this blog turns one today 🥳 in honor of that, I'm re-doing a proper introduction post/master post with all my links!
you can call me h or hj, I've been on this blog for a year now, but I had been lurking before. I watched Young Royals in summer 2021, and it's been with me ever since. I started writing in October 2021, but only started posting on AO3 in November 2022. I'm not so active on here or on AO3 as I'd like to be, but I'll be trying to post most of my works in the upcoming year :)
personal posts are tagged #hjthoughtsandrambles so you know when I'm just sharing nonsense (which is often)
find my ao3 here and my fics + socials links under the cut ☻
✩ my works:
multi-chaptered fics;
Every Heart But Yours (10/?)
↳ Wilhelm Bergstrom, the youngest son of a powerful family of politicians, moves abroad for university and takes another path than politics.
Simon Eriksson hates him, and Wilhelm can't figure out why.
Sadly for both of them, they soon are part of the same friend group, and after a mishap in class, they have to work together for one of their mid-terms.
From Eden (3/3)
↳ A post Young Royals Finale fic where The Group get away for a few days, and where Simon and Wilhelm truly talk.
one shots;
You make my heart beat like the rain (1/1)
↳ Young Royals Week 2025 prompt #2: Before/after (before the show started or after it ended, pre or post-canon)
Can I Take You Out To A Concert Six Months From Now? (1/1)
↳ Young Royals Week 2025 prompt #1: Playlist (song-inspired)
Boyfriend of Six Years, Glasses of Twenty-Three (1/1)
↳ No matter how well they know each other after 7 years of shared history, Simon and Wilhelm learn something new about the other everyday.
You can love a person and still admit when they're wrong. I love Simon Eriksson but I can acknowledge his flaws (he has none) & can hold him accountable for his wrongdoings (he's never done anything wrong in his life) & call him out for his actions (which are always correct)
Last thing I wrote, thank you for the tag @almostlake 💜
I actually wrote yesterday, so this is very recent (and messy) but I’ve been working on chapter 11 of Ehby, and this one has been a lot of fun:)
“Some of your friends have arrived,” Erik said from the doorway. “Swedish,” he continued, sounding surprised. “I didn’t know you were still friends with [redacted]’s son.”
Wilhelm frowned, shaking his head. "[redacted]? I haven't seem him since Studenten." He faced his brother. "Who was he with?"
"Didn't catch his name," Erik righted himself and shrugged, "but he might have been with you in school aswell. His face reminds me of one of Pappa’s friends, but I can't tell which one."
"[redacted]," Wilhelm supplied. […] He followed his brother out of the door. Erik exclaimed his recognition with a hum and they went seperate ways. Erik back to wherever he had been before, Wilhelm assumed, and Wilhelm himself down the stairs leading to the ground floor.
He reached the main entrance, where [redacted] and [redacted] stood waiting, overnight bags laying by their feet. Wilhelm made his step purposefully heavier
I realize now that I have to blur out names of who this conversation is about otherwise it’d be a plot point easily spoiled😆 can’t wait to write some wilmon soon, though.
no pressure tagging @caramelpenguin @bigalockwood @grapehyasynth @oneofthosebells :)
Thank you fanfic authors, for giving us the mechanic au, for the barista version, for recommending us the tattoo shop with the perfect florist and bookstore-café next door.
For cradling the childhood au, the little version, the traumatized.
Thank you for creating and expanding, playing with the what-ifs, in and out of canon.
For the visions of scales, wings, fins and fangs. The red tread tying them together, the expanded friendships and found families.
Thank you for holding their hand while you are sending them up in space, igniting the spark of magic, encouraging their speeches as teachers, politicians or rowdy teenagers.
For never giving up, for bringing the insomnia, the meet-cute and libraries full of all possible outcomes (and kissing nooks).
Thank you for solving the crimes or creating the murder scene, for giving the pop star and the rocker a world tour and the best social media mistakes.
Thank you, for lending us your stories.
Chapter 14: Rest and Relaxation & Chapter 15: Once a Brother
“Where are you?” Wilhelm sighed, deep and slow and controlled, and Simon had half a mind to roll his eyes.
