sortinghat_logs | There is no pain, you are receding

Peter knew he was getting himself into actual trouble this time. He couldn't bring himself to care, but if it was one thing his parents had told him over and over it was that drugs were bad. Still, this was more of a potion, wasn't it?

Even if it wasn't, experiencing history was something he just couldn't turn down. He'd always felt a little guilty about his abysmal history scores, just not enough to wade through the words on the pages. It was so hard not to get lost in flights of fancy, trying to imagine what was happening, and then forget the actual history. Still, he picked some history a little closer to his own interests. In particular, about historical encounters with manticores. He'd never experienced one in person and was very curious for the experience, even if vicariously through a history book.

So with tome in hand and comfortable clothes--he looked like a muggle punk and gloried in it. Wizards had such interesting reactions to his clothes--he strode down to the potion master's chambers. He'd let his hair fall where it would this time, but the red streaks were still as visible as anything, as was his Taurus necklace. Unable to keep from bouncing on his feet Peter lifted his hand and rapped loudly on the door.

The Potions professor opened it, and if he was shocked or appalled by Peter's clothes, he certainly didn't show it. In fact he smiled, apparently either pleased or amused - it was always difficult to tell with Rhys. He almost always looked amused. The older man himself wasn't wearing robes, and he was probably showing his own age - the tunic style purple linen shirt and black, flowing pants with odd circular patterns on them hadn't been in fashion for over forty years, and even then, only among a very certain sub-culture of wizards.

"Ah. Mr. Banks. Come in, my lad." And he opened the door wider to let the other instructor in.

Peter was already waltzing--almost literally, as light on his feet as a jungle cat or a dancer--before Rhys could even speak, grinning wide and open. A hint of teeth that might make him look a rakish, and a ready twinkle. But his eyes swept the room in a quick, efficient way of one accustomed to searching out threats and avenues of attack. Peter was carefree and easygoing but wild in a way that few men where. "You're tall! Excellent. Nice clothes too! So good to see someone out of those stuffy robes."

Without so much as a by your leave he went right to the nearest comfortable looking chair and sprawled out into it, looking utterly relaxed and at ease. "So that's the potion huh?"

The older man watched the boy saunter in, interested in the light way he moved. Almost feral. Curious. And not boring, which was the most important thing.

The room Peter was sitting in was Rhys's 'public' room - there was a bedchamber and a work room, and a small bathroom, of course, but this was the living area. It was immediately quite obvious that the Potions professor liked color. There was a small couch here, draped in multiple colors of cloth, and an entire wall decorated entirely with masks, of all different types and colors and cultures. Some were death masks, some harlequin masks, some masks of goats with spiraled horns. There were also multiple bookshelves here, stuffed full to near bulging with various tomes and scrolls - Rhys was an avid reader.

Another wall held a strange painting of a multicolored moth, and a collection of juggling clubs, the kind that might be used in a circus. And then there was the table in the middle of the room, that held the innocuous looking potion - dark, maybe blue? But with an odd sort of shimmer, deep in the liquid, if one stared at it long enough.

"It is. Your book?" Rhys held out his hand.

Initial glance done, Peter's eyes lingered on whatever caught his interest with frank curiosity. He wasn't holding back anything, at least on the surface, though he nearly buzzed with barely restrained energy. Not one used to sitting still at all, Peter. The painting held it the longest, and then the masks, but the potion kept drawing his eyes again and again.

But then Rhys's voice drew his attention and his look turned calculating just long enough for him to gently toss the book over, spine first. A good throw, arced just so that the book wouldn't fly open and risk any of the pages. The book itself probably wasn't the sort of thing to be found in an average wizard's library, the subject being what it was. A good, thoroughly informative book for someone wanting to learn about manticores in great detail however. "Let's see what we can do with this one! It's an exciting read on its own."

The older man caught it neatly, opened it, leafed through a few pages. "Hardly a history, or a challenge," he sighed. "But very well. It should, at least, be entertaining."

