Simon would never admit that he’s short – because he’s not and he has the statistics to prove it, thank you very much. He will, however, concede (at least to himself) that he rather enjoys being shorter than his boyfriend. For one thing, he is the perfect height to tuck his face into the crook of Wille’s neck when they’re hugging, and breathe in his scent that’s so wonderfully concentrated there. And, sue him, he does find it hot that Wille can and will pick him up and carry him when the mood strikes. Or pin him against the wall, Simon’s legs wrapped around his waist. What’s not to like about that?
But most of all, he loves how safe he feels when Wille holds him. There’s something primal and instinctive about it, he supposes, the feeling of safety that can only come from being held by someone bigger than you who loves you more than anything, someone who makes you feel like they can protect you from all danger regardless of whether it’s true or not. No matter how bad things are, when Wille wraps him in his arms and holds him close to his chest, it’s impossible not to believe they’ll get better again.
So the only times Simon wishes he was taller is when he wants to give the same visceral feeling of absolute safety back to Wille. Sure, Simon can hold him, he can be the big spoon, he can have him scoot down on the bed and lay his head on Simon’s chest, he can even have him sit curled up in Simon’s lap, but none of that makes Simon big enough to be able to wrap Wille up in that perfect cocoon of comfort and protection. And that’s just so unfair, because Wille deserves that feeling.
“But you do make me feel like that, don’t you know?” Wille says incredulously when Simon brings it up one gloomy evening. Simon had a shit day at uni, followed by a frustrating phone call with his father, and then he got caught in the rain waiting for a bus that wouldn’t come. Nothing too bad, but he still appreciates being able to curl up in Wille’s arms about it. Wille can’t erase the less than appreciative words Simon’s professor had to say about his work, or make him feel like less of an idiot for giving his dad yet another chance, or take away his headache. But he can make all of it matter a little less simply by being a warm, solid body Simon can tuck himself against and be safe.
“You’ve made me feel like that since that day you found me on the football field,” Wille whispers into Simon’s hair, his arms tightening around Simon’s shoulders. Instinctively, Simon burrows closer into Wille’s chest. “It doesn’t matter who’s bigger. I feel your heartbeat, I feel your skin, I breathe you in… and everything else just… fades away.”
Of course Simon knows that. He knows his touch makes Wille relax, knows Wille finds comfort in Simon’s closeness. But that’s not quite it.
“It’s not the same,” Simon says, frustrated at not being able to explain what he means.
Wille shrugs, as much as he can when they’re lying in bed holding each other. “Maybe not. But I don’t think it’s possible to feel safer than I do when we’re like this.” He kisses the top of Simon’s head. “Besides, I know how protective you can get. I’ll never forget that time you made August literally back into a corner just by glaring at him.”
The memory of their altercation at Ludvig’s birthday party makes Simon’s hackles rise. “He had no business talking to you like that.” Simon still wishes he’d punched him.
“See? Short or not, you’re still my protector.”
Simon kicks his shin. “I’m not short.”
Wille just giggles, but Simon can’t even be mad at him. Not when he’s tilting Simon’s head up to brush their noses and lips together.
“No, you’re not,” Wille says then, in that earnest way of his that makes it quite impossible for Simon to feel anything besides stupidly in love with him. “You’re just right. Just right to fit with me.”
Simon tucks his face into the crook of Wille’s neck. He can’t argue with that.
a ficlet for @almostlake - grattis på födelsedagen!
Wille had never been particularly fond of his birthday. Even as a child it had carried the weight of external expectations. He didn’t have many clear memories of those early celebrations, his mind surely whirring with the pressure to perform a version of himself that felt like too-tight skin.
17 had been excruciating, Erik’s absence so much more present than Wille himself. He had felt haunted, haunting. He would never forget that look of devastation and resolve on Simon’s face. He had done that.
And then the next year, when the anticipation leading up to his announcement felt like his chest had been blown open. Every gesture of celebration had been shadowed by reminders of the year before. It was meant to be a festive day for him, for them. Finally freeing himself. But mostly he just felt nauseous. It ached.
At 19, the first birthday he was officially just Wille (but always a prince... no escaping that), they spent a clandestine weekend with Felice and Maddie in New York, pretending they were regular tourists, walking for miles, stumbling into a basement jazz club, kissing in the shadow of the bridge.
The year he turned older than Erik ever would, Simon took them away and Wille dove in the frigid lake and stayed until he felt his heart might actually have stopped.
Then there were the two years they spent apart. At 26 with no contact, Simon an ocean away. Slowly finding their way back to one another at 27, with a phone call that lingered until the first flush of sunrise over Stockholm.
Toasting 30 in Felice’s garden, with an impressive cake confection of her invention, laughing and dancing under twinkle lights, surrounded by their tipsy friends.
At 36, when Simon was so busy and stressed rehearsing that he lost track of the date and only realized, to his horror, the next morning. Wille hadn’t cared in the least but had been so charmed by Simon’s mortification that he couldn't help but hold it over him on occasion.
Most years he didn’t want to do much, preferring to let the day pass as quietly as others would allow. Then he didn’t have to think too much about what the passing of another year meant. Content to just live this life he had worked so hard to build, to hold onto, to let breathe.