“On the roof,” he answered. Like, How are you? Good. Enjoying the evening? Oh, yes.
Wille’s slept in a lot of beds in his life. In hotel beds. In huge, cold, lonely beds at the palace. In narrow ones at Hillerska, haunted with too many memories.
The bed at home isn’t really anything special. The mattress was a compromise, the frame flatpacked and a real pain to assemble. Yet it’s the one bed he always looks forward to falling asleep in.
Because in that bed there’s also Simon. Curling against his body, hogging the blanket and taking up space that is technically Wille’s. Their bed is the one that is warm and feels like home.
“Can’t believe you kept this one,” Simon chuckles, picking up the old faded polaroid picture. They were so young back when it was taken. So unprepared for everything.
“Why wouldn’t I?” The look on Wille’s face is genuinely puzzled.
Simon huffs out another laugh. “There’s so many better ones.”
Wille nods and takes the photo from Simon. “Yeah. But this is one of the first ones of us.” He glances down, traces the outline of their faces. ”That’s what makes it special.”
“You’re a sap.” Simon says but can’t help the fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
thanks for the prompt 💜 i'm not entirely sure what happened, but have 570 words of some witchcraft!wilmon. i'm still very much accepting prompts from this list if you'd like a bit of wilmon.
“You lied to me.”
It’s the first thing Wille manages to utter out when the white smoke dissipates enough for him to see Simon again. Simon, who is lying on his back next to him, his curls sticking into all possible directions and are those tiny holes burnt onto his shirt?
“No, I didn’t,” Simon says as he scoots to sit up.
“Simon, when I asked you if you know how to cast explosive spells, you said no.” Wille can’t help the exasperation creeping into his voice. There is currently a very large circle of black soot decorating his living room. It’s such a pain to get out of the rug.
“Yes, because I don’t know how to cast them!” Simon exclaims as he inspects the state of his shirt, poking a finger through one of the holes. There’s a displeased look on his face as if something that can be easily mended is the biggest of his worries.
Wille can’t help it: he honest to god groans out loud. He gestures towards what less than two minutes ago was a very cozy reading nook. He thinks one of the windows might be cracked. “What do you call this then?”
“An attempt? Practice?” The displeased look is replaced by a sheepish smile when Simon meets Wille’s eyes.
“You decided to practice explosive spells by destroying my coffee table?” Said table is now nothing but a heap of timber, faint smoke still lingering over it. At least it smells nice, Wille thinks, surprisingly fresh for something that is half-burnt.
Simon scoffs and shakes his head. “No, I was going for the apple.”
They both turn to look at the perfectly intact apple gleaming red in the midst of the blackened rubble that used to be one of Wille’s favourite pieces of furniture. It’s actually quite impressive, how Simon managed to save the one thing he was trying to blow into smithereens.
“Guess my aim was a little off,” Simon concedes with a shrug, staring at his hands with a crease between his eyebrows,” Maybe if I moved my hand more this way—”
Wille grabs hold of his wrists before Simon can flick his hands again and do more damage. Wille doesn’t want to be scrubbing the ceiling as well, getting the floors and walls clean again is going to be more than enough work. “No more explosive spell attempts indoors.”
Simon’s eyes turn pleading as he tilts his head to the side, much like the puppy across the street often does. “But I need to learn them! You said it’s important I have the full range of spells, that we need to be prepared.”
Wille uses his hold on Simon’s arms to pull him closer, only releasing him when he cups Simon’s cheek and presses a kiss to his lips. “I did, and it is. However, I also really like my house, so we’ll practice outdoors until you’ve mastered these spells, okay?”
Simon nods, his fingers tangling into Wille’s hair. The sensation is weirdly tingly. “First we need to fix this mess though,” Wille says with a sigh as he presses his forehead against Simon’s. He throws a sideways glance towards the corner that resembles a minor war zone. “You can use the repairing spell on that table. I remember you saying you’re good with those.”
The smile on Simon’s lips turns more bashful as he says, “Yeah, so, about that…”
How about 25 for the drabble challenge, for Wilmon?
