#young royals snippet

[normalpeoplethiings]

11 MARCH IM SO EXCITED

WHEN I WAS TAKING A GUESS AT THE RELEASE DATE FOR SEASON THREE I GUESSED MARCH 11 AND ITS REAL

[skibasyndrome]

I just watched the little "I can show you" snippet again and I'm so overcome with emotions I simply cannot....... believe........ that we will get to see them be together and be honest and open with each other and talk about their dreams and wishes and everything........ TOGETHER.... we will see that......... so soon we will be able to see all that.... them being soft and gentle and understanding with each other........... i'm f I nE

[groenendaelfic]

Faroe Gone Final Chapter Sneak Peak

So there's still lots of editing I need to do before I can post the whole thing, but with tomorrow looming I thought I'd share something "happy" and "cheerful" to distract y'all.

Have fun reading the beginning of the final chapter and hope you enjoy! 😇

Simon doesn't know if it's the sudden fog, his tears, or the fact that all he wants to do is be a fool and turn back around again—the first one, definitely the first one—but he drives back to Tórshavn at almost a snail's pace.

It doesn't matter. He has well over a day until the ferry makes its return journey to Denmark and nothing else to do except go over his time with Wilhelm again and again, replaying the good times and the pleasurable times and wondering if he could have said or done anything to change the outcome of his journey—other than realizing that all of his feelings were mere nostalgic illusion and fantasy, which of course turned out to not be the case.

Quite the opposite. Real Wilhelm was so much more than what Simon made him out to be in his head. There's so much he's missed. So much he doesn't know yet and which he desperately wants to find out.

It hurts, and yet there's nothing else Simon can do, no other choice which wouldn't hurt more sooner or later.

No. Simon tried. He did the best he could and that is enough. It has to be enough.

Simon had to leave while he still could.

The road ahead of him is empty, no one else in sight. No people, no cars, no sheep. Nothing except the wet, cold fog swallowing up everything and a rushing noise in his ears which might be the wind or the ocean or Simon himself.

Simon blinks away another tear and keeps driving, turning up the heat and hoping it will help.

It doesn't.

On the next island he passes a camper van. It's parked, and Simon thinks he can make out a brave tourist trying to take a picture, but he isn't sure. It's not as if there's much to see except an endless wall of grayish white.

Maybe that's the fascination.

Wilhelm told him that there are thirty-seven words for fog in the Faroese language, and while Simon laughed and told him to stop kidding, he's sure he's already experienced half of them, and it's only been two days.

Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but contemplating the uselessness of taking pictures of fog is a lot more bearable than lingering on the fact that he'll never get to be with Wilhelm again, never feel that satisfied ache in his muscles, not like this, and really how long can a grown man cry before he's all out of tears?

Pretty long he guesses.

Simon once stopped Ayub's baby daughter from attempting a daring escape on all fours, and Simon swears she was crying forever. Not that he blames her.

Crying is cathartic if it's anything, but if she could produce that many tears because of nothing more than a foiled plan to explore the stairway, then how many will Simon be able to shed before he's all wrung out? He’s a lot taller than her after all and guaranteed to not forget the reason for his tears even after being presented with some candy.

Simon doesn't want to know.

Simon wants to keep driving through this fog forever, because all that's waiting for him at its end is the mundanity of his never-changing life and a scandal revealing the Crown Prince to have been the victim of underage revenge porn thanks to his second cousin and presumed successor, and that is guaranteed to make it worse, to drag Simon’s name back into public awareness.

He should probably call home and warn his mom, warn Sara, but facing them will be torture of an entirely different kind, and also the investigative journalist they chose is a good one, one bound to build a case and not blindly believe her sources before going public, so there is still time.

Not too much though, as there is an impending deadline if the Royal Court and the Prime Minister are to be believed, or at least Simon would really prefer news of August’s deeds to overshadow him being taken into the line of succession.

Not that he’s so naive as to think a mere article can do more than delay the proceedings at best—although one can always hope—and ideally the journalist and whoever else gets a say in choosing the right time will see it the same way, but all of that is still more than half a week away, so why burden his family before he absolutely has to?

No, he's not going to call home yet, but maybe he should reserve a room before he gets back to the capital.

He decides to do it the old fashioned way and pulls over at the next opportunity. A viewpoint, or so he presumes the sign a few meters away from him would tell him if only it was clear enough to see.

He wipes at his cheeks and opens his phone. There are plenty of options for him to stay at. Small, privately owned places, holiday homes with kitchens and living rooms, quaint little hotels doing their best to sell their Nordic, rustic charm to tourists wealthy enough to make it there, and of course a camping ground, because unlike Sweden, the Faroe Islands don't allow one to set up camp anywhere else.

Simon doesn't choose any of them. He wants a warm but bland room, boring and inoffensive and as likely to be in Tórshavn as on the other side of the world.

Something as far from Wilhelm's colorful and most definitely handmade and expensive wooden furniture as he can get, and so he books himself a room at the first—and only—international hotel chain he can find, something he'd never do otherwise, and pretends that he's looking forward to it. The hotel has a fitness center after all and well over a hundred rooms. Simon is almost going to feel like back home in Uppsala.

