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Norway wakes at seven AM to a happily empty bed, no Denmark stealing the sheets or trying to coax him into morning sex. He takes a moment to stretch out, touching the sides of the bed, taking it all up by himself.
Then he gets up.
Denmark’s left a note and a box on the kitchen table. Norway lets them sit until he’s done putting together his breakfast. He reads the note over a slice of bread and a half-litre of fresh coffee.
Norway –
I’m off to my meeting. Stay warm! Also, just so you won’t miss me, I bought you something. Feel free to use it – I want to hear what you think.
Denmark
Norway sets the note aside to recycle later and picks up the box, which is wrapped in gift paper patterned with a red-and-white plaid. Denmark, ever the gentle egotist.
He strips the paper off the box and immediately freezes, horrified. A vibrating dildo. Of course, he owns a vibrator; most Nations have received one from France. The same is true of dildos. He’s never needed one because he’s never had a shortage of partners, especially since he discovered oil in the North Sea.
And then he actually looks, and his belly goes cold-hot with shock and annoyance. He knows that penis, knows it damn well indeed. Has had it in his hand, his mouth, his ass. Hot, hard, straight onto his sweet spot, and attached to Denmark, who if he knew how much Norway enjoyed sex with him would never shut up about it. In private or in public.
Best to ignore the gift, such as it isn’t, and leave Denmark feeling useless. Norway puts it next to the also-unused toys from France in a drawer in his dresser, and goes to work.
At work, Denmark has sent him an email message containing only an emoticon depicting a beautifully designed chair. Norway responds with a terse, If you’re going to email furniture porn, send it to Sweden.
Almost immediately Denmark sends back, What about regular porn?
Turn off your BlackBerry.
After that he is permitted to work in peace.
At lunch he eats with some of his counties, has wonderful conversation, and indulges in chocolate cake for dessert, followed by some delicious coffee.
He gets back to his office and checks his email: a number of messages, many of them official and important. Nothing from Denmark. He’s relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
He works until eight that evening because there is no Denmark to call and interrupt him by saying they should meet for dinner. He comes back to a quiet house, cooks himself dinner, and eats it sitting under a tree in his back yard, getting bitten by insects.
That night he sleeps peacefully, and wakes alone and refreshed.
He and Sweden have a meeting the next day, perfectly businesslike, and the only email Norway receives from Denmark during the day is a link to a picture of a cat, with a humorous caption. Norway sends back, Am in a meeting. In future, please send pictures of small fluffy creatures to Finland.
After the meeting, drained, he gets an early take-out dinner from a restaurant on his way home, eats it in the silence of his own kitchen, and collapses on his couch.
He must’ve dozed off, because he wakes not long after, the sun already set. He watches the stars for a few moments, then goes to sit outside, watching planes pass by overhead like little stars.
If Denmark were here he would want to go out clubbing or watch television (the more insipid, the better) or have sex. Norway wonders if that last wouldn’t pass the time now. It’ll be a little while yet before he’s tired. Probably not. He still needs to pack a lunch for tomorrow; he doesn’t like the cafeteria, and the nearby restaurants are too expensive for his lunch tastes, especially with his economy thisclose to falling to pieces like everyone else’s.
Denmark sometimes puts together their lunches, like he sometimes cooks breakfast and sometimes sleeps over. It’s a mindless, kind thing, something he does when the whimsy strikes him.
Norway goes inside, puts together a sandwich to take to work in the morning, and goes to bed. He spends a little time reading, and when he’s done he thinks about masturbating but doesn’t.
Day three dawns with a message from Denmark in the inbox of Norway’s personal email account, the one where diplomatic messages aren’t allowed. Denmark and Iceland are the only ones who use it regularly, and very few other Nations know it.
Might not want to watch this in a meeting, reads the message, and the attachment is a video file.
He turns down the sound on his computer and opens the video.
It’s footage of Denmark, sitting in front of his computer, watching the computer’s camera-eye intently.
“Hiya, Norge,” he says. “I thought maybe sending you a monologue might get your attention when small cute fluffy things and furniture didn’t.
“It’s been pretty boring here, not much to do. I’ve been smoking some pot with Amsterdam, which was fun the first couple of times but has gotten boring. Everyone’s trying to be nice so that things go smoothly, but what I wouldn’t give to be at a meeting where people could react honestly to each other – I’d invite Switzerland, but he wouldn’t belong.” Denmark shifts in his seat. “It’d be nice to have you here, too. I value your opinion, even if you are prickly and insult everyone. But you’ve got the North Sea, so unless you wanted to go visit Sweden and marry me that’s right out.” He laughs a little hollowly, or so it seems to Norway. “I’m sorry; I’m a little drunk. Sleep well. I’ll be by when the conference is over.” The video ends.