So when Wille wakes, the first thing he notices is not that it’s his birthday, but that he is alone in their bed. He is usually the first one up, and Simon often travels for work, yes, but the musky scent of him still lingers in the bed and just a few hours ago Wille was curled against his warm, familiar shape, although now the sheets beside him are cold.
Wille jerks his head up when the door creaks open and Simon grumbles from the threshold, “Close your eyes! You weren’t supposed to be awake yet,” but he can’t contain a soft giggle.
So Wille dutifully closes his eyes and listens to the comforting dulcet melody of Simon singing happy birthday, until he feels Simon carefully sink down beside him on the bed, the weight on the mattress tipping Wille towards him. “Careful,” Simon hums, and his elbow knocks against Wille’s ribs as he adjusts. “Okay.”
Wille opens his eyes and laughs with delight. Simon’s face hovers above a sea of flickering candles, crowded onto a larger-than-usual slab of silviakaka.
“Now I understand the delay,” Wille teases fondly.
“You try getting forty candles lit at the same time. Make your wish before I light my hair on fire.”
Wille does as he’s told, and after he blows out all the candles (not without some effort; “Imagine if I’d put a trick one in there,” Simon says smugly) he takes the plate and sets it on the bedside table and pulls Simon down on top of him.
“Happy birthday, Wille,” Simon breathes against his lips.
“I love you.”
“I love you.” Simon kisses the corner of his mouth. “Even with terrible morning breath.”
“I taste like you.”
“Touché.”
“Thank you.”
“For managing not to burn down our home? Or is this where you rib me about not forgetting your birthday this year?”
“For this, yes. But mostly for being here. For being you. For everything.”
Wille knows that even if today holds nothing more festive than taking a walk together around the neighborhood in the mild May sun, and grabbing coffee at their favorite café, and letting Simon buy him flowers at the outdoor market, it will be exactly what he wants. Probably he’ll talk to his parents briefly, and catch up on some work email. Maybe they’ll get Korean takeout and eat on the sofa, legs tangled together. Perhaps he’ll draw a hot bath and Simon will decline to join, as ever (“I get chilled, you know this!”) but will offer to perch on the edge of the tub and read aloud from the novel he’s already finished but Wille is only halfway through. And it will be exactly what he cherishes, today and every day.
Simon strokes his thumb along Wille’s jaw. “Getting sentimental in your old age?” he teases, but he dips down to kiss Wille again, more deeply this time.
When Simon eventually pulls back he searches Wille’s face. “Thank you. For being here. For being you. For everything.”
What was in the air in late March I don't know, but it's a big birthday week for YR tumblr, hbd also to @jukeylinda! and @almostlake I'm sure the cake you baked ended up more beautiful than whatever Simon picked up from the bakery.
Wilhelm has no idea how the palace's PR team had approved of this, and who on earth said this was the best way possible to fix his reputation. But here he is now, sitting opposite Simon Eriksson for his very own chicken shop date.
There's only twenty minutes left to film, but Wilhelm does not want it to end. Simon has a clever way of talking as if the cameras aren't there, paying attention and listening. He sometimes gets flustered when Wille returns the questions, but he has a burn inside him to learn all about Simon, inside and out.
"So," Simon says, popping a chip into his mouth. "If you could have a different role in the world, not a Prince, what would it be?"
"Your boyfriend." It comes out smoother than he ever thought it would.
Simon freezes mid-chew. For a moment, Wilhelm is convinced he’s ruined everything- his reputation, this stupid PR stunt, and maybe even the fragile spark between them. The cameras are still rolling, people are standing and watching, gazes pressing in.
He blinks. “That’s not exactly what I meant by role.” His smile is crooked, but his ears are turning pink.
Wilhelm swallows hard, nerves buzzing, but he doesn’t back down. “It’s what I’d choose,” he says, softer this time, eyes steady on Simon’s.
a little 750-word post-canon ficlet inspired by a cartoon i saw earlier today.
•••
Simon doesn’t think much of it at first.
It’s early in the morning, way too early for either of them to be awake. Wille is bleary-eyed, barely out of bed with his hair sticking to different directions - of course he wouldn’t have shaved. The farewell kiss is sweet and goes on until Simon has to run out the door in order to not miss his train.
He doesn’t think anything of it when they videocall later. Wille’s having his first free day alone and by the sound of it, he’s made the most of it, spending time on the couch with his books and videogames and the little too fancy pizza.
Simon only starts to notice it by the end of the week. How Wille’s face looks a little different of the small screen of his phone, how the stubble is longer than Simon ever remembers seeing.
He knows he should ask, he wants to ask, but he knows Wille would say nothing’s wrong, that Simon shouldn’t worry. However, Simon worries a little, he can’t help it.
It’s the first time Wille’s spending more than a few days on his own. Back then there was always someone around - either his family, or someone working for the royal family to keep an eye on him. Now it’s just Wille, alone at home, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. Simon knows he has work, it’s why he isn’t on the other side of Sweden with Simon, but a couple of meetings barely make a difference.
By the time Simon gets home, the stubble is much more than that. Wille’s eyes have looked lively and sparkly when they’ve been on videocalls and nothing about what they’ve chatted has made it sound like Wille was spiraling into depression. But the growing facial hair is making him worry.