Not.

He sighs and makes sure he received a confirmation for his booking, before he throws his phone onto the passenger seat and sighs again.

Somehow, magically, or rather because he's on a windy archipelago in the middle of nowhere, the fog is starting to clear. He can see a few meters of grass now, and then a cliff, and below it the cold, dark ocean pretending at being calm.

Simon wants the fog back, but when has he ever gotten what he wanted, and by the time he's back on the road he swears he can see a tiny patch of blue sky up ahead.

The hotel is on the outskirts of town and exactly as impersonal as Simon hoped it would be. He isn't hungry, and so he goes straight to his room and falls face first into bed.

The sheets are white and the pillows are white and they smell bland and clean and inoffensive, nothing at all like Wilhelm, and why would they?

Simon hates them. Simon also hates the hotel, but it's not as if he's in the mood for sightseeing, and as he isn't willing to take a shower yet—what? He's alone, no one's going to smell him, and isn't that the entire problem?—all that's left to do is turn on the TV, because he's for sure not touching his phone again any time soon.

Not when that would mean having it confirmed with every passing minute that he was a fool to leave Wilhelm his number. Wilhelm isn't going to call, but Simon would rather live in denial for as long as he can.

The TV does not greet him with an info screen as Simon expected, but an English speaking news channel, the volume turned up way too loudly, and Simon turns it off again as fast as he can.

Wallowing in self pity it is then.

Unfortunately Simon's usual answer to bouts of self-pity—angrily jerking off to thoughts of Wilhelm—is not an option right now, because Wilhelm is the entire reason for his misery, and so he grudgingly reaches for his phone after all and starts up a game which would work much better on a computer screen.

He's just about to finish off the newest boss, when a text message pops up.

If I do it, it reads. Then can we

The sentence stops halfway through, and Simon almost has a heart attack.

The delay in his reaction is enough for him to be killed instead, but it's not as if Simon notices.

Wilhelm. It has to be Wilhelm.

He taps the message, and while that makes it larger, it doesn't change the words.

He almost calls Wilhelm back right away, because Wilhelm is swaying, is reconsidering, and Simon wants that, he wants it so bad, to have Wilhelm back in his arms and his life, but also Simon already told Wilhelm that he can't be the only reason Wilhelm returns, that this is a life changing decision if there was ever any, and that Wilhelm needs to make it for himself and not for a hope of them maybe working out, and so he doesn't.

Instead he waits an excruciating minute and then another, just in case Wilhelm wants to add something or pressed send too soon, but no further message follows.

Simon curses and swears and kicks up his feet, because now he has hope again and that is great, but also torture. He doesn't want Wilhelm to get the wrong impression, doesn't want him to think that Simon wouldn't be willing to pick right up where they left off if he could—in the bedroom that is, not when it comes to fighting—and maybe they could also go on a date which has been nineteen years in coming.

Simon wants that. Simon really wants that. How can he not, now that he's had a taste, has spent time with Wilhelm, just Wilhelm, has had breakfast with him and done chores with him and played with his dog. Simon wants Wilhelm back, now more so than ever.

Simon knows he's an idiot, thinking of romance and dating when he just left the love of his life behind, and even if he hadn't, a returning Wilhelm would have much different things on his mind. He'd have to. He'd have no other choice. Things like his dying mother and the throne and the public reacting to his return after ten years in exile.

Wilhelm wouldn't have time for Simon, no matter how much Wilhelm would want him. Not for weeks and not for months. Simon would have to sneak into an assortment of palaces with the eyes of the entire nation on nothing but them if he wanted any time with Wilhelm at all, and Simon wouldn't want that. Simon doesn't want secrecy and sneaking and lies. Not that'd even be an option, what with the press and curious bystanders everywhere.

There is another option of course. The only one Wilhelm would ever consider coming back for. The one which at first glance sounds perfect because it means being with Wilhelm and standing by his side. It would also mean giving up everything else in Simon's life though, but what has he really got to lose? Why stop being foolish now?

Wilhelm told Simon that he's it for him. Wilhelm loves him. Simon's already traveled across an ocean. What's one tiny text message compared to that? Why can't he be selfish just this once and fuck the risk and the idiocy and the fear of what will be in one year? In five? In ten?

It all might end in disaster, but it might also not, and why should he be miserable if there's even the slightest chance at some fleeting happiness. After all it's not as if the email Wilhelm sent isn't bound to upend Simon's life anyway, and it's not as if Wilhelm is actually going to come.

Simon wants to be happy.

Simon wants to be happy and now there's a chance for it and so why not take it? He's done stupider things before, like coming here in the first place, so he might as well go all the way.

He doesn't text Wilhelm a yes, doesn't make any promises. He texts one word and one word alone, followed by a number, the name of the hotel and his room number, and maybe that's the biggest promise of all.

He doesn't regret it. He couldn't stay, not without making his inevitable departure even worse, but now he's done his part and the ball is in Wilhelm's court, all the balls are, and Simon is here and waiting.

For a ferry. For Wilhelm. For the life they could have had.