Tucking the book under his arm, he went to fetch a small glass from his workshop, the area that for most of the professors functioned as a small kitchen. He set it next to the bottle on the table. "Have you got any weapons? I'll need to get them off you before we start - as interesting and novel as it might be, I'd rather not get stabbed."

"It will be exciting. And I'm familiar with it. I wouldn't take a new flyer into the whomping willow's branches. Teach them in familiar air first." That and his desire to get close and personal with manticores, but he'd learned that he got horrified looks and he wasn't interested in losing the chance just yet.

A stretch, and then he answered the question with a casual air. "Only my wand. And myself! That does count."

"Since I can't take yourself from you, I'll just have to risk it," Rhys said, with a little smirk. The boy was obviously fit, and probably dangerous, but the Potions professor had forty years on him, and was bigger, besides, as well as being perfectly physically competent. "Best to give me your wand, though. I'd rather not have you slinging spells around in an enthusiastic attempt to subdue a mental manticore."

"Who said anything about subduing them? I want to learn what makes them tick!" And it was said with an honest, boyish enthusiasm as he pulled out his wand. Chestnut, and somehow managing to look direct from the tree, and much like Peter himself, with that hint of natural wildness. The wand he didn't throw, but instead gently handed over with utmost care and respect.

"No other side effects I should be on the lookout for?"

"Other than madness? No, not really. Nothing you can do anything about, anyway," Rhys said airily, as he took the wand and locked it away in a small chest on one of his bookshelves. He did treat it as carefully as Peter had done, though. "Old formulas included a bit of vomiting at the start, but I adjust for that years and years ago."

The big man turned to look at Peter, and his smile was decidedly sly, knowing and just a bit wicked. "You seem like a man of action, Banks. Shall we begin?"

"Good judgement! I've been ready since I walked into the room." His grin in return wasn't wicked so much as full of mischief and an obvious naked desire for excitement. Adventure was Peter's bread and butter, and he jumped at the chance to try new things, even if they were dangerous. Sometimes especially if they were dangerous. Now was no different, and if he was humming with excitement before, now he was nearly singing with it.

"Oh, I don't doubt you were ready before you walked into the room," Rhys chuckled, as he unstoppered the potion and measured out a few fingers into a glass, which he handed to the younger man.

"Drink it all, there's a lad," he told Peter, as he started leafing through the book again, looking for a likely page to start reading at, once the drug kicked in.

"I'd say I was born ready for anything and everything but that might be overdoing it a little!" Because there was one thing he needed to do soon that he definitely wasn't ready for--but that was for another time. Peter accepted the glass and knocked it back, honestly expecting a horrible taste. His experience with potions had convinced him most of them tasted awful.

But regardless, it was down and he took a breath, waiting for whatever was going to happen and nearly a-quiver now with his excitement.

"Sit down," Rhys directed, in the voice of a man used to being obeyed. He didn't look up from the book, though, merely gestured at the couch. The potion tasted oddly effervescent, and strangely earthy, though not exactly unpleasant. The Potions professor knew it would kick in in a minute or two, and there was occasionally dizziness associated with the sensation of the drugs taking hold, but mostly he didn't want Peter pacing the room when it kicked in. It was so much better when it started out to a slow build.

The younger man would feel it as a tingling in his fingertips at first. A tingling that would spread, turning into a warm, almost numbness, a cloudiness, as colors started to seem brighter, seemed to almost be pulsing and moving ...

Peter sat down obediently. Or rather, he sprawled out comfortably but in a way that suggested that furniture wasn't something he cared for either way. The first outward sign of the effects taking place was Peter suddenly glancing down at his hands. He hummed something under his breath and then suddenly shifted, looking just a little startled.

His head titled like a bird's. "Side-effect?"

The moving, pulsing colors at the edges of his vision were putting him on edge, sending adrenaline zinging through him. Fight or flight and he never fled. He was aware enough that it wasn't real, still, but he definitely felt like he was being challenged and it brought forth instincts that he rarely showed outside the forest.