“Hi,” he greets Wille, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s neck as soon as he’s through the door.
“Hi. Did you have a good trip back home?”
Simon nods and leans up to give him a kiss. It feels different from what he’s used to, the skin under his palm covered with hair that isn’t as rough as Simon expected.
“Are you okay?” he hears himself ask before he’s even had time to think about when and how to bring up the subject.
“Of course, especially now that you’re back home. Why wouldn’t I be?” Wille asks with a tiny frown between his brows but a smile on his face.
Simon runs his fingers over his cheek, feels the beard - because that’s what it is at this point, a proper beard - under his touch. “I was just— What’s this then?” he asks.
Wille’s grip on him loosens slighty and he huffs out a nervous laugh. “I had this idea— You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Wille, I could never think that.”
“Before you left… The movie we watched.”
Simon tries to recall the film they’d seen the night before his trip, some mindless bulk flick Netflix was putting out every month. He frowns, “What about it?”
Wille’s eyes seem to be studying Simon’s nose very intently when he answers quietly, “The lead guy. You said you’d never kissed someone with a beard and well… I thought I’d… better make sure when you did, kiss someone with a beard, that that someone would be me.”
The laughter spilling from Simon’s lips is tinged with a mixture of relief and disbelief. “You grew a beard because you wanted to make sure my first experience of a bearded kiss was with you?”
“Mmh.”
Simon shakes his head. He can’t believe his silly, amazing boyfriend would do something like that. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
Then he kisses Wille, long and deep, trying to get used to the new sensation when Wille’s beard tickles Simon’s cheek and jaw.
When they break apart, Wille asks, a little tentatively, “So, how do you like it?”
Simon ponders for a while. He lets his nose trace a path along Wille’s jaw before murmuring, “I like it. It’s different, but I like it.”
The corners of Wille’s mouth tug upward and a bright smile spreads on his face. “Should I keep growing it, then?”
"That’s up to you. However, if you decide to shave it off, can you wait till we’ve tried how it feels against some other body parts?” Simon says with a smirk and a small wiggle of his eyebrows.
Wille’s laugh is boisterous and breathy when he starts steering Simon towards the bedroom.
If you're still doing these, then 18 or 19 please! 💜
“This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in.”
“The paint’s supposed to go where?”
Hi! Thank you so much for the ask! And I'm so sorry this one has taken me so long to get to. It's took me a while to settle on an idea and then I've suddenly had way less writing time. But here it is! 1.7k friends to lovers. I hope you enjoy!
-
“The paint’s supposed to go where?”
Felice tuts and rolls her eyes. "Down here. Look. I told you." She indicates with her finger where she wants the gold paint: along her collar bones, down her sternum, and—
Wille swallows.
Felice scoffs and shakes her head. "For goodness sake. It's just paint. Tell him, Simon."
Wille turns to Simon who is looking at him with an amused expression on his face. "It's just paint," he says. The look Simon is giving him isn't helping.
Wille swallows again.
"Urgh," Felice groans. "You're as bad as the rest of them. Sara, you come here and do mine. Wille can do Simon's."
That isn't helpful. That is not helpful at all. But he's not like he can say, 'Oh actually, I'm going to find it even more difficult to paint down his chest than I would to paint between your boobs. Sorry'. Of course friends can paint other friend's chests. Right? Not weird at all. Definitely not. Sara seems to be completely fine with it. So he's just going to have to figure out a way to be fine with it too.
"What's this even for?" he grumbles as he sits down in front of Simon.
"I told you," Felice says as she moves her hair out of the way for Sara. "For choir."
"That doesn't explain anything," Wille mutters. And then forgets everything that's in his brain because Simon chooses that moment to whip his t-shirt off over his head, rendering Wille completely useless, dry mouth and all.
He's jolted out of his trance by a paintbrush being shoved into his hand and Simon raising an eyebrow at him.
Resigning himself to his fate, Wille sighs. "What do you want me to do to you?"
Simon tries to stifle a laugh and Wille looks up at him with a frown. "What?"
"Nothing," Simon says quickly, and if Wille isn't mistaken, his cheeks have gone a little pink. "I— Just the same as Felice. Along here and then down here."
Did it look this sensual when Felice traced her fingers across her torso? A little, Wille has to admit. And whilst it did make him feel a little hot under the collar, it's nothing to the absolute fire that's burning beneath his skin as he watches Simon's fingers dance down his sternum.
With Herculean effort, Wille tears his eyes away before they continue the path down Simon's stomach. "When did choir get so—"
"Wille!" Felice laughs, trying not to shake too much as Sara carefully paints the patterns across her collarbones. "You're such a prude! Let us have some fun!"
"I'm not a prude!" he cries. "And I am fun!"
"You kind of are," Simon says, tilting his head to the side.
"See! Simon agrees that I'm fun."
"No," Simon laughs. "A prude."
Wille turns to Simon with a gasp. "I am not."
Simon shrugs and smirks a little. It's very cute. Damnit.
"I am not," Wille repeats with a little less conviction.
"Okay." Simon tilts his head to the side and Wille hears Felice snort behind him.
With more force than necessary, Wille dips the paintbrush into the water then swirls it around in the gold paint and leans forward. "Hold still."