Fuck.

[sflow-er]

S2 Walty snippets series [complete]

With the final season of Young Royals almost upon us, I've been taking stock of my fics and decided to scrap the second chapter to Like you better. There is always a chance of me returning to it someday, but I don't think it really brings anything new to the fic.

That means my little series of S2-compliant Walty fics is complete, and since I never made a proper series post, here's some shameless self-promo (ft. comment quotes):

Sflow's S2 Walty snippets

S2-compliant Henry or Walty fics. The first two are consistent with each other, the last one is separate. Any of them can easily be read as a standalone. Henry is ace as always in my fics, but the depiction of his asexuality and the nature of his relationship to Walter varies.

Bright ideas: ~5k, T, platonic Walty "I love how no matter how short this little one-shot is, it still has a complete narrative structure (--) I giggled from start to finish"

Henry's motivation for rowing has been on a downward spiral all winter. He gets a little lost inside his head trying to avoid punishment for being late, until Walter tells him to get home for something exciting. Cue an awkward walk-by when Wilmon are trying to have an important talk, some related thoughts, a discussion with Walter, and an invitation for Wille to join some ridiculous shenanigans.

OR: A missing moment/scene expansion for s2ep2 (written for YR week 2023) that shows us what Henry was up to before, during and after the locker room scene. My attempt at crack.

Like you better: ~2k, T, queerplatonic OR romantic Walty "I didn't know I needed queerplatonic fanfics that much. It makes me so happy!"

After the masquerade ball, Walter comes home to Henry, who is newly recovered from a migraine attack. A bit of talk about girls, their friendship, and Henry's recent revelation of his asexuality ensues. Along with some cuddles.

OR: A super fluffy missing moment between Walty at the end of s2ep4. Can be read as either queerplatonic or romantic, your choice!

Last chance: ~7k, T, romantic Walty Not consistent with the other parts of the series! "beautifully crafted (--) second chapter was amazing and gentle and like being hugged through my phone screen"

As Henry and Walter's friendship takes a romantic turn, Henry decides to take the last chance to come out to his best friend before everything changes.

OR: A first kiss + coming out/ace talk + getting together fic set after S2 (written for Ace Awareness Week 2023). Contains discussion of past acephobia, previous sexual experience (not very specific), and aversions (French kissing specifically mentioned, the rest are up to the reader's interpretation). A more sex-favourable take on ace Henry than my other fics (sex doesn't happen in the fic, though). Also, Walter is explicitly gay in this one.

[omar-rudeberg]

14 and 19 for the writing asks :]

14. Write and share the first sentence of a new fic. Just that.

this is !!!!!!!!!! hard !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ok here we go:

The first time Wilhelm wandered to the store for fresh milk and eggs and didn't notice a single burning stare pinned to his back as he did so, he returned to their apartment - heart beating too fast - closed the front door, leant back against it and burst into tears. Finally.

(Simon's head whipped up from the kitchen island, visible from Wilhelm's statued position in the entryway, and he gently placed the cup measure of flour down.

"Oh my- Wille. Oh my god," Simon stuttered out, moving quickly toward Wilhelm's trembling form. "What happened? What- What did they say?"

"They didn't," Wilhelm whispered, tipping his head back against the door and inhaling into his diaphram. He exhaled shakily, passing the canvas bag of groceries toward Simon's outstretched hand. Then accepted it when Simon bypassed the milk and eggs, instead cradling Wilhelm's cheek in one hand to bring their gazes into each other. Wilhelm smiled down at his boyfriend, unable to believe they'd got here, from where they'd started. (Front page news.) "They didn't," he said, still a whisper. "They didn't even see me."

Wilhelm's breath caught on a hiccough, high in his throat, and Simon rescued the groceries, gently lowering them to the floor, before gathering Wilhelm close as he falls apart. Finally.)

SORRY I CANT FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS I CANT EVEN READ

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

the last excerpt was too nice so here this one's filthy so sorry maybe or maybe you're welcome? under the cut for obvious reasons

He pulls Wilhelm's hair tighter on his next thrust, getting so fucking rough with him now. But seeing how much Wilhelm needs this, isn't sorry in the slightest.

"Hands up baby," Simon grunts, "hold on to the headboard for me so I can use you good, my darling."

Wilhelm complies, instantly, and Simon immediately misses the broad hands on him that were roaming his back, pulling his hair, and cradling him close. Wilhelm's eyes flutter closed, though, as he grips the headboard, surrendering himself fully, holy, and Simon doesn't regret a thing.

curious?

[hehehereliesmysanity]

Honey And Lemon

Chapter 9

Here is a snippet from the next chapter.

A little treat from me to those who can't wait for the new season or who are nervous about the wilmon endgame or having a simple not-so-great day. I hope this puts a smile on your face.

If you have never heard this fic before or read it, you can start from the beginning here.

💜💜💜

“Are you watching me sleep?” Wille murmurs. A small smile is visible at the corner of his lips but his eyes are still closed. Simon is caught red-handed but he doesn’t feel embarrassed at all. 

“Yes,” Simon simply says.

