yet another ficlet inspired by some art i’ve seen, you ask? why yes, that’s exactly what this is. the idea for this hit me as i sat watching bouchra khalili’s (b. 1975, french-moroccan) video installation called the public scribe.
918 words, AU, magical realism (i think)
The building is much like all the buildings in the neighbourhood. The door is very unassuming too, the brown of it blending well in with the yellow of the walls. There is no sign above it – only indication of the business is a little brass plaque below the door window. Simon Eriksson, it says. Beneath the name, with a slightly smaller text, Letters.
It’s not a business advertised on the metro stations or in the newspapers. There is no loud social media presence. It does not appear in search engines.
No, it’s a business that people find out about through word of mouth. Someone whispers about the man who writes letters, another person mentions it in passing. It’s a business only the most desperate ones know exists.
Wilhelm stands across the street, late morning drizzle slowly turning his coat damp as he stares at the door.
He knows he shouldn’t be here. He knows the whole business is most likely an attempt to cash in on the grief and longing of people like him. He knows the service the man claims to offer sounds impossible, a bluff, even if the people he’s talked to are adamant it is real. He knows he should not waste his money on it.
And yet.
The clock strikes the hour and the door opens just slightly, to indicate the business is now open for the day. Wilhelm knows he should turns around and walk back home.
He crosses the street.
The door is heavy, but swing open surprisingly easily. Inside, the lights are dim save for the one brightly lit lamp on the desk sitting almost in the middle of the small room.
Wilhelm looks around and takes in the several potted plants, the burgundy armchair and small wooden table by the window and the large shelves behind the desk.
There is a man standing behind the desk, facing the shelves. He’s shorter than Wilhelm and his brown curls tickle the collar of his orange sweatshirt. It’s an oddly casual thing to wear for something like this, Wilhelm finds himself thinking.
When the man turns, Wilhelm is met with warm eyes. The man must be around his age, much younger than Wilhelm expected. If he recognises Wilhelm, he doesn’t let it show.
“Hello. I’m Simon, how can I help you?” the man asks, the timbre of his voice soothing.
Wilhelm opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’d, uhh, like to send a letter,” he stammers, as if it wasn’t somehow obvious. Wilhelm wonders if Simon asks every person entering the room the same question.
“Of course,” Simon nods, his eyes studying Wilhelm’s face, ”Have you sent a letter before?”
A hollow laugh escapes Wilhelm. He has sent more letters in his life than he can count. Official correspondence, written on thick cream coloured paper and signed with fountain pens. “Not like this,” is what he answers, scraping his thumbnail against the cuticle of his pinkie.
Simon nods again. “That’s alright. I assume you’re here because someone recommended it. How familiar are you with letters like ours?”
Wilhelm shrugs, feeling the back of his neck grow warmer. “I just know you write down what I say and then… send the letter somewhere?”
Simon’s response is a tired sigh, so quiet if Wilhelm wasn’t paying attention he’d probably miss it. “Yes, I write down what you want to tell the person you’re addressing the letter to. The recipient will receive your message once I’ve finished writing, and the letter will then cease to exist. There will be no envelope with your name waiting if you come back, that’s not how this works. If you get a response, you will know it, but it does not come in a letter form.”
This time it’s Wilhelm’s turn to nod. He was told there would be no letters to him, not as long as he was on this side. It’s the thought of being able to tell what’s on his mind, what no one else will understand, that’s driven him here.
“I understand,” Wilhelm says.
“Good. Many people don’t.”
Wilhelm wonders what kind of people Simon has had to encounter before. If people have demanded responses to their letters from him, threatened him when told it would not happen. He wonders what people have confessed in their letters, and if Simon remembers all the things he writes down.
“Do you, uhh, keep track of who comes here? What they want to say in the letters?” he asks instead, looking at the shelves behind Simon.
“I only keep track as much as I need to. Everything you say in the letter is confidential and I will not judge you for your words,” Simon says and the way he speaks reminds Wilhelm a bit of his therapist. “Do you still want me to write a letter for you?” Simon asks then.
