#Norwegian men

[dadsinsuits]

Jonas Gahr Støre

[srednod]

Gustav Wentzel Chess players 1886

[catladychronicles]

[tobbesdiscordkitten]

Men become more attractive whenever they display affection.

Fenriz at the Elm Street Rock Cafe in Oslo, Norway.

[basu-shokikita]

Possibility, a Toki from a different reality

So @dalberadiata has an AU where Toki never left the cult and, therefore, never joined Dethklok. But the call of destiny is much stronger, so he accidentally catches a glimpse of Dethklok when they're visiting Norway and pretty much instantly becomes infatuated with Skwisgaar. The interest isn't one-sided and Skwisgaar teaches Toki about the world of music...and many other things. 🎸💘

I've been wanting to do something with this AU for a while because I'm fascinated with it. So, after many talks, I decided to write the scene where Toki wears non-religious clothing for the first time. More specifically, the clothes Skwisgaar lent him. Needless to say, this is a Skwistok AU 🥰

You can also read this work here!

Hat in his hands, Toki looked at his feet. Or rather, the lack of them. Covered by the dark robe he had been wearing everyday for the past 8 years, it was like he was floating on the floor. Some kind of ghost that still managed to trip on his non-existent feet sometimes. 

His eyes kept going back to his legs, his arms, his torso, his neck even. All dutifully covered so there was nothing in sight, nothing to tell apart. Not even the top of his head was safe, protected by the hat of the same color of his robe. He was one undefined silhouette not to be confused by a mere mortal wearing vulgar clothes or showing skin. At least, that’s what his parents had taught him. 

He was always to be covered, never to expose anything. Never to embarrass or as shame the family with his indecency. Long ago were the days where he was allowed to wear a simple t-shirt and shorts for his daily duties. He was a real member of the family now and he had to behave as such.

His eyes met his own hesitant reflection, worry scattered all over his features. Should he really be doing this?

“Eh, Toki,” Skwisgaar put down the black magazine he was reading. “Don’ts..think abouts it too much.” 

Toki glanced at Skwisgaar in the reflection, and simply pursed his lips in response. He knew Skwisgaar meant well, but he had no way to understand. He had no idea what this meant for Toki, the weird guilt swelling in his gut just from his thoughts. The feeling that his parents, his dad especially, had always been right about him. That he was a failure to the family and the whole town.

He tossed the hat on his bed, as if that would make his dad’s eyes stop glaring at him from inside his mind. He wanted this. He wanted to do this.

“Okay.” He said, more to himself than Skwisgaar. “Turn around.”

“Whats?” Skwisgaar squinted like he hadn’t understood him.

“Turn around.” Toki repeated, this time gesturing with his fingers.

Skwisgaar grimaced for a good couple of seconds before throwing his palms into the air and turning around. “Talks about overkills…” He muttered under his breath but Toki still heard him.

Not that he cared, this wasn’t about Skwisgaar, it was about him and he wanted it his way. This was hard enough as it was, he didn’t need Skwisgaar’s prying eyes on top of it. Toki inhaled deeply and then closed his eyes. He counted until 10, an old trick to calm down his anxiety that he had learned from a nice old lady at the local market a couple of years ago. Then, he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. 

His stare wasn’t all quite confident, but he had to make do. Determined, he brought his hands to his collar and started unbuttoning his robe. It had exactly 16 buttons, so he took a while to undo them. The buttons were worn out and old so they always took several pulls to get off the buttonholes. One time, as a teen, Toki suggested getting new ones but his mother gave him a glare of disappointment that made him never want to ask again.

Undone, the robe fell to the floor and Toki’s first instinct was to immediately pick it up and carefully fold it to place it on his chair. However, his fingers hesitated when he was inches away from the floor. 

He remembered the first time he refused to wear the robe, because it was uncomfortable to wear, to move in. Because he thought it was ugly, because he was tired of following this charade he had never wanted to be part of. 

