The Bromance Book Club

Pairing: Flintwood (Marcus Flint x Oliver Wood)

Universe: post-war, EWE

Rating: T

Summary: Olivie Advent cont'd.

Prompts: Flintwood enemies to lovers, ish. I have not actually read the romance book that has this title, but the overarching premise felt extremely irresistible, so here we are.

He was sure Flint was going to give him hell.

He was sure of it.

"What the fuck," Marcus said aloud, mockingly awed.

Oliver had been finishing up a workout on the pitch when Marcus showed up, predictably unexpected and uninvited. They'd had a little tiff, trading insults as they always did, and when Oliver picked up his bag to storm away it had unhelpfully ripped open, a litter of contents pouring out. He typically carried nothing unusual, really, just a quill and some water and a potion for sore muscles, so on any other day it would have been nothing more than a simple annoyance and an easy repair, but today there was also… the book.

The book, which Marcus summoned from the ground before Oliver could think to prevent him.

"The Witch and the Rake?" Marcus read aloud from the cover, mouth contorting in what Oliver was sure would be a sneer. "Seriously, what the—"

"It's nothing," Oliver snapped, snatching the book back from Marcus, or trying to. "It's just a laugh, that's all," he attempted with a hollow scoff, but Marcus held it at a distance, forcing Oliver into a collision with his chest when he reached for it again.

"Didn't take you for the chick lit type, Wood," Marcus drawled, and Oliver, down to the last straw of his patience (or possibly the last remaining thread of his pride), wound up and hit Marcus as hard as he could, sending Marcus staggering backwards as the book fell to the ground with a conclusive thud.

Oliver threw it angrily into the torn remainder of his bag and looked up to find Marcus staring at him, one hand pressed to the little dribble of blood from his nose.

"You motherfucker," said Marcus. "You're gonna pay for that."

"Make me," Oliver spat, challenging Marcus with a glare.

In the end it happened as it always did, and as it always had. When they were at Hogwarts it was usually after a match, maybe in the showers. Maybe it would happen outside when everyone else was at the Three Broomsticks. Maybe it would happen in one of the classrooms with the door spelled shut, charmed from the corridor to let them know if someone was coming. No matter what, though, it would always happen like this: someone hit first, and then someone hit back.

This time, Marcus took hold of Oliver's shirt and tugged him closer. "Tonight?" he said, rasping it.

"Yeah." Oliver swallowed, watching the little trickle of blood from Marcus' nose as it drifted solemnly down to his lip. "Yeah. Fine. Tonight."

"Explain the book," Marcus said later.

Oliver had slid in from the floo without a word, and subsequently, Marcus had shoved him into the wall beside the fireplace and kissed him. It was the sort of kiss that was powered by frustration and loathing, because neither of them technically wanted to do this. Neither of them wanted to want this—and yet here they were, same as always.

Being drafted to the same quidditch team meant it was even harder to resist than it had been at school. Now they were inseparable by vocation as well as the petty consequence of vice.

Oliver tensed and turned onto his side, sliding a glance to Marcus. "Thought this was just sex."

"It is."

"So why should I explain anything?"

"Because it's one thing if you're fucking me for convenience," Marcus said. "Another if you're hiding some sort of bizarre bodice-ripping kink I'll only be dragged into later."

"Shut up." Oliver shoved himself upright, reaching for his shoes, and Marcus yanked him back with a groan of annoyance, wrapping one arm around his chest.

"Tell me."

"Fuck you."

His slid his arm up, catching Oliver's throat with the crook of his elbow. "Tell me," he said again, and felt Oliver swallow. His free hand traced the side of Oliver's ribs, thumbing over them like the strings of a guitar.

"It's… Katie said…" A pause. "Apparently I—" Oliver broke off again, muttering, "Apparently I'm not good at fucking women."

"You don't say," Marcus drawled, and Oliver elbowed him sharply.

"Fuck off. She says I don't—" Hesitation. "She says I can't—"

Pause.

"I just needed to know what the fuck she wants in bed," Oliver mumbled, and it occurred to Marcus that the reason Oliver had broken his nose that afternoon was not because of anything Marcus had done at the time, but because of what he had inadvertently discovered.

"Oh. Well." Marcus cleared his throat, releasing Oliver. "Okay then. Was that so hard?"

Oliver refused to look at him, and he sighed.

"Look, it's not a big deal," he said. "Gimme the book. Let's see it."

"What?" He felt Oliver's spine go rigid. "No, absolutely not—"

"Come on. I'm not exactly… you know." He shrugged. "It's not like I have a girlfriend either, do I?"

"Oh." Oliver's voice was gruff. "Well, fuck, fine. If you really want to."

He leaned forward, sorting through his things, and tossed the book over his shoulder to Marcus, who caught it easily with one outstretched hand. That was Marcus' thing, catching things. Catching things, scoring points. Fucking Oliver Wood.

Just sex, he reminded himself. Just sex.

"Alright, what the fuck's a rake?" asked Marcus.

They didn't get along on the pitch for obvious reasons. Oliver considered the rules something of importance, while Marcus had never heard of 'rules' or 'regulations' or 'basic human decency,' and therefore half the time they were slapped with unnecessary penalty calls because Marcus had knocked someone off their broom. Not to mention that if Oliver ever missed a save, Marcus immediately became a monster. As if Oliver weren't beating himself up enough as it was.