Norway closes the video program and finishes his breakfast. So Denmark is lonely, out there in a hotel full of other Nations and Cities and Provinces. So lonely that he said something he needed to pass off as drunkenness – and Norway’s certain that Denmark had no alcohol in his system when he said it. Odd. Flattering.
He spends all day thinking that he should respond in kind, with something too intimate to be shared. If only so Denmark won’t be as upset and will be able to drag himself through the rest of the conference. What to do, what to do…
After dinner, he brings his computer up to the bedroom, plugs it in and turns it on, and makes sure the video is set properly. Then he starts recording.
“Since I can’t dissuade you through normal means, I’m answering your message.
“I’m sorry to hear you’re not enjoying the meetings, but I don’t think marijuana will solve your problems.
“If you’re really so bored with their being peaceful, I’m sure all you have to do is mention American oil policy and you’ll have more chaos than even you need. Good luck.”
He saves it under the file name WATCHMEFIRST. He can rename it later if he needs to.
The second file he starts recording after moving the computer to his dresser, camera facing the bed, and he stands in the center of the screen’s view, still clothed. Unzips his jacket, letting his fingers trace the cloth-and-metal joins, and lets the garment fall to the floor. Shirt next, white cloth sliding down and off his arms.
He thinks of Denmark watching the video, smirk stopped with shock. Who would expect caustic, quiet Norway to strip at all, let alone for Denmark? He unbuttons his trousers, unzips. Palms his growing erection, stroking, and closes his eyes, not wanting to look at the camera. When he sees this part, Denmark will laugh, because Norway is blushing.
Focusing on his embarassment distracts him, his arousal slipping away despite his own touch. He sits on the bed, legs hanging down over the edge, and spreads his knees apart, sliding down his trousers and the briefs below them until his hand, trying to bring him to full arousal, is all that is between the camera and his groin.
He’s never done this for Denmark before. Masturbated in front of him, yes, but only when he was already aroused. Never from nothing. And he has to bring it all the way through, put on a show that will leave Denmark frustrated and wound tight with desire.
Even if Denmark manages to finish himself, it won’t be enough. That’s who he is. He’ll pretend he’s satisfied, but he won’t be. He’ll come back to Norway and smirk and grin and laugh, and he’ll be stone-hard and trembling with need.
Norway’s naked, now, the pit of his belly tight with arousal. He smears lube on his hand to let it warm before folding his fingers over his cock, stroking. He can’t imagine it’s Denmark’s hand because his hands are smaller than Denmark’s, with rougher callouses, but he thinks of Denmark watching this and that’s enough to keep him going. He glances over at the camera to make sure it’s still recording, and he catches a view of himself, spread over the quilt, skin pink and legs spread, cock and balls well-visible.
He rolls onto his back, pulling up his knees so his feet are flat on the bed, straight shot from the camera lens to between his legs. Reaches between and slicks the skin around his hole before spilling more lube on his fingers. Cold again, warming against his skin, but still a shock when he presses into himself. He feels the muscles tighten around his fingers, forces himself to relax, and plays with his erection a bit. His fingers are nowhere close to his prostate, so it mostly feels odd and intrusive instead of enjoyable. He doesn’t pretend otherwise. Denmark has never minded that he’s quiet during sex, so he’s not going to put on a show that involves fake reactions.
He stays that way for a while, pressing his fingers in and out of himself, feeling the tightness of having his knuckles draw through his entrance, until he realises that he’s not close, and this is supposed to be for Denmark, who’s probably gotten bored by now. So he reaches out to his nightstand, where he put that stupid present after washing it, slicks it up, and pulls the fingers inside himself to the side so he can slide it in instead of just having to shove, like Denmark does and which frankly hurts.
If Denmark isn’t yelling with gleefully aroused shock at the realization of exactly what Norway is using on himself, then he is not the nation Norway has always thought him to be.
He closes his eyes, shifts its angle inside him trying to find where Denmark always fits sweetly enough to make him lose his breath, and can’t imitate it. He gives up after a minute or so.
After that, it’s just him, his gaze fixed to the ceiling, one hand on his cock and one hand guiding the dildo inside him. Hips rocking into the motion, enjoying the tightness of his own grip, the sensation of being stretched.