"Something like that," Rhys agreed, and he carried the book over to the couch, leaning against one arm as he peered into Peter's face, examining his pupils. To the younger man, the older professor would be starting to look decidedly odd, like he could see the bones shining under his skin, a luminescent mask that was starting to rise up, obscuring his features. "You're almost ready ... "

Oh now that was interesting! Peter wasn't sure he liked how this was effecting his vision, but the glow was arresting. With an expression of innocent wonder, and a demonstration of absolutely zero sense of personal space, Peter lifted his hands, trying to trace and touch the glow. He could almost imagine an effervescent feeling under his fingertips, like trying to catch soap bubbles, and laughed suddenly, loud and short.

Rhys smiled, and as his lips stretched, teeth appeared under the skin, gleaming fangs, a mouthful of lion's teeth existing as a sinister gleam where only muscles and skin should be. "You are enjoying yourself, aren't you my lad?"

The older man leaned in even closer, and his eyes seemed to shift. His sclera were an amber color now, instead of white, his pupils long and sideways slitted, like a goat's, but wavering slightly, as though they were being viewed underwater. One long, clawed finger tapped under Peter's chin, and it was the oddest doubling sensation - the very distinct feel of a sharp point pressing into the skin, almost breaking it, was overlaid with the more gentle, firm press of warm skin, a human fingertip.

Peter's grin stretched, showing off teeth. A predator's grin, even if his mouth wasn't full of a predator's fangs. His fingers tightened and dug into Rhys's skin with just a hint of threat, but he leaned up and forward with a sound that human throats just didn't make without a lot of practice imitating wildlife. There was something completely wild and feral in his eyes, pupils dilating even farther. He didn't answer with words, but instead with actions and posture. Challenge given and met with eagerness. He would play this game and it would be fun.

Age meant power and experience, but Peter knew he was clever and quick and full of energy. He had no doubt he'd come out on top.

Oh, now that was interesting. Rhys seldom saw people being taken down so quickly by the potion, but he supposed it made sense - Peter seemed more in touch with his subconscious, and he wouldn't fight the visions he was given. The older man wondered just what the other professor was seeing. Often times, the drug allowed someone to take subconscious impressions and make them seem real; not surprisingly, people became more frightened of or impressed by the older man, once they'd done this with him. Usually the former. But this near-boy just seemed excited, and that was novel.

"Beautiful," Rhys purred, and part of his voice was human-satisfied, and the part that existed in Peter's head was a basso, animal growl, an older male, confident in his ability and power, in his prime, not at all threatened by some young upstart. He was still holding the book in his hand, and he laughed suddenly, wondering if they'd even need it. He leaned in so he was only inches from the other man's face, and bared his teeth/fangs in a wide grin. "Are you still in there, Banks?"

Still in there? Of course he was! Peter cackled, something like a hyena might make, and snapped his teeth just a centimeter from Rhys's nose. A challenge, but playful mixed with a faint current of seriousness. It was a test. Something to overcome and conquer. He was so ready for this and he would best the old man and crow his triumph over the whole territory. Hogwarts was his territory, not this old upstart who'd tried to claim it while he was gone adventuring.

He'd be put in his place, blood and bruises and broken bone and it would be delicious. Peter licked his lips and growled before suddenly pouncing. If he was light and airy before, he was even moreso now, without society's mandates on what counted as proper movement weighing him down. He moved like a snake, darting out fluid and deadly fast, but clearly with a human intelligence still directing him to try to use Rhys's bulk against the other man.

The problem was, it wasn't such a good position for the younger man to do so - there just wasn't enough room to throw the older man around, or use momentum against him. He was a solid mass looming over Peter, and he was no slouch himself, when it came to speed. So as the younger man darted out, so lovely quickly and fluid, Rhys's own hand shot out. He conserved his movement and it was only his hand and thick arm that moved as he attempted to wrap his fingers around the boy's throat and shove him back with vicious force, against the couch cushions again. Where Peter was light and freedom and movement, Rhys was darkness and brutal efficiency.

The skull under his skin shifted and snarled, baring fangs, his eyes gone into deep, hollow shadows from which blood and gold glittered around dark pools of indigo. His claws dug in to the other male's skin as he grabbed for him, threatening to rend and tear.