“Don’t deny,” Wille grins, “You were staring at me. I can feel it."

“I said yes, Wille,” Simon giggles.

“Oh,” he blushes, opening his eyes only to avert them to the ceiling, anywhere but Simon.

“You are very pretty,” Simon blurts out. Wille snaps his head back at him so fast that Simon thinks he must have broken his neck. He hides his face deeper on Simon’s shoulder. “You are so beautiful, Wille,” Simon whispers in his ear. “I was just admiring your face.”

Wille groans loudly, burying his face deeper if it is possible. “You are not real and I am still dreaming,” he mumbles. Simon lets out a giggle, way too amused and giddy to see Wille blushing and getting shy. He is so enjoying this turn of events.

“Can I give you a good morning kiss and show you how real I am?" Simon smirks.

“Seriously, who are you?” Wille is too stunned.

“Is that a no?” Simon teases, with a grin playing on the corner of his lips.

Wille wets his lips and surges forward to capture his lips, pulling Simon to himself closer by his waist; the distance is a lot, even if Simon doesn’t know where Wille begins and Simon ends.

“Hi,” Simon giggles when he breaks the kiss.

“Hi,” Wille croaks out. He sounds so out of breath and gone that Simon feels so proud to be responsible for that. “Good morning,” he whispers against Simon’s swollen lips, pressing his forehead against Simon, his eyes closed to savour the moment.

“It already is.” Simon whispers softly.

“Stop that, oh my god.” Wille whimpers, his eyes going wide at Simon’s declaration. “You are killing me here.” 

“It is payback." Simon shrugs and keeps smiling at him, his emotions are too much to handle and seeing Wille like this is his favorite thing now. Wille’s eyebrows furrow in confusion and Simon feels the need to explain. “For making me blush every time you open your stupid mouth.”

“Oh.” Wille’s grin gets bigger. “So you were actually affected.” he smirks.

“Duh,” Simon smiles back. “Like you didn’t know already.” He tucks a strand of loose hair behind his hair, simply for the sake of touching him. Then, instead of pulling his hand, he cups Wille’s cheek, his thumb gently brushing the scar that brought Wille to him.

Wille’s mouth twitches in satisfaction before he places his hand on top of Simon’s. He pulls Simon’s hand to his mouth and kisses the heel of his thumb. “I had no idea.” he murmurs, more to himself than Simon. “but this is even better than I could have ever imagined.”

“What is?” Simon says shakily, affected by the hand kiss. He didn’t even know if it was a thing.

“Waking up next to you..." Wille murmurs. “I knew it would feel amazing but I didn’t know it would feel like this.” He takes Simon’s hand in his and intertwines their fingers and rests them on their waists. Simon’s eyes are on their hands for a second, and they find their way back to Wille, who has been looking at him so tenderly, so warmly, and so caringly that Simon could cry thinking about it.

“I am sorry for leaving that morning.” Simon’s face falls.

“I want you to stop apologizing for that.” Wille tilts his chin to meet his eye. “I just feel lucky to be here with you.”

“Okay,” Simon presses his lips together.

“Now, you are obligated to spoon me and I earned to be the little spoon. I want to go back to sleep.” he yawns, turns to his other side, facing the wall.

“Ok, but let me go to the bathroom real quick,” he says and gets up from the bed in a rush. He comes back in a few minutes, only to find Wille propped up on his elbows watching the door, and he looks confused.

“What? I had to pee. I was holding it for a while.”

“Why?”

“You said you didn’t want to wake up alone, didn’t you? I couldn’t risk leaving the bed.”

“You are unbelievable, Simon.” Wille shakes his head in disbelief and with a little bit of awe.

“I know,” Simon says as he gets in bed and hugs Wille from behind, which gets a chuckle from Wille, who tugs Simon’s arm and wraps it around himself as if Simon wasn’t going to do the same thing in the following five seconds. He plants his face at the nape of Wille's neck and smells him. He smells so nice. So much better than a piece of clothing that could never be a replacement for him. He has the real deal now.

“You are allowed to leave the bed if you are gonna come back in less than 5 minutes. It is very unhealthy to hold your pee. I wouldn’t want your kidneys to fail you.” Wille chuckles, with his back against Simon's chest and Simon's whole body shakes from the laughter coming from him.

“Shut up.” Simon says, with a huge grin as he tightens his arms around Wille, who lets out a relieved happy sigh and drifts back to sleep.

[bluedalahorse]

So is now the time to post the opening of my unfinished YR abortion road trip fic?

Maybe. Maybe today is the day! This isn’t on AO3 because I haven’t finished it, but @heliza24 really wants me to finish it and would be glad that I posted even this part to fandom.

There’s more written than just this excerpt, so I could always post more if people are curious.

No title yet, because this is untitled.

Summary: Shortly after season 2, Felice wanders off campus to process a high-profile arrest and other recent shakeups at Hillerska. She doesn’t expect to meet Sara Eriksson, who is in the process of running away.