- oneofthosebells
thanks for the prompt @oneofthosebells! (You can still send me a number from this list and a pairing if you want)
25. “I can’t believe you talked me into this” + Wilmon
Simon’s knees creak as he presses up to stand, almost stumbling after crouching for so long. Dust particles sparkle in the air, illuminated by the sunshine streaming through the uncovered windows after so many days of relentless rain.
He surveys the chaos impassively. Tools scattered about, balled up paper towels and rags. Paint brushes and rollers propped up over buckets, waiting or drying. Wilhelm’s 80s What a Time 2 be Alive (even though we weren’t) playlist blaring from the tinny bluetooth speaker. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
Wilhelm grins, his face still boyish, even after all these years, beneath the plaster dust freckling his skin and hair. “I thought you wanted this to be ours.”
“I do.”
“Well?”
“I meant more along the lines of let’s not spend above our means and we are absolutely not involving anyone from your family or the court.”
“And we haven’t.”
“No. But I didn’t mean we had to do everything ourselves.”
“Rosh and Ayub helped.”
Simon snorts. “Did they?”
“Your words, not mine.”
Simon stretches his arms above his head, clasping his wrist with the opposite hand, reaching side to side. When he lets his shoulders drop a moment later, he grumbles, “I didn’t really have, you know, watching Belgian DIY Youtube videos of how to install drywall in mind.”
“In all fairness, I’ve been the one watching those, no?” Wilhelm's smile broadens. He squints up when Simon doesn’t reply. “Why don’t you head home, make yourself something to eat and take a break.”
Simon juts his chin out. “And let you stay here and keep working?”
Wille scrubs his palms on his jeans. “I want to finish this. I’m right in the middle.”
“Then I’ll stay too,” Simon insists.
“You deserve a break,” Wilhelm tries again. “We’ve been here all weekend.”
“Exactly.” Simon sets his jaw. “So. What should I do now?”
Wilhelm studies him. He knows that set. "Hm... Keep me company?”
“Wille.”
“Look pretty?”
“Wille.” Simon rolls his eyes. “Why don’t I work on prying out the rest of the bath tile, yeah? I’m feeling like a little blunt force might preemptively combat my annoyance at the situation I know I’ll be walking into at work tomorrow.”
Wilhelm chuckles and nods, tilts his face up towards Simon.
Simon obliges, pressing an affectionate kiss to his lips. “But I’m taking the speaker with me,” he warns.
Later, when it is darkness instead of light pouring in through the bare windows and the dust in the air looks like mist in the glare of the intense work lamp Wilhelm bought to be able to see to continue painting late into the evenings after work, Simon comes up behind Wilhelm, where he’s scrubbing his forearms and hands at the kitchen sink, and wraps his arms around Wille’s waist.
Wilhelm stops the water and dries his hands with a paper towel before turning in Simon’s arms to return the embrace. “We’re filthy,” Wille observes, but doesn’t pull back.
“Too filthy for a celebratory treat?”
“I thought we agreed no blow jobs in the reno zone,” Wilhelm laughs.
Simon rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I stand by that.” Simon extricates himself from Wille’s hold and walks over to the freezer, where he pulls out a box of ice cream bars. “But I think we’ve earned these.”
He pushes up to sit on the counter, and a moment later Wilhelm joins him, elbows brushing, hips touching. They make quick work of the wrappers.
“I don’t say it enough,” Simon says then, swinging his legs, heels bumping the cabinets below, “but thank you for this… for making this happen. Our way.”
Wille huffs. “Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Maybe. But you’re figuring it out. We’re figuring it out.”
“Skål,” Wilhelm says, his expression impossibly fond. He holds out his chocolate-coated bar to tap Simon’s.
“Skål,” Simon grins back.
And if years down the line, when some future owners of the little house decide to take down the half-wall between the kitchen and dining room, and discover behind the plaster two birchwood sticks, each with two hearts outlined on them and the letters S + W, they won’t know the whole story, but they will, undoubtedly, understand something of what it meant.