This was amazing. Peter snarl-gasped as he twisted to try to ease the pressure on his throat. His hands darted out like claws, though his nails were too short to do more than score skin. Maybe draw a little blood if he was lucky. But he wielded them like claws, going for the vulnerable area around the eye with intent to maim.

Then he twisted his spine, curling on himself in an impressive display of flexibility and kicked out with all his not inconsiderable strength with both legs. It could be said Peter kicked like a young bull and it wouldn't be a bad comparison.

But all the while, even through the snarls, his eyes were laughing and his mouth curved in an almost manic grin. There was no doubt that he was enjoying himself in all the ways imaginable.

Rhys jerked his head back, not allowing those outstretched fingers to get near his eyes. His arms were long enough that he had several inches of reach on the smaller man, but it also left him open for the buffalo kick to his gut that damn near knocked the wind out of him. His fingers dug in to Peter's windpipe, but the momentum pushed him back, so his nails scored lines in the copper skin (claws ripped and tore and blood, but it didn't feel like blood, it was thick and slow, like something else, dripping from skin) as he was shoved away.

The older man hadn't been expecting a brawl when Peter showed up. But he did so like surprises, and it had been awhile since he'd truly gotten to inflict real, physical damage on anyone. There was a brutal side to him that he rarely got to indulge, a side that loved the heavy thump of impact, the crack of bone that was anathema to most wizards. Rhys was a very physical man, in certain ways, and if it meant taking down a cocky boy like this, so be it.

It would be fun.

Rhys didn't bother with anything fancy. His fist just lashed out in a flat arc, aiming for the side of Peter's head, to hopefully knock him sideways, so the older man could pin him down with superior weight and strength, maybe bash his head a few times against the floor until it was spinning and the colors in the room turned into a kaleidoscope of pain and dizziness. It was a plan, anyway.

Fire licked across his skin but didn't burn; it only heated him up as his blood--or was it something else?-- came alight with the rush of finally facing real competition. He'd always just bowled others right over before, and a low, hungry sound escaped him as he ducked to roll with the punch. It still connected and his head rang, with a moment of pain-that-was-something-more and dizziness but he turned his momentum into a roll and came up on all fours.

For a moment he had that perfect stillness that only the best of hunters could manage, before the hyena cackle rang out again and he launched himself forward in a full on tackle. Or was it?

It was a feint, and at the last moment he went for Rhys's legs instead of his torso, quick enough to pull off such an abrupt change in direction.

The older man had long legs, good targets, and hitting them indeed started to topple the professor. But Peter had to get close to do that, and Rhys was quick, reaching out to grab the boy as he went down, using his superior weight to drag Peter down with him. And then he rolled, using his size to try and pin the younger man beneath him - speed counted for very little when a man was pressed into the ground, and it became more of a battle of strength then. Strength and underhanded, dirty moves, of which the older man had plenty. He thought Peter might have a few, too, which should keep things interesting.

There was a low counterpoint to the boy's cackle, an ocean deep laugh that seemed to lick out all the way to the walls, washing up them like water, or maybe like smoke. The sound poured from Rhys's mouth and crawled in Peter's ears and nose and mouth, wherever there was an opening, until the eerie sound was singing in his bones, vibrating through him on some infernal frequency.

Oh he was good. Fast and powerful. The sound Peter made as he went down was almost exultant, but he didn't give up. He surged up, struggling and wriggling like an eel. His movements weren't random at all, but carefully executed to try to force openings and knock Rhys off balance.

He heaved breaths in through bared, clenched teeth, feeling the fire sear through his lungs and ears and head. It danced along the back of his vision, pouring from Rhys. The man was a furnace and Peter suddenly wanted to claim it. Drink up that fire like wine. He snarled amidst a laugh and went for Rhys's eyes with his nails again. At the same time he brought his head up, seeking to sink his teeth into Rhys's neck.