His dad ordered him to take off his clothes and made him stand in the snow for hours, with nothing to cover himself with. At some point he lost consciousness, and when he recovered it, he was shivering in his bed. His dad told him, just as cold as the snow that he had been surrounded by, that it was his own doing for rejecting the Lord’s graces.

A few years later, Toki fell off the mountain while running errands. He slipped with the ice and rolled for a few meters before crashing against a rock. He managed to limp his way down, though his sides really hurt and he was pretty sure he was bleeding from his leg. When his mother saw him, the first thing she was worried about wasn’t him, but the robe. 

She made him take it off, quickly tossing the snow off it and washing it to remove Toki’s blood. Not even a glance of concern when Toki was stitching himself as she dried the robe next to the fire and carefully sewed the holes back. Toki watched his mother treat his robe with more care and gentleness than he had ever received from her. 

When, just two years ago, Toki had taken his picture with them. It was his first official family picture. During his childhood, he had only seen his parents in the framed photographs around the house, never seen himself, like he wasn’t allowed to be part of it. So, he was pretty excited, to be finally acknowledged by them. He tried really hard not to smile when the town’s photographer came to take it. 

However, when he saw the final picture, he felt nothing but cruel disappointment. Because the person in it, between his two parents, didn’t feel like him, it didn’t look like him. With the serious face and the dark robe, he looked like any other member of the sect. Nothing to tell him apart from the rest, and that’s exactly what his parents had wanted all along for him.

Toki straightened instead, not even giving a spare glance to the robe on the floor. He proceeded to unbutton his dark purple shirt, trying not to feel self-conscious when the skin of his chest began to reveal itself. He always undressed looking away from the mirror, it was a habit his parents had taught him. Dress with the mirror, undress without it. Flaunting one’s own skin, even in private, was sinful.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Skwisgaar’s head move. “I’m not ready yet!” He said, trying to inspire obedience but his voice came out squeaky instead.

Skwisgaar grumbled but he didn’t try to take a peek at least, and Toki was relieved. Undoing his pants took him way less time than the rest, and he just let it join the robe on the floor, along with the shirt. 

The clothes Skwisgaar had lent him were resting on the edge of his bed and Toki hesitated again. Was this really him? Maybe he shouldn’t mess with the order after all. Maybe he shouldn’t be tempting…he didn’t even dare to think of the word. His eyes wandered around the room, until they finally fell on Skwisgaar’s mane.

Luscious bursts of golden cascading down his shoulders, leading to that black leather jacket that had enraptured him since he first saw him and the tight black pants that followed, finishing up with the elegant black boots of the same color. He was beautiful and, just as important, he was free. And Toki desired that freedom just as much as he desired him.

He made up his mind and grabbed the shirt first before forcing it down his neck and torso. Then, he spread the pants and shoved his legs inside. It was definitely tighter than he expected, and he had expected a lot. As he struggled to make his groin somehow fit comfortably between the fabric, he realized Skwisgaar was most likely a smaller size than he was. The last touch were the black combat boots that, ironically, were a tad bit too big for his feet. 

With one last exhale, Toki took a glance at his reflection and almost didn’t recognize himself. 

His usually hidden shoulder-length brown hair was exposed and slightly disheveled from the movement. His torso was adorned by a short-sleeved black shirt with an over-designed skull and the name of a band he didn’t know in red letters. The shirt had probably been loose on Skwisgaar but on Toki it fit just right. The faux leather pants made noise whenever he moved and, just like he suspected, made his crotch stand up. Packed with combat boots, they made him look like a rockstar, even if he could still see the reluctance in his expression.

Toki tried smiling, then he tried frowning and struck a pose. He put a hand on his hip and one foot in front of the other one and feigned the smugness he often saw on Skwisgaar. It made him laugh to see this much arrogance in his face, however, and he ended up cracking up in front of the mirror. Sighing, he stood straight and contemplated himself. It was weird, and it definitely didn’t look like his usual self. But maybe it could be.

Maybe this could be him.

Also, he could finally see his feet step on the floor, how crazy was that? Toki Wartooth, finally allowed to have visible lower limbs. Absolutely insane.

