Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I'm pretty sure you all know who does. *cough* J.K. Rowling *cough*

Pairing: FlintxWood

Warning: minor cursing, groping,

Summary: Asking a Slytherin for comfort is really just picking a fight.

A.N. Don't really know what I'm doing. This is my first FlintWood fanfiction, but not my first time writing for the HP fandom. So, hope you'll enjoy.

Beta-ed by LadyWisiaden

Stirring Up Trouble

"Fuck. What are you doing here?" spat Flint.

Oliver shifted his balance on the broom and looked over his shoulder. They were several hundred feet in the air above the quidditch field.

"I don't know," began Oliver, "what do people go out to the quidditch field for? A bit of flying, a bit of walking, hell, maybe a picnic; what do you think?"

Flint's grip tightened on his broom handle.

"Fuck you, Wood. You know this is my time to fly. Bugger off."

"You know what? I don't feel like it."

"You're looking for a fight, Wood?"

"Perhaps." Oliver cocked his head to the right. "You're going to give me one? I suggest you keep yourself out of trouble; you don't want to be held back again, do you? A troll like you needs every bit of help you can get."

Flint's eyes stared hard into him, mouth stretched thinly, and he laughed.

"I see. You're such a fuckin' pansy," he leaned back on his broom while his callous fingers relaxed its hold on the handle. "A fuckin' coward, that's what you are. Tryin' to goad me into a fight. What would your beloved Gryffindor team say if they knew this?

Oliver scoffed.

"Me? Starting a fight? You're delusional, Flint."

Flint swerved his broom hard, slamming into Oliver's right shoulder with bruising force. "Don't fucking lie. Doesn't suit you."

He reached a hand out and grabbed a hold of Oliver's black robes, pulling him into a choking grasp. "You want a fight. Need your blood pumping. Adrenaline rushing through your body. You look like you need to forget. Let me guess, Oliver 'Mr. Popular' Wood got rejected."

"Shut up, you fucker," Oliver blindly threw a punch into Flint's face, pushing back with his broom. "You don't know what you're talkin' about."

Flint grunted, and swiped blood off his lip. "Hit a nerve, did I?" sneered Flint.

His hands curled into hard fists, Oliver retorted, "Fuck no. It doesn't have anything to do with girls—"

"—boys then," interrupted Flint.

Oliver threw a dirty look at him.

"Nothing to do with those relationships at all. Not that you would know, seeing as nobody likes you."

"You're looking for a fight, Wood? Jostling to punch me, are you?"

Flint ran a hand down his broomstick, twitching with desire to pummel Wood off his broom.

"Flint, go the fuck away. I'm not in the mood to deal with you today. Just leave me alone."

He didn't listen.

He flew straight into Wood, crashing them into the Hufflepuff's stand, pinning Wood's muscular form into it. He shoved his face barely centimeters away from Wood's, and said, "You don't want to be alone, Wood. You say you want a fight. But, it's not what you need."

Flint grabbed a fistful of hair, tugging tightly and closed his mouth hard over Oliver's, sealing shut all protest.

He swore when Wood bit his tongue, and drew blood. He turned his head to the side and spat. The chaser grabbed a hold of Wood's head and smashed it against the stand.

Oliver groaned, and his head spun as he tried to shove Flint off. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Kissing. You're saying 'no', but you're hard." Marcus roughly palmed Oliver's crotch, "You need a good fucking. It's why you come to me."

Oliver arched into the touch as his legs clenched his broom harder, his hands pushing against Flint's chest, and moaned.

"Fuck no."

"Fuck yes." Flint pressed Wood harder against the stand, several hundred feet above the ground and squeezed. "Can't tell me it's not what you want. It's the same fucking pattern. Somebody pisses you off, or you get fucking depressed. It's pathetic, Wood."

Marcus rubbed a thumb against Oliver's neck, "You keep coming back. Like a faithful pet," he bit the spot roughly and Oliver cried out in pain.

He twisted his hand just a bit, and pulled Oliver's broom handle up to press against the keeper's cock.

"Where's Oliver? Isn't he out here?"

Flint tilted his head. "Hear that, Wood? Your team's looking for you."

Oliver reached a hand out and pulled Marcus into a messy, kiss full of teeth clashing and clicking.

"Later, Flint. Midnight. Perfect's bathroom."

Flint scowled, and wrapped a hand tight around Wood's neck. "No games. No lies. Get your shit together, Wood."

He grimaced. "Got it."

Flint left after he shoved him against the stand one more time as a reminder. Oliver exhaled a slow breath of air, feeling the need to punch something or someone.

"Oh, there you are, Oliver. You're okay?"

"Yeah. Let's practice."