Rhys's hands closed like vices over the smaller man's wrists, forcing them away from his face, pinning them back against the carpet in a punishing grip that would turn up bruises in the morning, no doubt. It was only fair - the Potions professor would have his own set to deal with, blossoming purple-blue on his pale skin. There was a moment when he was over Peter, and his face blazed with a strange, skull-like pattern of white on gray on black, ornate lines crawling all over his skin like writhing snakes.

The light from it burned into Peter as he bit down on the skin of the older man's throat, blazed into his mouth like he was swallowing a road flare, white hot light searing inside him, to burn him, infect him, it was impossible to say, but there was blood and fire and something primal about all of it, as Rhys growled-

The bite wasn't entirely unexpected to the professor. The boy had kept baring his teeth - what else was he going to do with them? But the sharp, grinding pain of teeth in the long muscle of his neck was surprisingly good. It reminded him of some of the more intense encounters he'd had when he was in his twenties, and running wild, and made a sound that was half snarl, half moan, and without really thinking about it, he shoved a thigh between Peter's legs, forcing them open roughly as his nails bit into the boy's wrists.

The sight wasn't chilling at all. On the contrary, it was entirely exhilarating, and only spurred Peter on. He swallowed almost convulsively with the blaze flowing into his mouth and down his throat as he snapped his head back and forth, like a dog shaking its prey. His teeth stayed clamped tight, as Peter tried to use the motion to rip and tear--break his neck. break it and FEAST--with a low, rumbling snarl leaking past. He still writhed and struggled, tireless even against the weight and strength, but there was a slightly different edge to the motions. Smoother, and more prone to undulations.

The thigh pressing his legs apart wasn't unexpected by now. It was spring and Peter felt the rhythms as keenly as any bird of the forest did. His snarl changed in pitch and he jerked his knee up, sole flat against the carpet to effectively return the gesture as a slow, rolling arch curved his spin and lifted his hips. Yes. This was good. This was how things should be.

Peter loosened his teeth just long enough to shift and bite at a more tender area, just as hard, and the snarl changed again. Nearly a croon this time, but with a promise of violence if Rhys let up for even a moment on his hold.

Which the older man had no intention of doing - though he was going to have to wear high necked robes for a few days after this, he noted to himself with a wicked little chuckle. Peter was doing some real damage, and it hurt, badly, in way he hadn't felt in years and years. Amazing, really, a miracle what human teeth could do. His thigh pressed down harder against the smaller man's groin, meeting the undulating rhythm with a slow sawing motion, terribly amused by all of this.

He needed a free hand, and that wasn't happening in this position. So he shifted his grip slightly, wrenched free from the boy's teeth, feeling the skin tear. But he needed the leverage to bring his head down sharply, headbutting Peter as hard as he could, wanting to daze him just enough so that he could change the way he was grabbing the younger man. If he could force Peter's arms above his head, he could grab both wrists in one big hand, leaving the other free to do as he liked. Choke, grope, claw, undress.

Peter crooned again, easily shifting over from struggling against to moving with Rhys, but there was still tension in him. A readiness to take advantage of the least moment of weakness to turn the tables.

Then Rhys was pulling back and he bit down harder, coming away with blood on his mouth. His tongue slid out to lap at it with a deep rumbling groan, but he couldn't move his head enough to avoid the blow. For a moment there was nothing at all, and Peter went limp.

Then the precious second was gone and he was struggling again like a spitting cat, lashing out with teeth and legs. He was still reeling a little, so the bite aimed for the throat was too high and missed the intended target.

The bigger man jerked his head back, as Peter's teeth scraped against his chin. He was laughing full-on, now, and it sounded odd - more animal than human, a sound like horns and geese and goats all mixed up, the kind of laugh someone might use for the devil in a movie.

"Not yet, little lion," Rhys called out, and his free hand slipped lower, between Peter's legs to rub and tease as he struggled to keep the boy down.

Peter growled, full throated and hungry, at the admonition and just bit down where he could reach instead. He was drowning in a whirl of desire. Desire to hurt. Desire to fight. Desire to hunt and feast. Raw passion and want for the physical pleasure that Rhys was teasing with him. It was frustrating to be held down and not just able to reach out and take what he desired, so he snarled and fought.