Shock of pleasure, sweet inside him and he jerks, gasping. Denmark’s cock-by-imitation finding his prostate, and Norway slides himself onto it again and yet more, feeling heavy and disarranged, like there is nothing inside him but the dildo and blood-weighted arousal, no stomach and little of anything other than heart.
He plays with the skin of his balls, the head of his cock, tracing veins and foreskin. He imagines that the thing inside him is actually part of Denmark, that Denmark is standing at the edge of the bed, legs braced apart and cock plunging into Norway, the pressure of his arm on his own hip Denmark’s hand holding him steady.
It’s imagining the bruises that he’d have on his hips that brings Norway over the edge. It’s not the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, less like feeling bombed-out and more washed over with stars.
He stays on his back for a couple of minutes, reveling in the afterglow, before pulling the dildo out and taking it to the bathroom to wash off. At least the dildo, even without a condom, doesn’t leave him full of come.
That’s when he returns and turns the camera off.
Without getting dressed, he watches the video again, goes to take a shower to think over whether or not he wants to send it, and finally saves it as WATCHWHILEALONE before sending it, along with the other message.
He receives no response for the two remaining days of Denmark’s conference. He’s not sure whether to be flattered at having silenced even Denmark or to be angry at Denmark ignoring him.
Two hours before Denmark’s plane is set to land in Oslo, Norway decides that anger is better. When Denmark walks in the door, just in time for a late dinner, Norway has deliberately burnt Denmark’s portion. He’s also made up a bed on the couch for Denmark.
The first thing Denmark does is turn off the stove. “I brought dinner,” he says, wrapping around Norway and setting a plastic bag on the counter next to the stove. “Let’s eat now and go to bed.” He kisses Norway’s neck, the hollow behind his ear.
“Tired?” Norway manages to inflect that with just enough sarcasm to make it an insult.
“Hungry,” Denmark says. That’s when Norway realizes Denmark’s hands are shaking. “So hungry. You have no idea. I never thought you would use it. I…”
Norway slides out of his grasp and puts the food on the table, all of it, even the dinner he cooked. “Don’t drink beer with dinner,” he orders. “You’ll drink too much and impair your performance. Which might disappoint you. It makes no difference to me now that you’ve copied your most useful parts.”
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Norway wakes at seven AM to a happily empty bed, no Denmark stealing the sheets or trying to coax him into morning sex. He takes a moment to stretch out, touching the sides of the bed, taking it all up by himself.
Then he gets up.
Denmark’s left a note and a box on the kitchen table. Norway lets them sit until he’s done putting together his breakfast. He reads the note over a slice of bread and a half-litre of fresh coffee.
Norway –
I’m off to my meeting. Stay warm! Also, just so you won’t miss me, I bought you something. Feel free to use it – I want to hear what you think.
Denmark
Norway sets the note aside to recycle later and picks up the box, which is wrapped in gift paper patterned with a red-and-white plaid. Denmark, ever the gentle egotist.
He strips the paper off the box and immediately freezes, horrified. A vibrating dildo. Of course, he owns a vibrator; most Nations have received one from France. The same is true of dildos. He’s never needed one because he’s never had a shortage of partners, especially since he discovered oil in the North Sea.
And then he actually looks, and his belly goes cold-hot with shock and annoyance. He knows that penis, knows it damn well indeed. Has had it in his hand, his mouth, his ass. Hot, hard, straight onto his sweet spot, and attached to Denmark, who if he knew how much Norway enjoyed sex with him would never shut up about it. In private or in public.
Best to ignore the gift, such as it isn’t, and leave Denmark feeling useless. Norway puts it next to the also-unused toys from France in a drawer in his dresser, and goes to work.
At work, Denmark has sent him an email message containing only an emoticon depicting a beautifully designed chair. Norway responds with a terse, If you’re going to email furniture porn, send it to Sweden.
Almost immediately Denmark sends back, What about regular porn?
Turn off your BlackBerry.
After that he is permitted to work in peace.
At lunch he eats with some of his counties, has wonderful conversation, and indulges in chocolate cake for dessert, followed by some delicious coffee.
He gets back to his office and checks his email: a number of messages, many of them official and important. Nothing from Denmark. He’s relieved and disappointed in equal measure.
He works until eight that evening because there is no Denmark to call and interrupt him by saying they should meet for dinner. He comes back to a quiet house, cooks himself dinner, and eats it sitting under a tree in his back yard, getting bitten by insects.
That night he sleeps peacefully, and wakes alone and refreshed.
