Tomtord Oneshots (Completed)

why is mike such a hated name

rape and abuse warning.
~20,000 words

"Hey, Mike," Tom said casually as the American walked through the door, giving him a slight wave. He was settled on the couch, feet on top of the coffee counter. Of course, they were inside of the house they shared. Tom had moved in with Mike a little while ago, perhaps six months. They were in a pretty serious couple at this point, and Tom was practically in love with Mike.

"I hate that stupid fucking Norwegian." The tall male hissed, shifting his bag off of his shoulder as his eyebrows furrowed. "The tall one, light hair, grey eyes. He's a dumbass." The blonde boy spat, throwing his bag off as he sighed, frustrated, walking to the kitchen. His movements were hasty, short and quick.

Mike was naturally a hot head, always getting infuriated and spitting cursefully at quite literally anything. At some occasions, the careless boy would veer into spitting rude and often times hurtful things; things that brought the poor boy down. But would he have the decency to care? No, he just wanted something he could control.

Tom blinked, furrowing his eyebrows. For a moment, he was ready to jump to Tord's defense, even if he did hate the Norwegian. He bit his lip, turning his head to the side before asking, "What did he do this time?" His voice was soft, quiet. Letting out a soft sigh, Tom removed his legs from the table, opting to tuck them underneath him. Seemed as though he traded his comfortable position for a defensive one.

"He was trying to argue with me on something he knew nothing about. I knew everything, and he was wrong, yet he still had the nerve to push on." He spoke through gritted teeth. "He's so pestering! He says he knows you far better than I do and you and I both know that's bullshit!" He walked, looking at Tom as he stomped in his direction. The wooden floors radiated with his heat that pushed up right back against him, infuriating him even more. "You wouldn't lie to me. You don't have the pitiful fucking heart to, do you? You're always too caught up in your own problems to lie anyway." He spat, heavily breathing with fury that sent flames through his gunpowder-ignited body.

Tom froze, eyes going wide at the insult. He pushed himself further into the couch, trying to appear smaller. "I would never lie to you," he offered, trying to fix the situation. "I'm sorry. You're right, like always." He offered the American a meek smile, lips twitching with effort.

"Damn fucking right I am!" He was still furious, slamming his palms against the glass table. The coffee mug that had sat on it shook, the (now cold) liquid swirling around inside it, pushing off the walls. "That Norwegian. He's a good-for-nothing fucking freak." He hissed, heavy hands lifting off of the glass coffee table as he paced back and forth, nose wrinkling as he spit out the hisses and curses, dirting the Norse's name and sounding it to make it seem like the devil's name on an angel's tongue, to make him seem like a taboo, pinching in at all the wrong places and making fake assumptions about the Norse that were firsty, incredibly racist and secondly offending. He hissed that the Norwegian was a fuckboy, all he had was girls on his mind, that him, as a Norwegian, shouldn't be allowed into the country. Tord, Tord, Tord, he never treated anybody with respect, and that he was a dumbass-- couldn't read nor write, saying he was too tan to be allowed proper citizenship in the country. Tord, Tord, Tord, hits and abuses people, only breaks their hearts. A stupid communist that doesn't respect anyone or anything. Tord, Tord, Tord, deserved to go die and cripple, get diseased by cancer and either get killed by the radiation from his medical treatments or the disease itself. Tord, Tord, Tord...

When, in fact, the Norwegian wasn't an abuser. He wasn't a fuckboy, rather, had been in multiple relationships in which he had fully committed, asked for consent and was utterly loving. He didn't have women on his mind all the time, nor money. He was up mostly cunning, intelligent and very well able to read and write-- his cursive was fancy, gorgeous and legible to only those whom of which bother to read it. He was incredibly handsome, yet, secretly manipulative in his words.