by Sofie K. Werkers

It's been years since that summer, but Terence still remembers. Temperatures had been rising since late May, and by the end of the first week of June, Hogwarts was sweltering. When the heat starts rising to unbearable heights, he remembers walking into the broom shed late one afternoon, and his life changing forever.

He wasn't really surprised to see Flint and Wood having sex. He wasn't stupid, after all; he'd seen the looks they'd been shooting each other all year. The sexual tension had been thick enough to cut, and Marcus Flint wasn't one to deny himself sex with anyone simply because they happened to be a Gryffindor.

So when Terence stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the two of them, it wasn't because of the sex. He just never imagined Marcus Flint could be that gentle with anyone, or that he'd want to. They didn't appear to notice him, too caught up in each other, and he left quietly, the image of Flint's fingers dancing across Wood's skin burned into his brain.

Three days later, Flint cornered him in an empty hallway in the dungeons, growled "Liked what you saw?", and pushed him against the wall. There was no gentleness now, just deliberate force, pushing and pulling Terence's hips, gripping them hard enough to leave bruises for weeks afterwards. The dungeon wall felt cool against his back.

The training match Marcus had planned against Gryffindor was delayed until the late afternoon to avoid the blistering heat. Terence didn't think it helped much; he was still boiling in his robes. He contemplated pretending to see the Snitch just to feel the wind on his face. When he finally did spot the Snitch, he didn't have time to feel the wind. He caught the snitch, hand raised in triumph, a chill running down his back when he caught Marcus' eye.

Afterwards, when the rest of the team was in the showers, Marcus pinned him down on a bench and sucked him off. It was over in less than two minutes, and Terence headed for the showers with his teeth imprinted in his fingers, bite marks from trying not to scream.

Marcus was late to the Slytherin victory party, and Terence knew why. When he passed Wood in the hallway on the way to dinner, he noticed the absence of bite marks on the other's hands.

The rest is a blur in his memory. Flashes of sensation: Marcus' hands pinning his wrists above his head; Marcus' teeth on his shoulder, almost breaking the skin; Marcus' predatory look during boring classes; sweat on his back; strangled noises in the back of his throat; sand and rocks and stones against his skin; coming hard, and fast, and often -- these are the things he remembers when the burning summer sun hits his face.

He doesn't remember ever wondering why, or what. Marcus was the Captain, and Terence followed his lead, and that was how things were.

Sometimes, still, he wonders about Wood. Wood and his pretty face, his lips, his eyes, his accent. Not hard to see why Marcus wanted him. What Wood was getting out of this whole thing, Terence couldn't quite figure out. Still can't quite figure out, because Wood was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors hated all Slytherins, and that was the way things were supposed to be.

But they weren't, and Wood didn't, and that was why one day Terence walked behind the Quidditch changing rooms and found them, limbs entwined, discarded robes in a heap nearby. He froze. Wood saw him first, invitation clear in his eyes. There was no invitation in Marcus' eyes, just an order.

It started with a hand on Marcus' back. Slow, and slick, and sweaty, and then Wood caught his eyes, and he leaned forward and caught Wood's lips. For a moment, there was the tight thrill of fear, of not knowing how either of them were going to react to this, and then Marcus' hands joined Wood's on his thighs, and that's all he can really remember.

It ended with the clouds breaking, one of those sudden summer storms. They ran into the changing rooms, got dressed in silence, waiting it out without speaking.


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