TomTord/TordTom oneshots 2

Okay ow that hurted

I'm ( was ) sad okay? Cut me some slack
Warnings; character death, semi-descriptive gore
Future au, everyone slowly dies-

💚🐸💚

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The three of them rocked into themselves, hospital stool squeaking due to their conjoined weight.

Matthew had his feet tucked into his thighs, sitting criss-cross and thumbing the metal bits that outlined the hole for his shoelaces. The ginger tugged at it, nail picking under the clasped metal before he moved to the tongue of his sneakers. He traced his finger along the innermost hexagonal pattern, cheeks drained and devoid of color.

Tom sat the opposite side of the bench, knees pushed up against his chest, legs going numb in a way before his ankle started to burn and ache. He didn't mind too much though, face dug down between his legs. The brunettes eyes were squeezed shut, hood yanked up far enough to cover most of his face, sparring his cheeks, sadly.

The foreigner was settled in between the two of them, legs jittery and spread out. He was hunched forward onto his thighs, elbows prodding against his skin and eyes trained on the door they were all sat beside. He took up most of the seat, brows creased and hands joint under his chin, holding him up.

Edd wasn't with them, instead settled on a hospital bed, nodding off and trying to stay strong. His friends were out there, waiting for him to spring out and be the group-extrovert. They were all waiting, he couldn't just ditch them now.

They were all waiting for him.

Not a moment later, the three of them wrenched when an eerie, flat tone dragged through their ears.

Thomas was the first to break, gripping onto his shins and crying out, just barely above a whisper even when he tried to push the air out of his lungs. He puffed through gritted teeth, the large, chubby male sticking to his mind as he weakly called his name, tears dripping down.

Matt's dam was the next to fall, pleading cries tumbling out of him, ushering long whines through his throat. His gut churned, pain snapping at his stomach and making him slightly curl over. His ankles bent a little too far, but he sobbed either way, ugly tears streaking down his face.

Tord, upon hearing both the taller's soft whines and Thomas' roars of spotting pain, subjected himself to anger, hands roughly sucking into themselves and trembling. His legs shifted closer together than were they were previously positioned, the barely hopeful atmosphere crashing down into that of despair. He dropped his head down into his hands, hissing and cursing, eyes burning and watery.

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A shot was met with a sickening crunch, a loud, almost piglet toned scream. This was a signal, and a switch for Tom's instincts. That was definitely his friend, his dearest best friend now, and he was all but rearing back, tearing through the battlefield and seeing a ginger close by. After seeing the way he jerked back head-down, he sprinted to catch him, pants scrapping against the ground and kicking up dirt.

Thomas crumbled, knees bashing against the floor while he lunged forward and caught the gingers frail body. He gasped when he nearly tipped over, though quickly got back to his feet, adrenaline pumping through his body. He wiped the blood from his forehead before it got into his eyes, brushing his hair back and looking over Matt.

He bristled, looking under the metal chin, as well as pressing his frantic hands around his body, trying to find the wound. After a bit, a shout came, Tord barreling out through the shrubbery around them with heavy breaths. He looked at the two brits, eyes snapping wide open when he saw Matthew laid in a puddle of blood, Tom curled over him with his head pressed to his chest.

Slowly, the rebellion leader looked up, offending tears sliding down. He met eyes with the Red Leader, desperate to give up. He couldn't even crown it off with a fake smile, expression crooked and deflated. His hands shook, reaching up towards the enemy, who rushed over and hugged him tight.

He deserved it, he'd gone through too much, he shouldn't have to do it alone now. So, he took him in, letting the smaller rest.

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The Army Leader pressed his back against his second-in-command, shooting off the heads of their enemies and quickly locating Black Leader from the crowd. He took no time getting over to him, taking his shot and crunching down on his ribs when the enemy leader fell.

Through the pleasure of watching the light fade from his eyes, a metallic sound broke through his ears, snapping his head around to crown off the view, Thomas on the ground and bloodied. He picked himself up, knees pulling against his pants while he darted back over, pistol whipping the soldier who he deemed responsible. The scandinavian dropped down, gun skidding to the side and hands instead scooping their way up from under the boy.

He shouted his name, the goggles he wore were cracked, heating up as a response to the new malfunction and damaged hardware. Edds heart-rate monitor bleared in his ears, numbing the noise around him while he looked down at his lover, his partner in crime. Tord stared down at him, shuffling and pulling him into his chest.

Thomas simply reached up, babbling quietly and weakly grabbing at his coat and shoulder. He tugged himself up, almost as if he wasn't aware of the fact that he was bleeding out, fast, mind you. The brit heaved, cracking down on his goggles and ripping them from his sockets, tears springing from his eyes and scars left behind from the device. Wires dangled out, his vision now blurry and instead making things out in blobs.

He brushed the hair from his face, squinting to try and see his lover more, leaning up and kissing him.

Tord was frozen, watery splits flowing down, letting Tom kiss the corner of his lips. He didn't mind that he missed, correcting them anyways and moving their lips together. Each second spent was horrid, Thomas muttering something incoherent before resting on him and sinking into his body.

At this point, reality kicked in, the leader slowly flaring up and roaring in pain. He stood, stumbling and holding a now limp Tom in his arms. Each one of his friends deaths took a toll on him, but this one? This one drove him over the edge of insanity, tears falling while he ripped through the soldier who'd killed him like nothing. He tore him limb from limb, blood splattering everywhere, mauling his body and ringing out his bones, jamming them into his head.

Laughing, he laughed, he treated this now dead man like a rag-doll, watching him gurgle up blood, dying from either shock, pain, blood loss, or all of the above. He didn't care, he kept going, the others on the battlefield seeming to stop and watch in horror. Jabbing his dull nails into his skin, he started scratching, peeling away at the flesh, delving his hand in and squashing every last organ he could feel around for. He didn't stop, he wasn't going to stop.

He needed to suffer, suffer, suffer, suffer, suffer, suffer—

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Later that year, the norsk went off his hinges. The only thing that kept him sane was gone, and the world was going to pay for taking that one important thing away from him.

They would all pay.