He hears Simon's breath stutter a little as the cold brush touches his skin before Wille starts to make careful loops, just like Sara is doing on Felice. It actually doesn't take long for Wille to get into it. He's done Felice's face before for parties, and once Simon even let him do some dots by his eyes—that had been a revelatory moment—and this is much of the same.
The gold looks beautiful against Simon's skin and the brush glides so smoothy, leaving a shimmery trail in its wake. Wille almost forgets who he's painting—almost—as he leans forward, tongue between his teeth, and uses his free hand to steady Simon as he goes.
At one point Simon flinches and causes a streak of gold to splotch across his chest. "Sorry," he murmurs. And then, when Wille looks up and meets his eye, Simon swallows and adds, "Tickles," in an odd sort of voice.
Wille leans away and dips the corner of a cloth in some clean water and goes to wipe the smeared paint off Simon's chest.
"I'll do it," Simon says quickly, grabbing the rag and scrambling to his feet. "In, uh… the bathroom."
"Oh. Okay."
Without another word, Simon scurries away and Wille watches him go a little perplexed.
A scoff draws his attention. It must have come from Sara as she's currently shaking her head. Felice is just watching him a little carefully.
"What?" he says, half defensive, half bewildered. "What did I do?"
Felice tugs her bottom lip into her mouth and pinches it between her teeth.
"What?" Panic starts to swell in his chest. What if he did something wrong? What if—
"Oh for goodness' sake," Sara huffs.
"Don't," Felice warns.
"What!" Wille cries. "What's going on?"
"I—" Felice worries her mouth once more, then sighs. "Sara… let's go and finish this in the common room."
"But I'm almost done! Can't I just—"
But Felice gently takes the paint brush out of Sara's hand and tugs on her sleeve. "Come on. Let's… give them a few minutes. And some space."
"Space?" Wille is thoroughly confused now. "Space for what? What did I—"
Felice pats him on the top of his head as she goes past. "You'll figure it out."
Figure what out? Wille is just about to scramble after Felice and demand that she tell him what she means when the door to the bathroom creaks open and Simon steps back into the room looking sheepish with half his chest painted with beautifully intricate swirls, which, in a different moment, Wille might be proud of.
But right now, he's too hyped up, too worried, too panicky, too… hopeful.
"Hi," Wille says.
"Hi." Simon taps his fingers on the side of his thigh. "Sorry. I, uhm… I fixed it." He gestures vaguely to his chest, but Wille isn't looking at his artwork. He's looking at Simon's face.
"Is everything okay?"
Simon's lips quirk into a smile. "I, uhm… yeah. Sorry. I, uh, I just wanted to, uhm, to use the bathroom."
"Oh. Okay."
They look at each other for a moment before Simon pads over and lowers himself back down in front of Wille.
"Do you want me to… keep going?" Having Simon this close again makes Wille's tongue feel too big for his mouth, but he just about manages to get the words out.
Simon nods and Wille picks up the brush, dips it in the water once more, and swirls it into the paint. For a while, neither of them speak. Wille's pulse throbs in his ears and he can almost hear his blood rushing through his veins. The air feels thick and Wille vaguely wonders if the heat has been turned up because he can feel a bead of sweat drip down between his shoulder blades.
He tries to focus on the paint, on the sweeping lines and looping curls—mirroring the image on the other side of Simon's chest. The result is very effective, and Wille can kind of see why they've chosen to do it.
But he also knows that he's biased. There is nothing that Wille think is more beautiful than Simon. So of course it stands to reason that he thinks Simon's chest is the most beautiful chest in the world. Even without the stunning gold paint.
Once he's finished the last stroke, Wille sits back on his haunches and smiles at his handiwork. Beautiful is definitely the word for it.
"There," Wille says, lifting his eyes to Simon's with a smile. "I'm done—"
Wille barely gets the words out before there are warm hands on his cheeks and Simon tugs him forward, placing his lips over Wille's. A small sound of surprise slips out of Wille's lips, muffled by Simon's. Simon's lips are soft and warm, but there's barely any time to enjoy the kiss—and Wille is really enjoying it—before Simon pulls back.
Luckily, he doesn't go far. Just far enough that, when Wille blinks his eyes open, he can see Simon watching him carefully, his dark eyes wide and unreadable.
Words get stuck on the way up Wille's throat. He isn't even sure what they would have been. The only thought running through his head is: kiss me again.
But then he realises that he has control of that. So without any further hesitation, he lets the paintbrush clatter to the floor, splattering gold paint everywhere, and reaches forward to place his hands on the dip in Simon's waist—like he's been dreaming for months—and pulls him forward.
Wille should probably be thinking more about this—about what it means, and about why now—but he can't. He can't do anything except revel in the way Simon's body feels under his hands, the way his lips feel moving against Wille's own, the way he makes a small noise when Wille dares to brush his tongue along Simon's bottom lip.
For a moment, Simon draws back, a strange look on his face, and Wille has a momentary panic that he's gone too far. But then Simon's mouth splits into a grin and he launches forward again, practically clambering into Wille's lap. And Wille wouldn't say no to that, wouldn't say not to anything Simon is offering.
Because this is Simon. And he's kissing Wille like he's wanted to for… well… maybe as long as Wille has wanted him to.