—

Felice’s Phone

Group chat: MANOR HOUSE GIRLZ (Fredrika, Maddie, Stella)

Maddie: yooooo Felice

Maddie: tell us you missed Swedish class for something epic

Stella: we took notes for you

Stella: mine are better than Fredrika’s

Fredrika: LIES mine are better than Stella’s

Maddie: you’re not in your room

Maddie: girl are you even at school?

Fredrika: just tell us where you are and we won’t snitch

Stella: Felice?

Stella: please check in

Stella: and maybe flirt with one of the local boys so he buys you booze

Fredrika: and then share?

Maddie: don’t listen to them

Maddie: only flirt with someone hot

Stella: yeah he’s got to be at least as hot as Fredrika

Stella: lol j/k ahahaha what

Fredrika: heeeyyyyyyy Feliiiiiice where are youuuuu

Fredrika: we’re a little worried, just let us know

Fredrika: tho at least you didn’t get sick and disappear into the bathroom like SOMEONE we could mention

Stella: but we’re not mentioning her

Stella: bc we don’t mention traitors

—

Felice sits at the edge of a convenience store parking lot in Bjärstad, counting all the scars in her nail polish. It’s supposed to be a fresh coat. Stella brushed the ballet slipper pink onto Felice’s nails on Tuesday, and right now it’s only—Thursday afternoon? Felice is drunk on leftover vodka she stashed in her closet behind her Prada handbag, but not so drunk she’s forgotten that it’s Thursday. A Thursday full of literal dark clouds, at that. 

Tuesday was sunny, and it was also the day that police arrived at Hillerska and escorted that guy away. That one, the ex. Wednesday, Felice’s ex-best friend, her real ex in any kind of emotional attachment sense, came back to school for half a day, but couldn’t make it past lunch. Now people are spreading rumors about Sara Eriksson puking in the bathroom. So maybe it’s been a weird enough forty-eight hours that Felice hasn’t noticed herself scarring up her nail polish.

And maybe, now that today is Thursday, Felice needed to skip classes and get drunk and go for a walk off campus, and buy a bag of chips from a nothing convenience store in this nowhere town. There are things getting drunk won’t solve. But it’s not like being sober is going to solve things for Felice right now, either.

Felice’s phone vibrates against her thigh. She pulls it out of the pocket of her sweatpants and notes the texts from Fredrika and Stella and Maddie in her (recently purged) group chat. They’re asking her where she is, and is she coming to dinner. Please check in, fuck. How performatively worried. Felice unlocks her phone and almost fumbles her way through a typo-soaked message before deciding she’ll do this psychically. I am walking back to Hillerska now, she thinks in the general direction of school, slow and deliberate. She leaves the rest up to Maddie’s alleged witch powers and pulls herself to her feet.

Felice’s ankles ache the way they do when she’s walked on her Jimmy Choo heels for too long. She’s not wearing heels, though, only slides. Her legs wobble. Her thoughts swirl in slow, doomed circles, like dirty water circling a drain, as thunder rumbles overhead and a cool breeze rustles nearby trees. The rain is imminent, and Felice contemplates how much worse it will be when she shows back up on campus not only drunk, but drunk and completely soaked through, her carefully styled curls a wreck.

(Stella, Fredrika, and Maddie could get away with a stunt like that. A teacher might ignore their obvious alcohol breath and just tell them to put on dry pajamas and go to bed. But for Felice, they notice everything. Because Felice sticks out to begin with.)

Felice is caught in a vision of the headmistress, hissing the word inebriated on a phone call to parents, when a van pulls into the parking lot. She’s not as up on cars as the Forest Ridge boys, but this van definitely belongs to a Bjärstad local. She braces herself for an awful catcall as the window rolls down halfway, certain she’s about to get leered at by some guy in a permanently affixed football beanie.

Instead, it’s a girl. No football beanie, only football confidence. Felice recognizes the girl from Simon’s instagram—she’s come up a few times. Felice hasn’t been counting, but she’s noticed.

“You’re in choir with Simon,” says the girl. “Felice, right? I’m Rosh. Need a ride back to school?”

“I can walk. I think,” Felice says. And then, so she can own her story, she adds, “I might be a little drunk?”

Felice adjusts her posture, straightening her spine and setting her hand on her hip as she makes eye contact with Rosh. Immediately a sense of embarrassment twinges in her chest at her pose. What the—was she modeling? She’s not making a case for relative sobriety, whatever she’s doing.

Rosh turns to consult with someone next to her, then turns back to Felice.

“Come on,” she says. “Get in the car. Back seat.”

“Um. Thanks.”

The back door of the van slides open. Felice doesn’t have time to question who Rosh has next to her in the passenger seat. She receives an answer soon enough anyway. The back of Sara Eriksson’s head is so familiar—defeated brown waves that haven’t seen a wash day in too long. Sara’s shoulders are hunched over; her neck is bent. She does not turn around.

Two weeks ago, if Felice saw Sara looking like that, she would have pulled Sara close and rubbed her back until they talked through what was wrong.

(Part of her still wants to. But she doesn’t like the idea of Sara mentally comparing her hugs to someone else’s, and she’s allowed to be petty about that.)

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Sara says, tapping away on her phone. She sounds exhausted. “I’m busy anyway.”

