:/

provocative-envy:

[ bursts into tears bc someone has finally asked me about marcus flint ]

• SO
  
• the reason they hate each other–it doesn’t really have anything to do with quidditch, does it? 
• in fact, oliver suspects that this thing he has going on with marcus flint–which is not a rivalry, because rivalries were petty, discipline-draining distractions at best–is the only thing in his life that isn’t entirely about quidditch.
• it’s about much, much more than that, he muses as he’s attempting to wrestle a bludger back into its box. the rest of the team’s already gone back to the castle, and it’s dark enough that the green, green grass on the pitch has a vaguely sinister layer of fog tingeing the surface. 
• marcus flint, oliver realizes, is exactly like a bludger. 
• violent. erratic. nearly impossible to neutralize without a bat. 
• most importantly, though–bludgers hated being contained. they didn’t plan their attacks; they just rushed right in, vision sharp and mission chaotic, and they didn’t stop until they’d either knocked the world flat on its back, or were forced to. they were vicious. winning was about bloodshed. broken bones. ferocity.
• bludgers didn’t like rules.
• they played dirty. they cheated.
• oliver abhorred cheaters.
• which is why–
• “no wonder your team’s been shit this whole year,” a familiar voice suddenly drawls. as usual, the edges are rough. aggressive. cavernous. “their captain can’t even hold down a bludger.”
  
• almost immediately, oliver fumbles with the leather straps he’s adjusting, an embarrassed–a furious–flush creeping up the sides of his neck. surely flint didn’t know.
• “what are you even doing here this late?” oliver asks, jaw tightening with a click. “it’s past curfew.”
  
• flint shrugs, his huge, hulking shoulders effectively blocking out the slim sliver of moonlight oliver had been relying on to properly see. 
• “couldn’t sleep,” flint offers, shortly. “wanted to fly.”
• oliver opens his mouth to reply–it’d be useless to threaten a slytherin with their head of house, but he figures mcgonagall might work–just as the bludger he’d been so close to locking up makes a mad, unexpected dash for the sky. 
• “damn,” he sighs, and flint–flint laughs.