I think I love you now. It's a hell of a feeling here, Sve, so let’s keep it as is. You understand, right? You, like this. We can change it all up now, make this one for the ledger-the monumental fuck, where big boy Sve learns from his stupid mistakes- and maybe things will go in a little smoother next time.
It hadn’t.
To make things this personal was one hell of a mistake; because vices always morphed into addictions before he could so much as think. A favourite of his took place one particularly nasty winter evening. From trapping Sweden between his legs (You’ve got a bit of an iron deficiency there, Sve.) to Sweden pressing his bruised chest against the ground- all against a crackling fire, a nice little touch of ambience. The poker was the main prop, and for costume, the fine little scar nicking past his ear and down towards his neck.
He called it “I Know Why I’m Doing This.”
Because if he was going to play the monster and Sweden the hero, he would be able to chalk it up to Sweden’s ridiculously overblown ego. He wasn’t the one who began the whole deal, for it was Sweden’s teeth sinking into his collarbone before any other roles were filled. And it was Sweden who had pushed his head precariously close to that fire, mumbling (couldn’t even fucking enunciate when issuing death threats) that he could just turn that face of his into a twisted little lump. Mask t’ match the player.
The history of war was tinged in grey, but Sweden insisted on the eternal dichotomy. There was pure, goodly, virtuous Sweden- the only fucks he had were tender little touches and gentle kisses with Finland, sweet Finland. And then there was the twisted little lump, who had indeed also fucked Finland, sweet Finland. A cock up the ass with bouncy thrill was the same whether coated in pink petals or the red of torn fissure.
“S’different.” Sweden said. “When there’s love. Nothin’ y’do is ‘cause of love.”
Ah.
But there was Norway.
The very location of Norway’s room spoke volumes of the self-control Denmark managed in those moments. There was a sharp turn, three matching doors, and a stubborn little threshold. The very nature of the room was a work in itself. Things tended to be left behind with casual carelessness- books, clothing, and so forth with promise of reclamation upon the next return.
Plus, this room actually had a window.
The script was far more direction and far less dialogue. Norway usually entered first, carrying his usual poise and careful posture. Composition intact, he removed his own clothes (it wouldn’t be the same if Denmark did it, because that would be controlling and monstrous) whilst Norway kept his belongings carefully stashed over by the furnace. His clip was always the last removed, his hair tumbling into his eyes, and that had made Denmark laugh the first time he’d seen it.
“Your hair is a lot longer than I thought. Jesus, can you even see?”
no subject
It hadn’t.
To make things this personal was one hell of a mistake; because vices always morphed into addictions before he could so much as think. A favourite of his took place one particularly nasty winter evening. From trapping Sweden between his legs (You’ve got a bit of an iron deficiency there, Sve.) to Sweden pressing his bruised chest against the ground- all against a crackling fire, a nice little touch of ambience. The poker was the main prop, and for costume, the fine little scar nicking past his ear and down towards his neck.
He called it “I Know Why I’m Doing This.”
Because if he was going to play the monster and Sweden the hero, he would be able to chalk it up to Sweden’s ridiculously overblown ego. He wasn’t the one who began the whole deal, for it was Sweden’s teeth sinking into his collarbone before any other roles were filled. And it was Sweden who had pushed his head precariously close to that fire, mumbling (couldn’t even fucking enunciate when issuing death threats) that he could just turn that face of his into a twisted little lump. Mask t’ match the player.
The history of war was tinged in grey, but Sweden insisted on the eternal dichotomy. There was pure, goodly, virtuous Sweden- the only fucks he had were tender little touches and gentle kisses with Finland, sweet Finland. And then there was the twisted little lump, who had indeed also fucked Finland, sweet Finland. A cock up the ass with bouncy thrill was the same whether coated in pink petals or the red of torn fissure.
“S’different.” Sweden said. “When there’s love. Nothin’ y’do is ‘cause of love.”
Ah.
But there was Norway.
The very location of Norway’s room spoke volumes of the self-control Denmark managed in those moments. There was a sharp turn, three matching doors, and a stubborn little threshold. The very nature of the room was a work in itself. Things tended to be left behind with casual carelessness- books, clothing, and so forth with promise of reclamation upon the next return.
Plus, this room actually had a window.
The script was far more direction and far less dialogue. Norway usually entered first, carrying his usual poise and careful posture. Composition intact, he removed his own clothes (it wouldn’t be the same if Denmark did it, because that would be controlling and monstrous) whilst Norway kept his belongings carefully stashed over by the furnace. His clip was always the last removed, his hair tumbling into his eyes, and that had made Denmark laugh the first time he’d seen it.
“Your hair is a lot longer than I thought. Jesus, can you even see?”
“What difference does that make?”