Nobody believes there’s a Nazi uprising. You know how I know? Nobody acts like it. If they truly believed that Nazi Germany was about to happen in North America, they wouldn’t be punching; they’d be killing.
Why aren’t you antifa faggots killing the Nazis? Why aren’t you defending your nations from the uprising of fascism? Because it’s not happening, you know that it’s not happening, and you’re acting accordingly.
What’s really happening is that neo-Nazis exist in small numbers. Bringing attention towards them makes anarcho-communism sound less dangerous by comparison to the world’s favorite genocide, the Holocaust. People are not generally well educated on the dangers of communism and the horrors that came from basically every communist revolution.
In short, you are lying and nobody is smart enough to realize it. Just keep using violence to meet your goals and that will change. People can only ignore a violent uprising for so long before they must react.
Summary: In which Tom and Tord are two transparent adolescents having trouble with their young love.
Warning: This contains themes of drugs, depression, violence, and strong language. Reader’s discretion is advised.
Notes: tomtord teen au because I’m absolute trash. This is kinda bad lmao.
Tom feels painfully numb.
Wide-eyed at 2:35 a.m. before dawn, his back digging into the all-too-firm mattress Tord had bought for their hide away. The rough fabric scratching against his skin, and his shirt, drenched in sweat, clung onto him.
He turns to the empty space where Tord should be, and he felt his stomach sink and his heart beat so rapidly in his chest that he could hear the blood pump in his ears.
Why isn’t he back yet.
His mind thinks of a hundred possible answers for his own question, but none them could convince the worriness and anger growing inside of him.
He shoots up all too quickly, his mind going fuzzy as he does so. He walks into the bathroom and stares at his reflection.
His hair was a mess, and it didn’t spike upwards anymore like it did back then. Instead, it flows limply to the back of his neck.
His cheekbones, somehow, were more prominent under fluorescent light. He appears older, and thinner. And Tom doesn’t like it one bit.
The bags under his eyes are darker than ever, and he lets out a defeated sigh. He turns on the faucet and splashes his face with cold water, the cold temperature taking him by surprise. It sent chills down his neck and onto his chest, but it doesn’t go any further.
He stares at his reflection again, but this time all he sees is Tord. His image is smudged however, streaks of red, brown, black, and grey. The red over powers the other colors, and Tom panics.
He stumbles out of the bathroom, nearly hitting his head on the door frame. He reachesd for his jeans lying on the floor, and zips it up as fast he could, he then dug for his hoodie underneath a pile of clothes, but before he could finish the bedroom door swings open to reveal the same young man he’s been worrying about.
Tord is safe.
Tom felt a powerful sense of relief, followed by anger. He stomped towards Tord and shoved the taller boy rather forcefully, nearly sending him to the ground.
“Where the fuck have you been?!” Tom seethes, taking the Nordic by his collar. Upon closer inspection, he could see traces of white dust lingering under Tord’s nose, and his anger fuels up even more.
“Fucking hell, Tord.” He shoves him again, and Tord lets out a groan. “You can’t keep doing this!”
“What can I do?” Tord says, volume increasing after every word. “It’s part of my job. This is what we do.”
“Fucking bullshit, commie.” Tom sneers, his hands turning into fists. “You said you’d fucking stop this.” He said through gritted teeth. “Do you remember what happened last time?” Tord felt his heart sink at Tom’s words, as thoughts of that particular incident raced into his mind.
It happened about a year ago. Tord, at age 16, had an overdose and spent a month in the hospital. He lost at least ten pounds, his eyes unsually wide, his hands always jittery. Thank God his grandparents who raised him were back in Norway, so they didn’t have to see their precious little Tord crumble from within himself. His friends, Edd, Matt, Paul and Patryk would visit him occasionally, even staying with him. But Tom, however, only visited once, and it was to tell Tord how stupid he is and how he probably deserved all of this. Tord cried for days, but none of them knew about this.
Tord shakes the thoughts out of his mind, and offers Tom a smirk and a shrug in return.