“If you hydrate, we won’t ask about the drinking,” says Rosh to Felice. “There’s sports drink behind the passenger seat. Take one.”

Right. Sports drink. Because Rosh does sports, Felice has noticed. It sounds like an order more than an offer. Felice ducks down and liberates one of the bottles from its six-pack. The liquid inside is neon-bright and tastes of soft metal and fake citrus. Rain splatters on the van’s windows—the first sparse and irregular drops, followed by the entire pounding ensemble of water. For the next few minutes, Felice focuses on the horizon, where blurred trees meet the mirror-gray sky, and sips her post-football-run drink. Sara takes care of the directions to her old dorm, uttering an occasional “right” or “left” or “go straight here” to Rosh. Felice can’t tell why she’s doing it. Why she didn’t just insist on leaving Felice behind.

Then, the conversation shifts. Or at least, the conversation that Felice isn’t a part of shifts.

“Rosh?” Sara whispers. “I can’t find anywhere cheap enough for us to stay.”

“Even on the apps?” Rosh replies. “Look, I told you, I have some money—”

“I can’t take your money.”

“It’s money I owe Simon anyway.”

“That’s even worse. He already hates me. You should hate me more.” 

Sara breathes in, then out, audibly. She does it a few more times. Felice’s own lungs strain in sympathy.

“We have to find a place for the weekend,” says Sara. “Or we can’t do it.”

“What are you talking about?” Felice finally asks. She presses a hand to her thigh to keep her leg from jiggling. Since she was seven years old and started her first etiquette classes, she’s always been able to sit still. Always.

“We’re going on a weekend trip,” Rosh answers, too brightly. “To Stockholm—”

“—to an island,” Sara says at the same time.

“Stockholm has lots of islands,” Rosh improvises. “Sara just needs to be away for a weekend. That’s all.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re going on a normal trip,” says Felice, hearing the suspicion in her voice, and how it sounds like her father.

“We told Mamma we were traveling,” says Sara. “My period’s late. I don’t––I don’t think it’s coming. I know it isn’t coming, because—”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“—I did a pregnancy test.”

Felice digs her chipped nails into her knee. She knew how Sara’s sentence was going to end. Not the way she knows people’s names or the answers on a test she studied for, but the way she knows to pull her hand away when she touches a hot stove. Swift and unthinking. She even gasps the same way she does when she’s burned. Not out of surprise but out of pain.

“Fuck, Sara,” says Rosh. “You don’t have to tell her. She could tell the media.”

“Sorry,” says Sara. “It just came out. I’m scared, okay?” At last she turns around and looks toward Felice, her fingers curled around the back of the passenger seat. Her face is red and purple-tinged in all the places that indicate crying and sleepless nights. “Look, you can’t tell anyone. Rosh and I are going to deal with it. We already got the pills. I can’t deal with it at home because of Simon and Mamma. I don’t know what they’d say.”

“We wanted to use my apartment,” Rosh adds. “We thought my mother was going to visit one of my aunties this weekend. But auntie came to visit us instead at the last minute.”

“Please don’t tell anyone at school, Felice.” Sara turns away again. “Or Simon. Don’t tell him either.”

“People are already talking about how you threw up in the bathroom,” says Felice. “And if you’re absent from school again, they’re going to wonder.”

“Please don’t tell,” Sara repeats, voice muffled as she pushes her face into her coat sleeves.

As much as the infusion of electrolytes, courtesy of Rosh, has helped Felice to steady her head, she’s still too drunk for this. Or maybe, again, she isn’t drunk enough. She tries to imagine her math class tomorrow, working trigonometry problems with an empty chair beside her and actually knowing why the chair is empty. She can’t. Felice can’t even imagine faking sick and staying home from class, because then Stella and Fredrika would come visit her with buns and coffee, and then they’d want to gossip.

At first, being able to gossip felt good. But ever since the arrest—since the security from the palace arriving to keep out news cameras—gossip is more like gangrene eating at an already wounded limb. Felice needs amputation, or at least closure. Until then, she’s just going to keep asking herself questions about what part of the catastrophe she made happen. Why didn’t she ask Sara who she had a crush on, like best friends always do? Why hadn’t she been more concerned that Sara was gone all the time and came back late to their room? Why hadn’t she told Sara how bad things got with him last term, to warn her?

Felice doesn’t want to keep asking herself the questions, because this isn’t her fault. Maybe Sara isn’t the only one who needs an emergency abortion. Maybe Felice needs to abort Sara from her life, so she can move on.

But if she’s going to do this, she has to make it her choice.

“My family has a vacation cabin,” Felice says. “We can go there to do what you need to do. But after that, we will never speak to one another ever again. Alright?”

Sara’s shrunk down in her seat so much that Felice can’t see her anymore, but Felice is pretty sure from the rustling of her coat sleeves that she’s nodding.

Five minutes later, Felice is on the phone with her mother, feeding her excuses and exaggerations until she gets the approval to leave school for the weekend. At the same time, Rosh turns the van around and drives away from Hillerska.