He and Sweden have a meeting the next day, perfectly businesslike, and the only email Norway receives from Denmark during the day is a link to a picture of a cat, with a humorous caption. Norway sends back, Am in a meeting. In future, please send pictures of small fluffy creatures to Finland.
After the meeting, drained, he gets an early take-out dinner from a restaurant on his way home, eats it in the silence of his own kitchen, and collapses on his couch.
He must’ve dozed off, because he wakes not long after, the sun already set. He watches the stars for a few moments, then goes to sit outside, watching planes pass by overhead like little stars.
If Denmark were here he would want to go out clubbing or watch television (the more insipid, the better) or have sex. Norway wonders if that last wouldn’t pass the time now. It’ll be a little while yet before he’s tired. Probably not. He still needs to pack a lunch for tomorrow; he doesn’t like the cafeteria, and the nearby restaurants are too expensive for his lunch tastes, especially with his economy thisclose to falling to pieces like everyone else’s.
Denmark sometimes puts together their lunches, like he sometimes cooks breakfast and sometimes sleeps over. It’s a mindless, kind thing, something he does when the whimsy strikes him.
Norway goes inside, puts together a sandwich to take to work in the morning, and goes to bed. He spends a little time reading, and when he’s done he thinks about masturbating but doesn’t.
Day three dawns with a message from Denmark in the inbox of Norway’s personal email account, the one where diplomatic messages aren’t allowed. Denmark and Iceland are the only ones who use it regularly, and very few other Nations know it.
Might not want to watch this in a meeting, reads the message, and the attachment is a video file.
He turns down the sound on his computer and opens the video.
It’s footage of Denmark, sitting in front of his computer, watching the computer’s camera-eye intently.
“Hiya, Norge,” he says. “I thought maybe sending you a monologue might get your attention when small cute fluffy things and furniture didn’t.
“It’s been pretty boring here, not much to do. I’ve been smoking some pot with Amsterdam, which was fun the first couple of times but has gotten boring. Everyone’s trying to be nice so that things go smoothly, but what I wouldn’t give to be at a meeting where people could react honestly to each other – I’d invite Switzerland, but he wouldn’t belong.” Denmark shifts in his seat. “It’d be nice to have you here, too. I value your opinion, even if you are prickly and insult everyone. But you’ve got the North Sea, so unless you wanted to go visit Sweden and marry me that’s right out.” He laughs a little hollowly, or so it seems to Norway. “I’m sorry; I’m a little drunk. Sleep well. I’ll be by when the conference is over.” The video ends.
Norway closes the video program and finishes his breakfast. So Denmark is lonely, out there in a hotel full of other Nations and Cities and Provinces. So lonely that he said something he needed to pass off as drunkenness – and Norway’s certain that Denmark had no alcohol in his system when he said it. Odd. Flattering.
He spends all day thinking that he should respond in kind, with something too intimate to be shared. If only so Denmark won’t be as upset and will be able to drag himself through the rest of the conference. What to do, what to do…
After dinner, he brings his computer up to the bedroom, plugs it in and turns it on, and makes sure the video is set properly. Then he starts recording.
“Since I can’t dissuade you through normal means, I’m answering your message.
“I’m sorry to hear you’re not enjoying the meetings, but I don’t think marijuana will solve your problems.
“If you’re really so bored with their being peaceful, I’m sure all you have to do is mention American oil policy and you’ll have more chaos than even you need. Good luck.”
He saves it under the file name WATCHMEFIRST. He can rename it later if he needs to.
The second file he starts recording after moving the computer to his dresser, camera facing the bed, and he stands in the center of the screen’s view, still clothed. Unzips his jacket, letting his fingers trace the cloth-and-metal joins, and lets the garment fall to the floor. Shirt next, white cloth sliding down and off his arms.
He thinks of Denmark watching the video, smirk stopped with shock. Who would expect caustic, quiet Norway to strip at all, let alone for Denmark? He unbuttons his trousers, unzips. Palms his growing erection, stroking, and closes his eyes, not wanting to look at the camera. When he sees this part, Denmark will laugh, because Norway is blushing.
Focusing on his embarassment distracts him, his arousal slipping away despite his own touch. He sits on the bed, legs hanging down over the edge, and spreads his knees apart, sliding down his trousers and the briefs below them until his hand, trying to bring him to full arousal, is all that is between the camera and his groin.
He’s never done this for Denmark before. Masturbated in front of him, yes, but only when he was already aroused. Never from nothing. And he has to bring it all the way through, put on a show that will leave Denmark frustrated and wound tight with desire.
