. Clouded thoughts, Penelope - turning blank. A white hot heat, vision blurring, blood rushing. Head falling back, eyes screwing shut - terrible sounds mingling with a strangled sound resembling her name. His hand - sloppy movements, tensing - spilling over his stomach.

Here's a thought:

What if the Hogwarts sorting process is less about who you are, and more about what you need?

The sorting hat sees a boy thrust into a new world he barely understands, a boy desperate not to blend in with the crowd, and a girl who would sink as deep into her books as she is allowed, and says- what do these children need? They need courage. The courage to keep moving forward despite overwhelming circumstances and high stakes, the courage to see themselves as heroes, the courage to speak up and speak out against injustice.

The hat sees a lost girl whose world has been shattered, who can’t be bothered to fit the world she sees to others’ standards, and says- what does she need? Knowledge. The knowledge of how and why things happen, and the wisdom to accept the things she cannot change.

The hat sees a boy desperate to fill his father’s shoes, used to getting his way and confused at a world that works differently than he was taught. The hat says- he needs power. He needs an identity that will remind him that he has worth, that he can be more than he is.

I wouldn’t want to attend a hogwarts that sorted based on what universal human trait I exhibited most often. I wouldn’t want to attend a hogwarts that sorted similar personalities into uniform groups. I would want to attend a hogwarts that sorts based on its students’ needs, doing its best to help them succeed.

When dumbledore says, “perhaps we sort too soon,” maybe he sees the good that a little bit of courage, instead of a sense of self-worth inflated into superiority, could have done Severus Snape.

Maybe the most dark wizards come out of slytherin because, despite their house’s best intentions, they never quite find the confidence they need there. And it is the unsatisfied, those most disenchanted with the system, who seek to destroy it.



Ambition is about going after what you want. What in that is evil? Selfishness is about understanding that you yourself have value. What in that is evil? Cunning is about creativity, quick-thinking, rolling with the punches and paying attention– what in that is evil?

Do you know the sort of evil you can do in the name of fairness? Do you know the sort of damage you can do with bravery, with not knowing how to back down, not knowing how sometimes there is a need to give, to adapt? Do you know how you can cut with cleverness, what sort of scornful superiority can live in those high towers?

These are stories about choice. You choose your House. You choose how to live your House. Be brave, be cunning, be fair, be curious– all of those have their dark wizards. I refuse to believe otherwise.

—  ink-splotch