“Oh, heys.” Skwisgaar said, walking up to him with a smirk. “Has I met you befores?”

“Pfft.” Toki snorted, though couldn’t erase the coy smile on his face, especially not when Skwisgaar wrapped an arm around his waist. 

“You looks good in my clothes.” He said, eyeing Toki’s body. His stare stayed for a little longer on Toki’s lower abdomen before it went up again. “Ja?”

Toki averted his gaze, chuckling lightly. “I look like you.” He said, feeling his cheeks heat up from Skwisgaar’s attention and proximity to him. 

Skwisgaar took a whiff at his collarbone. “Smells like me toos.” There was something suggestive about his eyes, and Toki could’ve sworn the room was getting hotter despite being in the middle of winter. “Heh.” Skwisgaar seemed satisfied by the reaction and pulled away. “Wants to gets out of here?”

Toki didn’t expect that, though he wasn’t against it. “Where are we going?”

“There’s ans a metals show in the towns.” Skwisgaar said, his eyes were smiling at Toki with tenderness he hadn’t seen before. “I can gets us there.” His thumb slightly brushed Toki’s chin. “Hm? What you says?”

Light blue eyes got starry from the idea alone and Toki swallowed heavily. His first metal show ever…he imagined a raging crowd and killer instrumentals. An imposing vocalist growling incomprehensible lyrics, the chaos and sweat in the atmosphere…

His heartbeat sped up from anticipation and Skwisgaar smiled at him. His first metal concert would be with Skwisgaar of all people. Toki couldn’t help thinking it was the perfect date. A nod. “Let’s do it.”

Skwisgaar’s smile turned into a grin as he laced his fingers with Toki’s and dragged them away from the room. Toki allowed himself to be led, excitement bursting through his chest. 

When he walked past the door frame he turned around and gave his old clothes one last look before leaving.

He would never look back.

[sirius-you-know]

I've never been called a shot of expresso by any men but my bestie thinks I'm as annoying as the Netflix stickers on books .

[diediegamchicothdie]

AND SORROW, AGAIN

[EURODEAD]

No beta, my first fanfic in English adapted by my dream fever, adult wise and 6th semester on foreign languages career help me to traduce,,, I hope you like it

His head was spinning, slightly, like a narcotic-like effect, like a hit of weed, a trip that ended in nightmare, few things were bringing him to that state in sobriety, he had been thinking, thinking too much about the Swede, his prominent nose, dead eyes and yellowish teeth, not thinking how he used to do it, bragging about his "dead," the most brutal man you could find, no, this time not, because the night of '89 was long, the entity of chaos was dropping, unfurled by the curtains of fear would be before the intense eyes of Øystein who could not stop watching Per, wishing his skin, from the blond platinum hair to his bones, his blood, hands with nails bitten, fingers cut off, skin raised, their flesh, the aroma of rotting snus, the fleshy flesh of dead animals that hung proudly on the ceiling as the rigid body covered with thick hair that was hidden inside the pillow case that unfolded the sweet whispers to his brain, how he envied not being able to get in between his dreams and bite his brain. He thought of his walks through the forest, his bare feet filled with dirt, his flabby chest that went up and down every time he looked at him, drowning in the cold oxygen of the trees surrounding that barn, thought of Per, his eyes excited when he promised glory, His thin lips that smiled at him with closed eyes, as if he were holding on to his last hope. He thought of Per, Pelle, Yngve, Ohlin as his own, and that in itself was a sin.