“Why the fuck do you care, Jehova’s?”
And that’s all it took to push Tom over the edge. He swung his fist back and hit Tord directly into the face, making him fall back. Tom climbs on top of him and takes him by the collar again, and swings his fist again, but before he could throw another punch, Tord stops him.
“Make sure you kiss your kuckles before you punch him in the face.”
Tom does this, riding along Tord’s sick idea of a joke, and hits him in the face again, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy him. So he hit him again. And again, and again, and again, and again, until Tord spit out a bit of blood and Tom was in tears.
“You know what the problem with you is?” Tom chokes, still on top of Tord, his hands clenching on his collar. “You don’t give a shit about what other people feel!” He spat. “All you care about is yourself! You just go around doing whatever crap you feel like doing and don’t even think about the people that care about you and what you put them through. You selfish prick!” He lets go of him, and bawls infront of Tord, not caring of it makes him look weak.
Tord, his face throbbing with pain, can taste the blood on his lips. He brushes this aside, and slowly cups Tom’s face in his hands, wiping away the tears from his eyes.
Tord was never good with apologies, so he never really said sorry like he meant it, and he’s not sure if he could say it now, but he tried anyways.
“I-I’m sorry, Thomas.” He whispers shakily, not sure of Tom heard. But he thinks he did, because Tom looked up at him, trying to calm himself down.
“I just don’t want you getting hurt again.” He sniffs. “What happened to you last year was one of the hardest things I ever had to deal with.” He says, choking on his words. “Seeing you the exact moment you broke down, how you had a seizure right here in my arms, how you called for me when you were practically dying, It was a fucking nightmare. And I can’t help but think that it was my fault, because I let you go through all of this.” Tord stayed quiet. Not knowing what to say.
None of this was Tom’s fault. Tord was the one who chose to do drugs. He was bored and he had money. That’s what it was. He was the one who even dragged Tom into this, and he’s surprised he hasn’t left him yet. He was lucky to have Tom. He was lucky that he had someone who put up with the shit he does.
“You did good.” Was all Tord managed to say, and Tom cried even more. He was practically wailing, and Tord pulled him into an embrace.
“You’re good.” He whispered into Tom’s ear repeatedly until he calmed down a little. Tom looked up Tord, his cheeks tinted with pink.
“I’m sorry for punching you in the face.” He says bashfully, and he could hear Tord chuckle under his breath.
“It’s okay,” he said, planting a small kiss on Tom’s head. “I can take it.” He hugged Tom tighter, and traced small circles on his back.
Tom smiles, and kisses Tord on the lips. It started slow and sweet and turned hot and passionate as it went on. He felt Tord tugging his shirt upwards, so he pulled away and took it off himself. Blood was now smudged on both of their lips, but they don’t mind.
“I love you, Tom.” Tord says, looking directly into Tom’s eyes.
“I love you too, Tord.” He anwsers, and kisses him again.
“Wanna move this to the bed?” Tord says in between kisses, and Tom smirks against his lips.
“It would be my pleasure.”
Gah! This was horrible I’m sorry!! I’m new at writing fics and at writing in general. Also sorry for any typos, because I had to type this on my phone, and also sorry for any grammatical errors, English isn’t my first language so yeah haha.
When the commies say “liberals get the bullet too” or just something like “ew liberals”, here’s what you need to understand. All of you center-right, moderate conservatives, libertarians, or just ANYONE who believes in personal freedoms for individuals over collectives…
THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT YOU.
When they say “liberal”, they aren’t talking about modern leftist parties and shit. They’re talking about those of us who believe in freedom of speech. Those of us who love debate and hate political violence.
Proportional representation is a false standard which bears no accountable intrinsic relation with median societal preferences. The canard of privilege requiring said relation to be at all measurable, and thus proveable.
Culture, chaos theory, and individual choices make for such an unpredictabe diversity of experiences, that this thinly guised stereotyping bigotted nonsense should be classified as a hate crime.