[hergrandplan]

Just a little snippet of a WIP

(because I desperately wanted to get this out before tomorrow but as I have actual obligations that I can no longer hold off on, I'm not sure that will happen. So have a snippet instead! Warning: contains season 3 spoilers)

“Can you draw it?”

Wille looks up at Simon with puppy dog eyes, a black marker in his hand.

“Please?”

Simon eyes the millions of hearts Wille has already drawn on the paper for practice.

“You know the artist needs to have it on transferable paper right? Like, you don’t need to have the drawing on your skin beforehand. Actually, having sharpie on your hand right before going in isn’t going to be good for the tattoo.”

“I just want to know what it looks like, you know… to make sure it’s in the right place.”

The sound of Wille’s foot tapping against the floor fills the room, and Simon smoothens his hand over Wille’s leg to still it.

“And you think drawing it on with permanent marker an hour before you get the tattoo is going to help decide that?”

Wille laughs softly when he realizes the flaw in his plan. “Okay, maybe not.”

Simon skoots his chair closer to Wille’s, the legs scraping over the floor. He gently squeezes Wille’s thigh. Wille places his own hand over Simon’s, interlocking their fingers.

“Do you want me to explain the process to you again?” Simon knows Wille’s nervous, and he gets it. This is Wille’s first tattoo. Not only that, this is the first time he’s ever changing anything permanent about his body without the court having a say in it. To Simon, this is just another tattoo. For Wille, it’s another step in breaking free.

[savethedots]

Wille + having people who support him

[newtness532]

young royals s3 in march!!!!!!

[mmoosen]

Wolf

He tries to describe Wolfgrimm, the best education a student can get all throughout Lycurus. Established almost two centuries ago, Wolfgrimm is an ancient and respected private boarding school which only extends invitations to the smartest academics, the best athletes, and for Nolan, the most talented musicians.

[normalpeoplethiings]

wilhelm defender for life‼️‼️

[heartbreakprincewille]

Okay, I have doubts plaguing my mind since months. So let's solve it by a poll, right?

I have an idea about answering the question, "What if Young Royals was a novel?" by, surprise surprise, writing Young Royals as a novel. But, there's this little voice in my head saying, "But who would read the exact iteration of a TV show, just in a novel format?". So, I have started writing but this thing keeps rotating in my mind, so my enthusiasm becomes less and I end up not writing at all.

Edit: I accidentally set the poll to one day instead of one week so if the poll closes, keep telling me in the replies and reblogs!!

[groenendaelfic]

I have quite literally not stopped thinking about the basket baby snippet since you posted it! I'm happy to wait but can I be cheeky and ask for any more tidbits, how ever tiny, about the basket baby fic? Like baby name reveal, another snippet, chapter 2 outline...anything at all please I will give you my first born child! (I am amypond on ao3 btw - happy for you to publish this ask)

ah basket baby! Thank you for not forgetting, and of course you can always ask. I love basket baby. One day it will even be born. Why oh why can't I write fic full time, I would be so much more productive and efficient 😅

For a few very foolish seconds Simon considers naming the baby Wilhelm.

He loves Wilhelm and he misses him, can't imagine what he must have been going through this past year, alone safe for the very much not amused Royal Court, no doubt at some estate hidden away in the countryside, not even allowed the familiarity of his own rooms.

He also hates Wilhelm. For not finding a way to tell him, to have them be together, because surely, surely it can't be that impossible, can it?

Except of course it can. Simon's mom was accosted by Royal Court lawyers at work, and that was them being nice. It is exactly that impossible.

Tears spring to his eyes. He can't name the baby Wilhelm. It'd hurt to much. It'll hurt anyway, holding the baby in his arms, knowing it's the only part of Wilhelm he'll ever get to hold again.

He already loves the child more than his own life, and the more he looks at the tiny, scrunched up face getting ready to cry, the more he can see Wilhelm reflected in it.

He shifts his grip, pulls the baby closer and hums a melody he hopes is soothing. He can't name the baby Wilhelm. The baby is not Wilhelm, and it deserves better, deserves its own name. One which isn't a constant reminder of its unreachable parent.

Not that he'd be allowed. No matter how popular the name Wilhelm in all its forms has remained in Sweden ever since Wilhelm was born. The Royal Court would not allow it, and Simon can't risk angering them before the baby isn't officially his and he has the paperwork to prove it.

So not Wilhelm then, he thinks, as the baby bursts into tears. Simon would give anything to be able to cry along, to crumble and break, but he's a father now and his child comes first, even if he has no clue what to do.

He just put on a fresh diaper with the patient help of his mom and it can't be time for another bottle.

"He can sense that you're upset," his mom explains when he asks, and oh doesn't that suck.

He doesn't put the baby back in its basket however, nor does he hand it to his mom. Instead he cuddles it closer and starts humming again.

His precious, precious child. His and Wilhelm's.

A tear rolls down his face. He's hurt and angry and scared, hating the Royal Court and the world and everything for being so absolutely, thoroughly unfair.

Everything except his baby, who is innocent and beautiful and perfect.

It didn't ask to be born, and certainly not into a family like this, to a legacy like this. The monarchy is not its only legacy however, and suddenly Simon knows what he's going to call it.