Øystein had never cared to look like a fag, that made him more challenging under his gaze, maybe people of all kinds were shocked at seeing basic decency, and of course, scaring old people into being a Satan worshiper is a pretty simple thing, to confuse your fellow worshippers by treating a girl as a human being or not hating those of another race because if it is an entirely different thing, maybe it was too Satanist for the purists, very well holy for satanists, but the real problem came when the fiddling between the attitude of a faggot and the palpable reality of being a faggot became a blurred line, because by the lips of his friend he would not mind to erase it completely, nor is it as if he was a homosexual one hundred percent of the time, by no means, that he was discreet did not make him a virgin and much less a saint, had had many experiences throughout his short life, already knew the taste of female mouth, with soft lips, bulky, which felt gentle and full no matter how thin they were. In his early teens years he used to take refuge in the house of her friends, sweet girls who did not care about the war between the trve and the poser, where he felt more free to their own tastes and desires, so it was, in the house of Lena, half drunk, where he offered himself as an offering to practice kissing with the girls, left his lips at the mercy of pleasure, no deep feelings, only fun, the tingling of adrenaline that came down from his spine to his cock; but, not completely a cassanova, had a crush on the girl who he’d brought to his graduation from high school, and like everything in his life, his convictions were based on politics, perhaps he preferred to believe that when a relationship breaks up it was better to forget for the honor of his partner, He did not even deign to remember her name, but in long and icy nights he could not help remembering, not by desire, not at all, with her he knew the carnal charms of women, the soft breasts, the sweet smell, the fleshy and moist thighs, all the sweetness of the flowers of April, Pelle would not be like that.

He knew it perfectly well, Pelle’s body was stiff, hard, with his angular bones whose skin embraced like the sheath of a dagger, open, immaculate despite his wounds, thinking about his body, the anatomy of a malnourished, malformed adult man was being led to bite his lower lip until it bled, only evil creature like Pelle made the hands of the great Euronymous tremble as he drew up his fifth attempt at a decent letter, because he was blind and needed someone to hold his hand in the face of doubts that itched the frontal lobe, like the damn mental larva, needed mercy although the merciful response will take weeks to land on his purple wound, with the mental larva running through his body, the itching running from lip to hands, skin was unbearable his quick teeth bit his thumb as the letters became a jumble in front of his stunned face, the words danced mocking as if the last sentence written was nothing but a nonsense, idiots on paper appreciated that "Mauricio, how does it feel to kiss a man?" Was the introduction of the homosexual topic in conversation good enough? , did it feel natural to transition between his usual questioning of his life, the state of "masacre " and plans to collaborate one day and confess that he was thinking insistently about another man’s cock? He wanted to vomit, preferred that his mind get a ride to other places of his conscious, of his memory, he for his part already knew perfectly of the orientation of his friend of correspondence, is more, was one of the first things that Mauricio dared to share so openly, personally had no problem with fucking faggots, at all, maybe even a little envy because they had already earned hell just by being born under their condition, maybe Satan liked queers, Perhaps they fell under his grace and hell was like the pink areas of the city where he had to go to get some good leather pants, a large degenerate boulevard set with music of Cher and Madonna where you did not know which genre was who but everyone looked strange... Well, that is to say "I wouldn’t mind putting my penis there", that was his recurring thought every time he visited the streets where the depraved live, on the other hand the confession of his latin friend came to him in surprise, at the time, although shocking, he did not give him greater relevance but now his head seemed shaken by the weight of his own sexuality, perhaps Mauricio had only trusted him, maybe the weight of his homosexuality was a suffocating truth in a homophobic country like Colombia and caught in the metal environment had no time to breathe so he saw in the one lifeguard in the form of a communist Norwegian that he had never seen and at the end gave a little like if I knew it, or, perhaps, just maybe, in the hypothetical world of the maybe... Mauricio suspected him. Can homosexuals detect each other as vile dogs sniffing their butts? I didn’t want to know.

He knew of his rarity, of his particularity, the fear was that it would be noticed, if one knew it, many could know it, and that would not allow it, he was careful, as much as his brain commanded glucose of coca cola allowed it, was as insightful as his brain full of songs of venom and pamphlets of Trotsky allowed it, they had not caught it with any of their girlfriends, they did not deserve to be involved in the shit that was happening on the scene (unless they had a musical project and/or collaborated with one, in that case if they deserved it) their protective self would not allow someone who he held so dear to end up being harmed by his stupid self,his alter ego the evil, terrible, anarchocommiesatanicustheonlygodfatherandfounderof blackmetal Euronymous; Pelle is also gay.

