marcusfilnt:

word count: approx. 900 

pairing: oliver wood x marcus flint 

summary: oliver wood is definitely a drunk oversharer. 

a/n: so this is my first time publishing work and i don’t even know what this is or where it came from but here it is! 

oliver wood is definitely a drunk oversharer. 

everyone knows it, and the team can’t stand it. after every single win, he calls the team into a huddle and starts recapping their match and drunkenly mapping out their plays for the next one, and at least one member exclaims, “mate! we’ve just won, could you let us enjoy it?” but he never does and they love him just enough to let him have his moments, but damn, oliver’s the most annoying drunk they’ve ever met. on more than one occasion the twins threaten to stop sneaking fire whiskey into the castle if he doesn’t get it together. nobody’s fooled by these empty warnings, and so wood continues to ramble on and on to anyone who listens, and even those who don’t. and now, after all this time, wood’s won his final match and, still, nobody knows how to shut him up.

so, when he stumbles over to george and leans onto his shoulder in the midst of gryffindor’s celebration of winning the house cup, george braces himself out of habit, and yells “oli! what do you want now? we’ve already won.“ and the very last thing he expects to hear is a slurred, “d’ya think i’ve a shot with flint? been thinkin’ bout him all season. i- i mean every season. y’know. since we started.” george chokes on his drink while oliver continues, going on and on about marcus’s hands and, “i mean, george, do you see the way he holds the broom?” and george is plugging his ears and singing as loudly as he can before he can hear oliver elaborate anymore on marcus’s grip, because hearing his captain describe in extreme detail exactly how oliver imagines flint’s hands would feel on him is probably george’s worst nightmare. really, it’s a miracle that the common room’s celebrations are loud enough to mask the sound oliver, who has now begun to yell about the curve of flint’s biceps to a traumatized george. 

after his first win with puddlemere, the team celebrates in a pub. a pretty girl with bright eyes hits on him and oliver just exclaims, “ahhh! you’re lovely, you’re beautiful.. but i think i like boys. maybe just one boy actually. it started in second year..” and he spends the next hour telling this poor girl about the first time he and marcus played against each other in second year when they had just made the team and the wave he felt crash through him when they first made eye contact. how the heard the sound of the ocean meeting the shore when he caught the quaffle that marcus attempted to make into the middle goalpost. how every time they shook hands as team captains this season, he felt the current drag him in further. how the waves get stronger every time they look at each other and it’s a tsunami now and how do you survive a tsunami? oliver is screaming and pounding the table, glasses shaking and drinks spilling before his teammates finally take him home, apologizing profusely to the girl. not that it makes a difference because the whole way home oliver explains that he’s drowning in a boy who won’t look at him off the pitch, and he can’t breathe, and he loves it. 

he’s catching up with the hogwarts gang one night at the three broomsticks and marcus flint walks in, flanked by higgs and pucey. it’s only a couple shots later that oliver and marcus are alone in a booth far away from every else, they’d volunteered to get the next round and got side-tracked arguing about their rivalry, even though it’s years old. and oliver just can’t stop talking. it starts with a side-by-side comparison of every one of marcus’s players with his own. but he’s spiraling and he can feel it. somehow talking about flint’s flying technique has led to wood dragging on about how he’s got rolls of parchment full of notes on the way that flint flies and how good he looks doing it. about the way he doesn’t look like he’s flying at all, like being on a broom is his natural state. about all the nights he’s spent trying to figure out how marcus manages it, looking so intense, but so at peace at the same time. about how he always had those early morning practices because he couldn’t fucking sleep, always up all night thinking of him, flying was the only way to make it stop. unless they were flying together and every time marcus tried to score oliver’s heart was in his throat because, wow. on and on about the fact that he doesn’t even know how he managed to catch anything during those games because he couldn’t watch anyone, but marcus. and how whenever they touched in the slightest, shaking hands or bumping into each other in the air, oliver was buzzing for days. and oliver can’t stop talking, his mouth just keeps running and running, until marcus catches it with his own. oliver is stuck because he’s thought about this for so long that he has no thoughts left, but to grab the back of flint’s neck and pull him closer and taste the whiskey on his tongue. when they break away, wood’s panting and looking for the right phrase to say, but for the first time, he has no words.