WHO: Thomas McCormack and Rupert 'Axebanger' Brookstanton
WHERE: Magpies Stadium
WHEN: SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY
WHAT: HULK SMASH



“MCCORMACK! One more foul and you’re out of here!” the referee shouted through the blustering winds. Thomas saluted the old fat wench and shot back up into formation, ignoring Odette’s shouts from above and Billie’s calls to him. He was in a mood that he could not untangle himself from. He’d elbowed, kicked---it was bad, no one could get in his way because if they did they’d have a big welt to deal with and---his real target had been expertly evading him all match. Whether it was intentional or just good playing, fucking Rupert Brookstanton was keeping his distance.

Maybe he had seen the tell-all article that the fucking Prophet posted as the cover of their sports section. Apparently The Tattler hadn’t been enough for his bitch of an ex-girlfriend, so she’d gone straight to the big boys. His sister was furious, his parents were disappointed, his agent was going to have a fucking meltdown, and of course everyone was betting on him to putter out once the match started and crawl back into the shell he’d been hiding in since March.

Well, fuck that. Thomas was done dealing with the stress that had been piling up on his shoulders these past few weeks since Regina decided to open her giant gob about their failed relationship. Thomas could take the blame about certain things, but he’d kept it in his goddamn pants, not like The Slut.

His eyes managed to flicker up to the scoreboard for a second before a bludger clipped the end of his broom and sent him spinning. Thomas felt something crack in his hands and looked down at the handle of his broom, seeing a large splinter had struck down the middle. His favorite broom, his favorite broom cracked by----all he could see was red. Red, hot, angry red as he zoomed toward the culprit, not even sure if Brookstanton had been the one to smack the bludger his way. Thomas didn’t care. He was already a dirty look away from getting thrown out of the game, he might as well get what he wanted out of it.

Not hesitating at the sight of the heavy beater’s bat, Thomas lifted his arm to put all his weight forward as he collided dead on with Brookstanton, letting out a roaring shout of attack. He did not care if he fell off his broom and plummeted to his fucking death at this moment, he was going to kill the bastard.

They were neck and neck with the Magpies. Axe wanted two more goals before Broadmoor even thought about catching the snitch, but he wasn't going to be picky about it. Keeping an eye trained on the scoreboard, he lobbed a bludger toward the newbie Chaser. "Nice," he murmured, as he saw Bulstrode expertly whack a stray one towards McCormack, who'd been so off his game today that he was actually more on it than usual. Going, going, and—hit! Miss! Spun out, but stayed seated. Axe bared his teeth in frustration. Slinging his bat over one shoulder, Axe made a beeline for their goal, hoping to keep Chasers from approaching and perhaps work out a little—

BAM!

The next thing he knew, Axe was careening out of the air and straight into the side of the spectators' stand with a terrific whack, the lower half of his body sliding completely off his broom.

He'd just been blatched! Out of bloody nowhere!

While he tried desperately to reseat himself without sacrificing his bat, Axe's eyes darted about for the culprit, who hovered not ten feet above him, looking quite ready to kill.

"CONNARD!" Axe shouted at McCormack, swinging his legs back on. "QU'EST-CE QUE TU F—WHAT—THE HELL—ARE YOU DOING?"

Ignoring the throbbing in his head and back, the referee calls of foul, the gasps from the crowd, the squalor of teammates who'd noticed the ruckus, Axe pushed off hard from the solid wall of the stands and hurtled straight toward Thomas with the bat-equipped arm extended and ready to swing. Oh, because this con was going to get it, there was no mistake about that. No one, absolutely no one instigated with Rupert Brookstanton and went unscathed.

Thomas pulled one arm up to shield himself from the bat while the other (his good, throwing arm), pulled back to give all the power he could muster to punch Brookstanton in the face and break his French fucking nose. This was the guy that had caused his life to go to shit, this was the guy who had no respect for anything or anyone, and this was the guy who deserved to get the life beaten out of him. Thomas could barely feel the bat crack against his elbow, his adrenaline was pumping so hard through his veins, but the sound it made caused the audience to gasp and somewhere in the back of his mind Thomas knew that he was going to be out of commission for some time.

Whether from injury or suspension, it didn’t particularly matter at the moment. His broom jerked underneath him as he saw a flurry of jerseys, green, yellow, black, and white come around him, but before any of his teammates or the Kestrels could grab him Thomas used his good arm to swing his broomstick down and then swiftly up so that he could send his shoulder straight into Brookstanton’s gut.

Might’ve pulled himself straight off his broomstick, but he didn’t feel like he was plummeting to his death, so things were working out like he had planned. Sort of. Things were starting to get blurry.

With a furious roar, Axe doubled up against the impact of the body check and slammed his head as hard as he could into McCormack's. If he had his wand, he thought, if he only bloody had his wand, then they'd see. Heedless of the throbbing in his head, the banging bruises on his shoulders, the protruding rib he was fairly certain meant it was broken, he struggled against the restraining hands that clung to his broom, his robes, even the back of his hair, to get just that one last blow in.

Management was going to be so fucking pissed at him.