“Yes,” Wilhelm says, after the briefest moment of hesitation. There isn’t anything for him to lose. He isn’t sure there’s anything to gain either, but it won’t hurt to try. ”How does this work?”
Simon points at the armchair as he sits down behind the desk. As Wilhelm lowers himself down the plush chair, Simon pulls forward an ordinary looking sheet of paper and picks up a pen. Then he looks at Wilhelm and holds his gaze when he asks, “Who would you like to send the letter to? Who has died?”
A very belated birthday gift for Wille – but right on time for summer festival season – the last (for now) of my little non-royal meet-cute series, finally dredged out of my drafts.
Under Pressure
Sweltering in the heat at a music festival, it’s not the vocalist on stage who captures Wille’s attention.
Basically, this:
“Hej,” a warm voice said, pitched with a slight edge to be heard over the ambient noise. “Mind if I join you?”
Wille jolted, blinking. For a moment he wondered if he was hallucinating the dark-haired singer from earlier. But no, that was him alright. Perched on the opposite edge of the bed. No, swing, his addled brain corrected. Seat?
“Oh, uh, sure. Yeah.” Wille bolted up to a seated position, flushing pink. “Of course.” He tried to subtly brush the back of his hand over his mouth to check for drool tracks.
“You didn’t have to get up,” the other man said, grinning as he scooted further up onto the mattress. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your nap. There just aren’t any other free spots.”
Wille glanced around and saw that it was true, the lounge had begun to fill since he had staked out his spot some unknown amount of time earlier.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Wille protested, but as soon as the words were out he caught the other man’s teasing smirk. “I was… resting my eyes.”
The other man snorted in a way that should be unattractive but somehow Wille found profoundly sexy. “If you say so.”
Okay. I was on my beloved AO3 and I saw something that made me do a double take. So, now I really want to know…
What is your AO3 user ID?
I’m an OG user 5 digits or less
Six figures baby!
I’m in the millions…
Remaining time: 6 days 3 hours
I’m so curious to see how long people have been on AO3! I know some people have been on there since beta/invite only, but I would love to see what the number is on tumblr!
Sometimes self-harm wears soft disguises — not razors or bruises, but silence and neglect. It's in the slow unravelling of care: the showers that go untaken, the clutter that grows like ivy, the meals skipped with a shrug. It's drinking three cups of coffee and calling it breakfast, not because you're busy — but because you don't believe you're worth feeding.
It's sleeping on top of the covers in yesterday’s clothes, scrolling until your eyes burn, chasing noise to drown out the ache. It's deleting messages before they’re sent, staying small in conversations, hiding your laughter like it’s something dangerous.
It's saying no to things you love before anyone else gets the chance to. Turning away from kindness because you don't know how to hold it. It's setting your dreams on fire before they have a chance to breathe - not because you don’t care, but because you’ve been taught that joy is something earned through suffering. And so you become your own gatekeeper, punishing yourself in invisible ways. But wounds don’t always bleed. Sometimes, they look like a life unlived, a light dimmed on purpose, a heart whispering, “I don’t deserve this” to every good thing it meets.
Self-harm can be the quiet art of self-erasure. It's ignoring your reflection because you can’t bear the sight of yourself, or drowning in oversized clothes to avoid being perceived. It's canceling plans that made your heart flutter just yesterday, because somewhere between then and now, you decided you weren’t lovable enough to show up. It’s walking into a room and shrinking, speaking in softened tones so you don’t take up space, apologizing for existing in places where you’re allowed to be. It’s procrastinating dreams until they rot, because the thought of succeeding feels more unbearable than failing.
Sometimes it looks like pouring love into everyone else but keeping none for yourself. Giving until you’re empty, then blaming yourself for feeling hollow. It's avoiding doctors when you're unwell, skipping therapy sessions, or pretending you're fine because vulnerability feels like a luxury. It’s surrounding yourself with people who don’t see you - or worse, people who hurt you — because deep down, you believe that’s all you’re worth. It’s not a cry for attention. It’s a deeply ingrained belief that pain is your baseline and anything gentler must be a mistake.