But at the same time his body arched and twisted into the touch, and after a moment he abandoned the struggle to fight against Rhys for the struggle to get more of that pleasure and give some in return. It was difficult with his hands restrained but he used his legs and his flexibility as well as he could.

"Oh, you're so delicious," Rhys purred, letting his hips roll languidly forward to rub up against the younger man, as Peter started to move in more decidedly lascivious ways. His palm was warm, hot, even, and he spread fire with his fingertips as his skull mask poured laughter into the air like brightly colored bubble that hung suspended, then danced away in an unfelt wind.

Deft fingers were undoing the smaller man's trousers, now, tugging them down to free the boy from cloth confinement.

Peter was drowning. He was soaring. He was burning. It felt amazing and he shuddered before the tide of sensations, completely uninhibited. Not a word came out of his mouth, but various animal sounds of approval as he moved, still straining against Rhys's hold. His fingers clenched and stretched, as if he was trying to grab and scratch at something he couldn't quite reach.

Then clothes started coming off and he nearly cried out in relief. Yes, clothes should be gone. They got in the way. They stifled and strangled and if he could have had his hands free oh how he would have helped them both be free.

To do this properly, Rhys was going to have to let go, which was a calculated risk, but where was the fun without it? If he didn't enjoy a little danger, he wouldn't have jumped on the younger man quite so quickly. So he released his fold on Peter's wrists so he could use both hands to pull his pants and trousers down, to peel them off the lithe boy's leanly muscular legs, trusting that the flying instructor could see to his own shirt.

A chance! But clothes first, because they needed to be gone. He twisted to aid in getting his pants removed and actually managed to tear his shirt in his attempts to get it off.

Then he was growling, trying with all his cleverness and strength to flip them, but it was hard to keep from getting distracted by Rhys's clothes--they needed to be gone too. In the end he was trying to pull Rhys's shirt off and tackle him at the same time, and really only accomplished wrapping around him like a limpet. In spite of the futility he still managed to find a place to bite down and his short nails raked over skin and cloth almost hard enough to make up for the lack of being claws.

It left the older man shirtless, his broad chest covered in wiry dark hair, the muscle quite obvious without the loose linen to cover it - the wizard was clearly in quite good shape and hadn't let himself go to seed. The muscle was the thick, heavy kind that only came from hard work, not regular workouts in a gym - the man lived on a small farm when he wasn't at the school. It also left him bleeding, human nails scraping the skin more roughly than actually claws would have done, with an exquisite, jagged kind of pain.

Rhys drove his hips forward, still laughing, as the younger man wrapped around him. It rubbed him nicely against the flying instructor's bare prick, the soft fabric of his pants a gentle counterpoint to the heavy force of his movement as he dipped his head and fastened his teeth to Peter's throat.

If Peter's mind hadn't been consumed in fight-fuck-bite-scratch he would have had to stop a moment to admire the sheer impressiveness, and found Rhys to be quite attractively built. That rugged strength called to him in a more primal way now, inviting challenge and soothing a more and more steadily bruised pride at the same time. Somewhere, in a way that was beyond words, Peter was all right with losing to someone so strong. After all, strength was a most necessary trait, and those who had it deserved their position.

Not that he would stop fighting or wouldn't try again to come out the victor. The drive to compete was unshakable and letting something as little as a single loss deter him was so far beyond his knowing that it didn't exist in his world.

Peter grunted into Rhys's skin as he worried at that broad shoulder with his teeth. The rough pressure and smooth cloth fanned the delicious fire up into a blaze, and he was loving every moment of being consumed. He writhed and twisted, even bringing his feet to bear for extra bruising leverage.

But it was the bite that got the strongest reaction out of him yet. The sound that burst out of his bloody mouth was far from human, high and at the same time begging for more and promising retribution. One of his hands came up in that moment, snagging into Rhys's hair and pulling hard, while the sound subsided into harsh panting and Peter raked the nails of his other hand down Rhys's back again. Encouragement? Warning? Probably both.

There is no pain, you are receding

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