Wille's hands skim up Simon's bare back, up to the nape of his neck, momentarily plunging into his hair before making their way back down. Simon's arms are looped over Wille's shoulders holding him close as if Wille has any desire to ever be anywhere else.
It's just getting good when there's a tentative knock at the door.
"Er…" Simon hastily scrambles backwards, climbing off Wille and standing upright. "Come in!"
Wille is just getting to his own feet as Sara and Felice re-enter the room. "Hey," he says, trying to sound casual.
"Oh!" Felice says, looking at Simon in dismay. "What happened to your paint?"
And just at the same time Sara frowns and says, "Why's your shirt covered in gold?"
In horror, Wille and Simon look at each other, then down at their own chests, then back up at the girls, who are currently sharing a knowing look.
"I can explain—" Simon starts, just as Felice says, "That's not where the paint's supposed to go, Wille."
They all look at one another for a moment before, in unison, the four of them burst out laughing.
That’s right. He totally knows what’s happening in this chapter of his book.
He flips a page, fully absorbed in the plot and dialogue and did Simon just lick his lips?
Wille wouldn’t know.
He’s reading.
The first sentence at the top of the next page? He reads it once and digests every word. And he moves on the second sentence as you do.
Each carefully strung together sentence on the page holds his interest. He’s fully engaged as a reader and thinking critically as he goes. He could lead a book club meeting on this book. Easy.
Could write a book report on it. A+.
He’s not distracted by the warm pressure of Simon’s foot against his calf.
The action on the page is playing out in his mind’s eye like a movie. Complete with a clear mental image of the setting, what each character looks like, and the clothes they are wearing.
There’s no world in which he’s imagining what might happen if he were to toss this book over his shoulder and pull Simon forward by his legs and haul him into his lap and suck that bottom lip into his mouth.
Nope.
He’s reading.
The words are perfectly in focus. Not blurred together. Nor swimming in his vision. His eyes are crystal clear, making good use of his 20/20 vision. Laser focused.
Obviously they aren’t glazed over, thinking about how easy it would be to throw this book to the ground. To pick Simon up and carry him to his bedroom. To drop him onto his bed. To open him up like a book. To peruse his body at his leisure. To run a hand down his spine. To study every inch of his flesh. To memorize each captivating sound he makes. To bury his nose in his hair and take an intoxicating whiff. To skim a finger down the lines of his body from top to bottom. To pull the cover(s) back and get lost in him.
Yup.
Wille is reading and nobody can prove otherwise.
And if at this exact second, Simon is looking at his laptop screen with a tiny, precious smile on his face, Wille wouldn’t have a clue because his eyes are glued to his book.
Licking his thumb, he flips to the next page. It’s the end of the chapter. Perfect stopping point. He’s so engrossed in the story that it’ll be fun to delay the gratification a bit. Leave himself on the edge with a cliffhanger. Because he’s 100% invested.
He reads the last word of the chapter with satisfaction and snaps the book shut.
“Good book?”
Wille looks up at Simon, who has pulled one of his earbuds out and is watching him from the other end of the couch.
“Mhmm,” Wille hums. “Real page turner.”
Simon smiles at him, “What’s it about?”
Wille tear his eyes from Simon’s lips (not that he’s been looking) and opens his mouth to answer.
Wait, what is this book about?
“Um…” He racks his brain, desperately scrambling to recall a single plot point. Just one. Anything. “It’s about - this…uh…”
Come on, Wille, get your shit together. “Well - there’s this - …”
Oh, who the fuck is he kidding? He hasn’t read a damn word all day.
Hiii!!! Thank you so much for sending me this smut prompt, thank you for waiting!! (and sorry for making you wait) 💜💜💜
So... ever since Roo @sobadbad posted this (not quite wilmon but in spirit) shower scene gif set I've been thinking about this. I give you: Shower scene wilmon! FWB wilmon!
I hope you enjoy 💜
cw: nsfw
Read below or on AO3
Simon lets out an unceremonious yelp when his naked back connects with the cool shower tiles. He has half a mind to complain, but Wille is already on him, warm and broad and damp, half sweat, half wayward sputtering from the shower spray. And all hungry mouth, quickly swallowing Simon’s complaints, all hungry hands, slipping between the wall and Simon’s body, making it better, making it good.
Simon can’t help but smile into the kiss, even through the moan that’s punched out of him when Wille fully slots his body against Simon’s. Even when they’re so horny they’re forgetting themselves, Wille knows just what to do. Knows how to angle them in the small stall, so they can keep making out, unhindered by water rushing down and fogging up the air they’re sucking in, in between kisses.
They're not usually reckless like this. Their moments of… this, of them crashing together, of working out the daily stresses, of channelling every bit of frustration and maybe some loneliness, at least on Simon’s part, of seeking out comfort and companionship and relief and fun; they usually happen neatly hidden away. In Wille's dorm room, curtains drawn, after classes, or Simon's bedroom, when Wille gets granted a rare Saturday off the Hillerska premises. There’s a clear distinction between the them that’s for public spaces, that’s okay for others to see, that’s look and feels a lot like comfortable acquaintanceship, timid friendship, steadily growing less and less timid as time went on, and this. This them, that’s hot tongues and fingernails digging into backs and bodies moving like it’s everything they’ve ever done, and beautiful needy sounds that Simon feels secretly possessive over.