Hello! For the fic ask game, about the waves lost their way: 🥇 What scene were you most excited to write? Did it end up being the one you enjoyed writing the most?
Thank you!!
hello, thank you for asking! 💜
i was going to say all the sad ones, but i feel like that’s half the fic 😅 (the fic came from a place of personal grief at the time and i think there was something therapeutic about writing it.) i’d say the scene i was most excited about writing was the one where simon leaves the island and wille watches him go. it is similar to a little ficlet i wrote but i think there’s just something so devastating about wille having to watch the love of his life go and letting him go because he knows it’s the right thing to do.
i think it was one of the scenes i enjoyed writing the most, though i have to say i did really like writing micke’s funeral scene a lot. it’s also a scene i ended up doing surprisingly much research for, which i always love, so that added to the enjoyment. i also loved writing the final scenes where wille goes to stockholm and finds simon, giving them that promise of a future together.
there is also a scene that didn’t make the final cut where wille and simon have what’s basically a winter picnic. it didn’t fit the flow so it got deleted, but i enjoyed giving them a moment to hold hands and eat sandwiches and just have a moment of happiness in the midst of all the sadness.
For your train trip and since I just watched the World Cup final:
For your footballer Wille AU — Was there anything your character(s) really really really wanted to do? Did you let them?
thank you for asking and making my train trip a bit more interesting 💜
given the plot diverged from my original plot draft quite significantly around chapter 4, i think the answer is yes. originally wille and simon were supposed to stay apart longer and then keep their relationship a secret until the european championships. it didn’t feel right though, so i let them solve out their issues and get back together faster to build for the final chapters. i do wish i had access to my original hand-written notes so i could check just how much i ended up changing because those two were so in love and couldn’t stay away from each other.
wille also really wanted to hit august in the locker room scene but that i didn’t let happen. i do feel it might have been in character, with wille supressing his feelings for so long and then them slowly starting to overboil because he’s protective of simon, but i wanted to keep him still mostly in control. could’ve let him get away with some rough tackles though.
❓No dumb questions amnesty - can you explain this [line/dialogue/moment from the story]?
🏴☠️ Were there any points in which your characters tried (or succeeded) to commit mutiny against your planned plot? Where did they most want to rebel?
🥇 What scene were you most excited to write? Did it end up being the one you enjoyed writing the most?
🙏 Was there anything your character(s) really really really wanted to do? Did you let them?
🍆 What scene do you think was the hottest? What scene do you think your readers thought was the hottest? Are they the same?
🔮Have you imagined what happens to [character(s)] in the future? Or does the story only exist to you as a moment in time?
🔎 What detail(s) in the story are you particularly captivated with? Is there any behind the scenes info or backstory?
🧭 What was the key choice or decision you had to make for this story? If you had chosen differently, what would the story have turned into?
📖 Could the story have been a different length? What would you have included/removed?
🫂How would the story have changed if you wrote it for [this pairing] instead?
💭 If you could wish into creation a transformative piece for your story, made by a real human who isn’t you, what would it be? Art, video, sequel, podfic, etc.
📋What was your main goal for the story and/or writing experience? Do you think that you achieved it?
🎤 Do you think the story was written in your typical voice? Why or why not?
👉👈What two stories have you written that are most similar? Why?
👈👉What two stories have you written that are most different? Why?
The waves lap gently against the shore. The slight breeze makes the unrelenting sun right above them a little more bearable.
Wille’s hair is still wet, the scent of the lake water clinging to it. His skin is cool, but not for long, because he knows Simon’s arm around him will warm it up in no time.
The rustle of the leaves, the birds chirping and Simon’s steady breaths are the only sounds disturbing the perfect quiet.
He knows they eventually have to get up and leave their little hiding place, but for now Wille lets himself enjoy the day.