"If you just worked the lateral drills a little harder—"

"Don't talk to me about lateral drills until you've gotten a few more points in the crease!"

"Fuck you, Wood—"

"Fuck off, Flint!"

And from there they'd have to be separated by the coach, or by the referee, or by whoever was standing nearby who wasn't afraid of tremendous and unavoidable bodily harm.

If someone wasn't standing there—if, by coincidence, no one was around to separate them—then things went rather differently. Fuck you became fuck me which became fuck yes, and what none of the rest of their team could understand was that if Marcus and Oliver worked it out alone, if they sweat out their enmity and worked off a little steam, then everything was fine. It was normal.

Or something.

"This one's halfway decent," commented Marcus, thumbing through the pages of their latest read: A Wicked Kind of Wizard. "I liked this book more than the last one."

"The one with the fake dating, you mean? And the duke?"

"No, that one was fine. I meant the one with the arranged marriage," Marcus said, making a face. "I like this better. A makeover," he said in the same reverent tone he frequently used to describe the intricacies of a quaffle, "is a great fucking trope."

They were in bed together; Oliver's this time. It had been a few weeks now of reading these stupid romance books, both separately and together: The Warlock and I. To Tame a Witch. What a Wizard Wants.

"I'm not sure it's helping at all," Oliver remarked with a twinge of disappointment. "As far as I can tell, women just want a rich man who tells them they're beautiful because they don't know it."

"What? Fuck off," said Marcus. "It's the devotion of it, fucker."

He punched Oliver's shoulder, probably to drive the point home.

"Women want a man who makes her feel wanted," Marcus said.

Oliver wondered if maybe that had been the problem with Katie. They kept trying to make something work—they had all the same interests and sure, he traveled a lot, but she was one of those independent girls who liked her own space—but still, in the end something was just… off. He liked sex with her just fine, but he could tell it was underwhelming on her end. That was why they'd decided to keep things open, each committing only to the idea of not being entirely committed to the other.

"Maybe I don't touch her right," said Oliver.

He leaned forward, resting his chin on Marcus' shoulder. He could feel the dip of Marcus' posture relaxing, settling his head more comfortably in place.

"Probably would do it better if you ran the right drills," said Marcus.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you—"

"You really think that's helping?"

"Wood, I'm obviously not trying to help—"

"Just come here," Oliver said, only realizing he'd been pleading after Marcus' mouth was already on his.

Marcus walked into Oliver's flat to find him setting out two plates, then two sets of silverware.

"What the fuck?" he demanded.

"It's… you know. Food," Oliver said, cheeks reddening. "Like a proper book club or something."

"Jesus." Marcus' stomach growled in response to the smell of food wafting through the air, which he resolutely ignored. "We're not a book club, Wood. And what part of 'just sex' remains unclear?"

"Fine. Don't eat, then," said Oliver tartly, sitting down to the shepherd's pie he'd made. "Stay there."

In the wake of Marcus' opposition, Oliver took a bite directly from the dish, immediately choking on how hot it was, and then forced a swallow. After the initial discomfort, he promptly took another bite, repeating the process, and then again, until Marcus was forced to launch forward in annoyance, snatching the fork from Oliver's hand and casting a cooling charm on the pie.

"Idiot," he muttered, and dug Oliver's fork into the crust himself, thinking but not wanting to marvel aloud at how respectably flaky it was for someone he assumed was unable to cook. (Reading bodice rippers together was one thing, but enjoying the finesse of another man's pie crust was too much.)

In answer, Oliver reached around, sliding one hand down Marcus' spine. "Did you like the book this week?"

A troubled knave and a high-spirited, free-thinking witch. He was a duke in need of a wife to inherit his fortune! She was in need of a wealthy man to fund her alchemical research! They loathed each other on sight, as was only right and proper, but the inevitable roadside robbery led to a revelatory night in the nearby tavern's single bed, ultimately concluding—to everyone's astonishment—with the usual wedding and babies.

"Well enough, I suppose." Marcus took another bite. "Though I found the trope far-fetched and frankly, a bit contrived."

"Oh, absolutely," Oliver agreed. "If they hated each other so much, why find so many reasons to spend time together?"

"Ridiculous," Marcus agreed, handing Oliver the fork.

Oliver took a bite in silence as Marcus sat in the chair beside him, waiting for him to finish chewing.

Then, when that wasn't close enough, Marcus hooked one foot around the leg of Oliver's chair, dragging it closer.

"Sex and occasional dinner," he proposed, apropos of nothing.

"Sex and regularly scheduled breakfast," Oliver countered, equally unfazed.

Marcus set his jaw, sighing.

"Sex," he conceded eventually, "and book club. Along with all the meals 'book club' implies."

Oliver took another bite, contemplating it for a moment before handing the fork back to Marcus.

"Done," he agreed, running his thumb along the line of Marcus' inner arm.

Marcus shook his head as he leaned over to take another bite of the pie, inwardly lamenting the things he did to keep the peace.

"Alright," he said, mouth full. "Let's talk themes."

a/n: Mr Blake is sick, so here's me reminding you to drink some water. Best of luck to anyone else facing the trials of holiday travel!