But today is... different. Today feels decidedly out of the ordinary, feels like they’ve lost their scrips and rewritten their roles. And Simon doesn’t think he’s ever wanted Wille quite this badly.
Simon could've predicted it, has felt an unnerving kind of crackling between them all throughout their training session. Every time their fingers brushed on the barbell bar and Wille seemingly leaned into the touch, whenever Simon sat down on the rowing machine, Wille's hand burning through the thin fabric of his shirt where it was pressed against the small of his back.
An unspoken understanding between them, silently agreeing to take their time cleaning up the gym afterwards, with their teammates slowly filing out through the door. A foreboding heaviness settling deep in the pit of Simon’s stomach when they rolled the parallel bars back into the storage space, exchanging looks and smiles and inaudible promises.
Their joint relief upon walking into the locker room with deliberately slowed steps, a mischievous glance exchanged when they found it already almost deserted, their slow stripping, backs turned, while they waited out their last teammates leaving.
Simon moans against Wille’s tongue, fingers finding their way into his damp hair. It's like the tension is worse today, like even the feeling of Wille's skin, glorious and naked and warm and more and more slick with water, pressing against his isn't enough to take off the edge. The normally impermeable wall between the Simon that gets to have and gets to want Wille like this, and the version of him that nods and smiles and jokes like he doesn’t know what Wille’s body feels like under his, is gone and long forgotten. A ludicrous thought crosses Simon’s mind, unfounded and yet hard to ignore. In this very moment, Simon isn’t even sure anymore if the wall ever really existed.
Wille breaks away and Simon scrambles to pull him in again, but Wille moves his lips down Simon’s cheek and towards his ear.
“You looked so hot out there,” he breathes, in this voice that Simon deludes himself is reserved for him alone. He only tightens his grip on Wille’s hair.
“Yeah?”
It’s half a laugh, half a breathy plea for Wille to double down.
They don’t do this. Wille doesn’t hold back on compliments, of course not, he’s quick to compliment Simon’s singing, his song lyrics, his good essays. But that’s the other Wille, not the one that’s-
“Fuck,” Simon drops his head against Wille’s shoulder when Wille wraps a hand around his cock, sliding easily with warm water running down his arm.
The Wille who knows how to stroke Simon to full hardness in a few seconds, the one that looks so so so pretty on his knees with Simon in his mouth, is not the Wille that gives his friend compliments. They don’t do this.
“So hot,” Wille adds, and peppers a line of kisses down the side of Simon’s neck. Simon only gasps. He desperately tries to buck his hips into Wille’s touch, but remains firmly pinned against the tiles by Wille leaning his weight on Simon’s thigh. And as if Simon isn’t already losing his mind a little, as if their kissing and grinding and touching out here and the heated air of the shower isn’t already making him feel lightheaded enough, Wille goes on.
“You always look so good…,” he mumbles, quiet and dampened by Simon’s skin, but still painfully clear to his ears. A sudden rush of heat has Simon trembling.
He only hums, unsure what the fuck else he’s supposed to do. Unsure what the fuck changed and why he so desperately needs Wille to mean it, needs both Willes to mean it.
But his body has its own mind, muscle memory tiding him over the confusing rush inside of his head. His hand easily finds its way down Wille’s body, palm sliding over slick skin and the firm muscles underneath, over Wille’s soft belly, sucked in with a quiet breath. Just as he feels the coarse hair against his fingertips, Wille wraps his fingers around his wrist, moving him further down.
“Need you,” Wille whispers between kisses, and Simon lets out a desperate sound when Wille runs the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock on a downstroke.
“Me too,” he replies, too loud maybe, and takes Wille into his hand.
So badly, he thinks, allowing himself a moment to revel in the weight of Wille’s cock in his hand, the soft, soft skin, the heat, the sparks rushing through his belly at every single one of Wille’s movements. Wille’s grip on his wrist tightens when Simon starts to move.
Wille’s strokes falter, he interrupts himself with a beautiful, wonderful, moan that… Simon’s cheeks heat up, head spinning, when he recognizes his name in the sound.
At once, everything else is forgotten, everything about who they are or what they aren’t, any limits to what this can be, every silly rule he’s ever tried to put in place for himself. Simon wants to make Wille falls apart, he wants to see it, wants to hear it, wants to feel it, wants to wash him clean afterwards, wants Wille to slump his tired, exhausted body against his, he wants-
A loud clatter towards the other end of the room startles them apart. Simon freezes, gears in his head turning and, horrifyingly, identifying the sound as the door being pushed open.
Too good to be true, it was all too fucking good to be true. He shouldn’t have dared to hope they could get away with this, could get away with something as stupid, as reckless, as fucking idiotic…
He hears steps slowly approaching. Then, a loud call of Wille’s name.
Strangely enough, Wille crowds closer against Simon, doesn’t let go of him. As if he could shield Simon from whoever is going to find them. As if that wouldn’t make a difficult to explain situation even worse. There’s no use hiding, Simon wants to say. Not with the water running, not with them staying back.
“What’s taking you so long?” the voice, Simon thinks it might be Henry, calls out. “Hurry up!”
So that must mean…
Twisting his head around, Wille answers.
“Coming!” he yells.