Even if Denmark manages to finish himself, it won’t be enough. That’s who he is. He’ll pretend he’s satisfied, but he won’t be. He’ll come back to Norway and smirk and grin and laugh, and he’ll be stone-hard and trembling with need.
Norway’s naked, now, the pit of his belly tight with arousal. He smears lube on his hand to let it warm before folding his fingers over his cock, stroking. He can’t imagine it’s Denmark’s hand because his hands are smaller than Denmark’s, with rougher callouses, but he thinks of Denmark watching this and that’s enough to keep him going. He glances over at the camera to make sure it’s still recording, and he catches a view of himself, spread over the quilt, skin pink and legs spread, cock and balls well-visible.
He rolls onto his back, pulling up his knees so his feet are flat on the bed, straight shot from the camera lens to between his legs. Reaches between and slicks the skin around his hole before spilling more lube on his fingers. Cold again, warming against his skin, but still a shock when he presses into himself. He feels the muscles tighten around his fingers, forces himself to relax, and plays with his erection a bit. His fingers are nowhere close to his prostate, so it mostly feels odd and intrusive instead of enjoyable. He doesn’t pretend otherwise. Denmark has never minded that he’s quiet during sex, so he’s not going to put on a show that involves fake reactions.
He stays that way for a while, pressing his fingers in and out of himself, feeling the tightness of having his knuckles draw through his entrance, until he realises that he’s not close, and this is supposed to be for Denmark, who’s probably gotten bored by now. So he reaches out to his nightstand, where he put that stupid present after washing it, slicks it up, and pulls the fingers inside himself to the side so he can slide it in instead of just having to shove, like Denmark does and which frankly hurts.
If Denmark isn’t yelling with gleefully aroused shock at the realization of exactly what Norway is using on himself, then he is not the nation Norway has always thought him to be.
He closes his eyes, shifts its angle inside him trying to find where Denmark always fits sweetly enough to make him lose his breath, and can’t imitate it. He gives up after a minute or so.
After that, it’s just him, his gaze fixed to the ceiling, one hand on his cock and one hand guiding the dildo inside him. Hips rocking into the motion, enjoying the tightness of his own grip, the sensation of being stretched.
Shock of pleasure, sweet inside him and he jerks, gasping. Denmark’s cock-by-imitation finding his prostate, and Norway slides himself onto it again and yet more, feeling heavy and disarranged, like there is nothing inside him but the dildo and blood-weighted arousal, no stomach and little of anything other than heart.
He plays with the skin of his balls, the head of his cock, tracing veins and foreskin. He imagines that the thing inside him is actually part of Denmark, that Denmark is standing at the edge of the bed, legs braced apart and cock plunging into Norway, the pressure of his arm on his own hip Denmark’s hand holding him steady.
It’s imagining the bruises that he’d have on his hips that brings Norway over the edge. It’s not the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, less like feeling bombed-out and more washed over with stars.
He stays on his back for a couple of minutes, reveling in the afterglow, before pulling the dildo out and taking it to the bathroom to wash off. At least the dildo, even without a condom, doesn’t leave him full of come.
That’s when he returns and turns the camera off.
Without getting dressed, he watches the video again, goes to take a shower to think over whether or not he wants to send it, and finally saves it as WATCHWHILEALONE before sending it, along with the other message.
He receives no response for the two remaining days of Denmark’s conference. He’s not sure whether to be flattered at having silenced even Denmark or to be angry at Denmark ignoring him.
Two hours before Denmark’s plane is set to land in Oslo, Norway decides that anger is better. When Denmark walks in the door, just in time for a late dinner, Norway has deliberately burnt Denmark’s portion. He’s also made up a bed on the couch for Denmark.
The first thing Denmark does is turn off the stove. “I brought dinner,” he says, wrapping around Norway and setting a plastic bag on the counter next to the stove. “Let’s eat now and go to bed.” He kisses Norway’s neck, the hollow behind his ear.
“Tired?” Norway manages to inflect that with just enough sarcasm to make it an insult.
“Hungry,” Denmark says. That’s when Norway realizes Denmark’s hands are shaking. “So hungry. You have no idea. I never thought you would use it. I…”
Norway slides out of his grasp and puts the food on the table, all of it, even the dinner he cooked. “Don’t drink beer with dinner,” he orders. “You’ll drink too much and impair your performance. Which might disappoint you. It makes no difference to me now that you’ve copied your most useful parts.”
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