Well, Pelle was gay, as gay as could be a man who talked so passionately about tits to the point of making an exclusive song about getting drunk and finally being worthy of playing with a pair of beautiful natural breasts, no lyrics obviously... It would be too much to write a melody thought of the female bust, he would go too far if he told what he really wanted to do with them, but despite all the expressed desire, of the times that in confidence admitted to be desperate for the touch of a woman, his continuous fantasies about having disgusting, bloody, brutal sex worthy of a B serie movie, like his first wank was with the natives girls of Holocaust Cannibal and as envy to the researcher for being able to bathe with them in the Amazon, of course, Pelle was dirty and unfiltered when given the total confidence to express his feelings, as his diatribe in defense of incest, yet deep down in his soul and his visors Øystein knew it, because the way he stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, as he fiddled with his hair rolling it in his fingers as thin as claws, the way he leaned his lanky body on his, looking for his look and he would do the same, there was no moment to which he could refer as explicitly romantic, they didn’t need it because of the nature of their relationship, the deep trust perverted in mutual obsession left no subject to discussion, could spend hours talking about the genius of his vocalist, of his "dead", of his talent, the morbosity of his essence, his vocal range, his commitment to the band and metal in general, which was not like other fake Swedish glamers who go by Stockholm with its ridiculous clothes of glitter, animal prints and effeminate make-up, of course, not in the name of the scene, would never declare aloud that he could spend hours watching the Swede doing nothing, walking through the forest, listening to music, talking about how evildead was one of the masterpieces of the last century or whether wolves beat vampires but he identified himself as a vampire so he couldn’t miss it, especially liked seeing him lying in bed, whether it was his own in his room with the smell of death, snus, and rotten flowers, he was a bit of a voyerist, he loved to see his body relaxed, totally, like some kind of specter where his slight breaths would make an illusion as if he were floating, they didn’t need to say anything, the letters would read that would respond taking the looks of Pelle as approval, denial and suggestions, there was something relaxing, almost erotic under his look in seeing his vocalist rest, fragile like a bomb.

Pelle was precious, he would say, his care was of greater importance, he could not afford to exhibit it, already dealing with a lot, with his mind, body, and soul, if he put another burden on him by revealing his subject could not even imagine how reactionary if the others knew that they had been a little more than six months snuggling each time they could, the comically ridiculous image of Pelle climbing his legs up over his lap, and for his part, would reciprocate by putting his hands on those delicate hams with his fingers going up, down, circling with the fingertips around his flesh covered in dirty denim, they wouldn’t talk, they wouldn’t look each other in the eyes, much less would discuss the subject, for what purpose? , their bodies were recognized as their minds were traveling to a dull state of consciousness, a place where they would not question the reasons of their pleasure at contact with another male, they would only enjoy it, would relax in mutual breaths and keep in their memory the trace of the body and the fragrance of the other; no one could see Per so perfect and umpolluted, all the honor, and glory to see the blond in his purest state was he, he who knew perfectly every part of his body, who had bathed, fed and sheltered him in the terrible nights of intense winter, who cured his wounds, kissed them, licked them like an old dog to his master, who defied his parents and ended up renting a house so that he no longer slept in a decaying car on some forgotten street at the mercy of the deadly north winds, he was the one who would give him his soul if he asked for it, his body if he needed it, and his blood if it deserved it, could not make him suffer, would be willing to maintain their ambiguous relationship containing all its desires in the air, in his mind, and especially in his timidly flirtatious caresses, so your query, just wanted to fantasize, Per was not like an ordinary man but in the end he was one like everyone else, he knew that if the Swede kissed him he would fall at his feet and surrender to his will, but if he took the dead body as his own... He didn’t know, the universe could explode.

At the end of the letter, where his hands danced opening his heart and mind, all the thoughts that came, the scattered memories, the explanation of their story, the fears, the doubts and the fervent passion that grew between them, all his secrets exposed in a sorrowful English, anxiously written, dizzy as if he had been beaten, read the last words with suspicion. In his total intimacy, he felt like millions of eyes were harassing his letters, digging through his sloppy writing, mumbling shit about his feelings, but the text only laughed at him.