Simon’s body is quicker than his mind, snickering at the word choice. Before he can stop himself, Wille already firmly clasps a hand over his mouth.
That’s… Something.
Pinned against the tiles, one of Wille’s hands on his mouth, the other still on his cock - Simon swallows hard against the tightness in his throat.
Wille’s eyes dart from his hand on Simon’s mouth up to Simon’s eyes and down again, seemingly equally affected.
A second passes before he seems to shake himself out of it.
“Just… you can leave without me,” he yells, without really turning his head. “I’ll join later.”
A longer stretch of silence gives Simon just enough time to panic again, rattle his brain for excuses, explanations, something to justify why they’re crammed in a stall in the community showers, hands in compromising positions, lips and cheeks pink.
At the sound of more steps, Simon’s stomach drops, but he quickly realized that it worked, that Henry is walking away.
He waits until the door closes again, equally loud and startling sound, but so, so relieving this time around. As soon as he thinks the coast is clear, Wille drops his hand, apology somewhere in the unsteady look of his eyes. And as soon as Simon’s heart has slowed, is no longer hammering pressure against his temples, he lets out a laugh, loud and unguarded.
“Coming,” Simon mocks, still incredulous that it worked and squeezes Wille’s cock just to watch Wille’s eyes roll back and falls closed.
“Leave without me,” he tries again, now fully laughing, and Wille presses closer, traps both of their arms between their bodies. He lets out a long groan that sounds like frustration and embarrassment. And it’s so, so endearing.
This is Simon’s friend Wille, the one that jokes with him during lunch breaks. Except it’s also the Wille that softly kisses Simon’s shoulder. And has never once let go of his cock.
“Sorry,” Wille mumbles, this one almost too quiet to hear over the water rushing. “I forgot they wanted to go out for pizza…” He sounds embarrassed still, and regretful as well.
Simon swallows. He’s used to this. He knows it’s what they do, the boarders, spend time together, one way or another. He knows he’s not one of them, will never be one of them, frankly, doesn’t fucking want to, not one bit. And apparently, sometimes, like just now, his being essentially invisible to them can pay off. But there’s no downplaying the tiny, miniscule sting that always comes when it’s time for Wille to put on his public self again, the one that hangs out with his peers, without Simon. It’s a stupid, ridiculous, selfish thought to have, Simon knows that. They’ve laid done these implicit rules, this barrier between Simon and Wille who make out and fuck, and Simon and Wille who talk at school, but then go their separate ways. So he clears his throat, plastering on a hopefully casual smile.
“Guess we should finish up quickly, then, huh,” he suggests when Wille’s head comes up again, when Wille takes a tiny step back, reintroducing space between them. Simon hopes his tone is as light as he intended.
But Wille looks… strange. Wistful, maybe. Nothing like his hungry, wonderful, smiley earlier self. Simon’s eyes catch on his mouth, bottom lip sucked in between his teeth.
“Don’t wanna go with them.”
Wille’s hands are gone suddenly, leaving Simon bereft for all but a moment before Wille is skating them over Simon’s sides instead, slowly moving up and down, as if to soothe Simon, or maybe himself.
“You don’t?”
Simon vaguely knows that Wille gets annoyed with the guys sometimes, but he’s been under the impression that, despite it all, they’re friends. Maybe better friends than Simon and Wille are, even if the sex is blurring the lines and making things seem more meaningful than they probably are.
But Wille is shaking his head, avoiding Simon’s eyes to instead watch his hands mover over Simon’s body. There’s something he isn’t saying, Simon can tell. And so he mirrors Wille’s movements, regretfully lets go of him to instead let his palms slide over Wille’s soft skin.
Wille has so many moles on his body, Simon would think it’s funny if he wasn’t so helplessly attracted to them, the way they look like constellations that are meant to be traced. Slowly, Simon brushed his thumb over Wille’s nipple, just because he can, because he wants to seize the opportunity of having Wille naked like this in front of him.
Wille sucks in a sharp breath. But the way he grabs Simon just the tiniest bit more tightly is reassuring.
“I, I meant to ask,” Wille clears his throat, just as Simon lifts his eyes again. There’s a charming red tint to his face and his neck. Simon wonders if that’s from earlier, or if this is new.
“Meant to ask if you wanted to stay over,” he rushes out, all in one go.
Simon only blinks up at him, waiting for the words to settle in and make sense.
“What?” he starts with. “Like… in your room?”
That sounds unlikely. Because they don’t do that. Even Wille’s trips to Bjärstad don’t end in sleepovers. They very deliberately end before that, because anything else has always felt like it would warrant more of an explanation than either of them would be willing to give.
But Wille nods, slowly, looking bashful, but with the slightest smile tugging on his lips.
“Yeah?” Wille says, still not looking at Simon. “I thought we could, like, hang out maybe?”
Huh, Simon thinks.
“Huh,” he says out loud. And finally Wille meets his eyes.
There’s an earnestness there, a shyness that Simon isn’t used to. It’s disarming, it’s wonderful, it makes his insides tickle with a strange feeling.
When Wille doesn’t say anything else, just raises a hand to Simon’s forehead, brushing a clumped up, wet curl out of his face, Simon leans into the touch with a smile.
“Would love to,” he says and gets to watch in real time how a grin spreads out on Wille’s face.
