sortinghat_logs | There is no pain, you are receding

WHO: Rhys Rhydderch and Peter Banks
TONE: Psychedelic
RATING: NC-17
WHEN: Wednesday night
WHERE: Rhys's chambers.
WHAT: Trippin' balls.
WARNINGS: Violence and sex.
STATUS: Ongoing.

Rhys thought both new flying instructors were quite interesting, amusing in their own ways. One of them obviously thought he was clever, and he was, in that way that young people could be, quick witted, but with no real understanding of the real humor behind anything, too impressed with himself to see properly. And the other was even younger, almost a boy, really, in his attitude and priorities. It made him much easier to play with, and Rhys was bored. He wasn't going to back to Wales until tomorrow, and everyone else interesting had left, including his lovely little Runes professor, off to spend the hols with the couple keeping him like a pet.

Banks should be just the thing to while away the hours. And he hadn't had an excuse to brew up one of his old favorites in months, really. So he put the cauldron on the boil, got what he needed, and started working his magic. It was a wonderful little potion, this one, something he'd modified for his own use in '74, a wicked head trip with just a hint of suggestion in it. By the time Peter arrived, it would be philtered and stoppered and sitting on the table in his front room.

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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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