"You are not obliged to say; if you want to keep it secret, I completely understand, but I would appreciate it if you shared the experience with me. I am really lost, I do not know how far I have come in this situation, I do not know how to start from here or if my act will lead me somewhere. Just waiting for your answer, some point from which to start, where to guide me. I only hope that, by our friendship, you can grant me two whims. The first: do not judge me so strongly by my acting. I’m as confused as you, as Pelle or anyone else who’s ever heard of our affair. Please, if you ever have a trial, don’t let me know; I really don’t need another executioner. My common sense is doing an exceptional job of keeping me awake at night. My second request is a little more severe. Whatever the conclusion, I ask you to, for pity’s sake, burn this letter, don’t let anyone look at it, keep the secret and as a sign of our brotherhood, I will do the same with yours. Don’t fail me".

The letter was finished, he could only admire his solemn shit work, just a sigh and signed it finally defeated, if a fag could not help him neither God nor Satan could, no longer felt defeated, only with a hangover of reality, licked her lips with silly doodles before signatures, slowly fold it into equal three parts, fiddle with paper before putting it in the envelope, as an act of sacrifice, and put one of the expensive stamps on the other side of the world, as he who puts a letter in a bottle to throw it into the open sea, the heaviness in the air seemed like a smell of death, not only by his numb muscles, Pelle had already arrived together with the morning, as the sun rose over all mental penumbra, he entered owner of the place, walking directly to the bed where he made a nest, his pale eyes like the summer sky looked at him expectantly, ordering without speaking that he should go to his side, he got up leaving his shrimp posture and went straight to his right, curl back up but this time absorbing his body like a black hole, feeding on its false light.

-Didn’t you sleep last night?

Question as his fingers meet the greasy blonde root of the Norwegian, who could only nod.

— I couldn’t; I preferred to answer letters and that, boring administrative stuff. You’re much better with the creative things, better stay on that part.

—I’ll shoot myself if I’m ever asked again about whether something is black metal or not. If you don’t know, don’t do anything — threaten the Swede, playing to tangle his guitar player’s hair and then continue with his talk of loose ideas — Last night, I dreamed something that might go well for the band, I don’t know, like it goes with everything.

— What is it, Dead?

— I dreamt that the fairies were asking me to kill myself.

[beyondfabric]

Beyond Fabric x Norwegian Rain

A while back I was challenged by T-Michael and Alex over at Norwegian Rain to rethink modern officewear using some of their most classic raincoats. A sort of a social experiment aimed at registering a moment in time and context, that portrays my interpretation of professional attires in 2023.

Inspired by 3 of Norwegian Rain’s weatherproof styles, I put together 3 different looks I could wear to work in a not overly formal environment. Breaking down the traditional suit and tie paradigm, all 3 proposals are polished and sophisticated, with their own unique twists.

The first, depicted here, is a vintage-inspired combination that feels fresh by incorporating the raincoat’s technical fabric and a raw hemmed flannel sports jacket. On the more classic end, we have a stripped club collar shirt and wool tie, paired with off white corduroy trousers.

Ph: Elisabeth Teixeira

[michaelromance]

Nobody posts photos or videos or gifs of the women's biathlon!!!

I'm gonna have to start doing it myself...

[tesghosterone]

dawg i think i have a fever again

[dadsinsuits]

Jonas Gahr Støre

[srednod]

Christian Krohg Portrait of the Swedish Painter Karl Nordström 1882

[reindeersonmytshirt]

Still looking at photos of Fetti in coc-competitions in disbelief. Can't believe he's not in the world cup

[camleecomics]

Oscar

[fisarmonical]

Portrait of Siguard Scott Hansen sitting on a chair, wearing a fur lined hooded parka, a pair of trousers, and smoking a pipe. Printed by: Wesleyan Sunday School Union. Taken in 1895 in an arctic region. Source: The British Museum, Asset Number 706112001.

[bdsmsub67]

Photographer - Sølve Sundsbø

Post Production - www.digital-light.com