“Cool,” Wille says, and Simon feels anything but cool. But he nods. And tilts his head back when Wille steps closer and captures his mouth in a slow kiss that feels… new… different. Promising.
When they break apart, Simon becomes aware of just how close they’re standing again. Carefully, he pushes his hips forwards, carefully presses his weight against where they’re both half hard. Because, with this new thing, he’s just not sure if this is the them that’s happening today. Wille makes a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. His arms move around Simon’s back again, warm and wet and comforting.
“So beautiful,” Wille mumbles, and it’s a punch to Simon’s stomach.
So… maybe…
He doesn’t get to ask, because Wille is loosening his grip and turning away.
“Can I wash you?” Wille asks instead and Simon feels another new flutter in his chest. After his nod, Wille reaches for his body wash, the one that smells stupidly expensive, the one that is intrinsically linked to Wille in Simon’s mind, cedar wood and vanilla, and starts lathering up Simon’s shoulders, his arms, his chest.
Simon isn’t used to this, to the feeling of someone else washing him, but he sighs, eventually giving in to his eyelids falling closed as he relishes the feeling of Wille’s hands on him. He sighs, lifts his arms up for Wille to lather up his pits, hums happily when Wille brushes his hands down over his thighs and the outside of his legs.
“Nice,” he says quietly, it’s out before he thinks about, but when he opens his eyes to check if it’s okay Wille is nodding, sending him a smile.
After a short moment of hesitation, Wille runs his soapy hand over Simon’s flaccid cock, a little lower to get to his balls. It’s not enough to bring him back again, not yet, but there’s a warm little flush to his lower body, especially when Simon looks down on himself, watching Wille’s hand on him.
Once he’s done, he pulls Simon closer, wraps his arms around him in a hug that has some of the body wash rubbing off on Wille. Simon is about to make a joke, something about Wille not daring to think he can get away with some flimsy second-hand soap after training with weights, but then Simon feels Wille’s hands settle on top of his ass. Wille hesitates. Simon sucks in a long breath.
“May I?” Wille asks then, and traces the curve of Simon’s ass cheek with a single finger.
Simon nods desperately. Oh god.
The Wille that has asked him to hang out is also the Wille that is asking if he can wash Simon’s ass for him.
“Yeah,” the breathes quietly, widening his stance for Wille to have better access.
When he finally feels Wille’s soapy finger slip between his cheeks, he keens. Wille is moving carefully, but he knows what he’s doing, knows because he knows Simon’s body, even if this is entirely new. He’s so gentle with it, really taking his time as he’s rubbing his finger over Simon’s hole. He’s holding him open with one hand, kissing the shoulder he’s looking over in between his movements, letting Simon claw his fingers into his back. When he breaches the rim, Simon lets out a broken little sound, but stays put, lets Wille clean him. For himself, for later, for the both of them. Simon shivers in Wille’s arms.
“Okay?”
Simon nods, unable to make another sound. He’s hard again, or most of the way there, feels like his entire back is covered in goose bumps.
This is so far from the usual fervor and the rush of them having sex, so far from the giggling hurried hand jobs and from hidden away blow jobs he’s had to bite his hand through to stay silent. This is Wille, one of them, all of them, taking his time, touching Simon slowly and intimately, before they’re going to make their way across the premises, together, towards Wille’s room. Where he wants him to stay.
When Wille turns his head again, slowly, almost apologetically pulling out of Simon, their lips crash together once again. And it’s a promise.
Feel free to send me some prompts from that list, or just make some up <3 Or read my other ficlets here
“Wow, you're looking worryingly straight today,” Henry said, his tone teasing, eyes mischievous.
It was a joke they made often, when one of them wasn't dressed in their signature style. Wille had forgone his typical flowy, bright, soft look for something more plain, boring, beige. It wasn't really his style, but he had nothing else clean in his closet. Of course Henry would be a little shit about it.
Simon was busy chopping tomatoes for the salsa he was making to go with their dinner, and while he didn't look up from his work, he let out a comically exaggerated gasp.
“Excuse me?!” Wille countered dramatically. “With these glasses?”
“Yeah, but–”
Wille didn't hear the rest of it, because Simon had wordlessly put his knife down and turned abruptly, curling a hand around Wille's neck and hauling him into a deep kiss, his tongue grazing Wille's lip when he gasped against Simon's mouth.
Wille's brain switched off, then restarted with a sharp jolt.
Because Simon was kissing him. His lips soft and intentional, his breath hot and sweet. The fingers resting on his nape were cold and slightly wet in a way that should probably be off-putting, but Wille couldn't care less.
He had thought about this so many times, had wished for it for countless nights, longed for it in private, then packed up those thoughts and shoved them deep in the crevices of his mind. Never told anyone. Never let it show. Continued to be Simon's friend when all he really wanted to do was this.
Maybe he hadn't concealed it as well as he thought. Simon pulled away slowly, probably noting the way Wille's lips chased his the tiniest bit. He looked Wille straight in the eye before smiling in the brilliant, shining way only Simon could.
Wille let out a breathless laugh, and Simon– he just turned back to his tomatoes like he didn't just flip Wille's entire world on its axis.
Henry laughed, and Wille's blush deepened. This would be all over the group chat by tomorrow.