Not a Swedish name. Nothing to tie it to the long line of ancestors who want nothing to do with it. Not Carl or Magnus or Gustav. Not Erik either, or at least not as a first name.

Something Spanish. Something to ensure his child will never consider itself an unwanted royal bastard too embarrassing to be acknowledged.

Something powerful. A reminder that he is also part Venezuelan, and that that is something to be proud of.

Yes. He'll name the baby after his maternal grandmother. There is no person living or dead he can think of who is stronger or more determined in the face of hardship than his abuela.

It will make her happy, it will make him happy, and if royals can do it, then he can do it, too. Only better and with less toxicity, less historical baggage to weigh it down.

He'll make sure no one will ever compare his precious baby boy to anyone. Will ensure he'll get to pave his own path however he wants. He loves his child, his and Wilhelm's, and whatever he can do to keep it safe he will.

"Alejandro," he tells his mother, and because he can't ignore Wilhelm's one single request adds, "Alejandro Erik Eriksson."

For a moment he considers using the Spanish version for Erik as well, if only out of spite, but that wouldn't be fair to Wilhelm. That, and it would remind him too much of his mom's favorite singer.

His mother bites her lip and nods.

It's the right choice. The only choice, and Simon can only hope little Alejandro will think so, too.

[prince-simon]

I wonder if we can see a small part of prince simon chapter 16? 🥰 (I'm not saying it to pressure or force it, please don't get me wrong) ♥️

hello yessss absolutely!! ♥️

it was so hard to find and choose a scene lol rip i'm gonna put it under the cut in case someone doesn't want to get spoilered!

Eventually, Wilhelm’s serenity was broken when something kept hitting his face. Judging by the barely contained giggles from both Josue and Sara, it wasn’t hard to guess that they were the culprits. Wilhelm slowly peeled his eyes open to glare at them, finding Sara’s hands cupped around a bunch of torn up leaves that they tossed at him. “Fuck off,” he muttered but there was a smile on his face as he leaned up on his elbows. “You looked so peaceful, it was too tempting,” Josue quipped, winking at him. Rolling his eyes, Wilhelm huffed a laugh. “Did you want to get going?” He wondered, looking down on himself to pick stray leaves off of himself. “Mmh, no,” Sara hummed with a cheeky smile, “do you want some fruit?” She handed over the container with the fruit they cut up before their excursion and Wilhelm picked out a piece of pineapple to pop in his mouth. “It’s so peaceful here,” Wilhelm mused when he was done chewing, stretching his face towards the canopy of leaves, some stray rays of sunshine tickling his face. “And quiet,” Sara added, “though you don’t seem to mind all that much…” Wilhelm shook his head, smiling. He really didn’t. “It’s so different from things at home. I love it,” he said simply, not sure there was really more to say about that. “Most of all mamá,” Josue teased, “I’m not sure if it’s more likely that you’re going to take her back to Europe or if she’ll insist on keeping you here.” Wilhelm blushed and Sara snorted. “I’d like to see tía Elinor’s reaction to the first option,” she mused. Josue made a grimace and gave a chuckle. “That would be interesting,” he agreed. Wilhelm perked up at that, curious. He’d been wondering the whole time what was going on between the sisters, unable to tamper the feeling down despite knowing it was none of his business. But if Josue and Sara had already brought it up, he could ask about it, right? “What am I missing?” He murmured, casually picking out another piece of fruit. Josue’s expression brightened and he sat up straighter, clapping his hands together as if this was the moment he’d been waiting for. “Okay, so we also don’t know the whole story but we’ve got theories from what we did gather — by accidentally listening in on conversations between mamá and papá, Sara and Simon have heard tía Linda talk about it too… unsent letters that I accidentally stumbled upon,” he rattled off, nearly bouncing in his seat with excitement. It must be a novelty to get to air out the family drama to other people. “Unsent letters?” Wilhelm asked, torn between curiosity and feeling like he was prying too much into something very private. Josue raised his hands in defence. “Hey, I’m not the angel of the family. I’ve gotten the lecture already from Simon and Sara, and even Zuzia.” He heaved a sigh as if he was most disappointed by his sister. “Do you want to hear the juicy details or not?”

[omar-rudeberg]

7, 19

7. Your favourite ao3 tag.

like, to search by? to read? this is tricky cause i like - don't really use the tags when i'm trying to find fic to read for myself ? i'm sort of a ... let's have a look in the pond and see what gazes back at me type girlie i don't think i've ever filtered by tag.

just in general though my favourite tag when i entered the fandom was 'no beta we die like erik' ngl cackled at that. love 'wilhelm is a horse boy' my darling @royalwilmon steered the ship of that gem. 'wilhelm's love language is physical touch (young royals)' is so deeply personal to me. what's most personal though is my dear, dear 'filth with feelings' tag which i believe accurately describes almost every single one of my fics

you didn't ask for an essay soz bestie

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

Like an insistent tugging, Wilhelm has felt Simon’s presence all night. Back and forth, closer and further, it was as if their forms were connected by a piece of elastic, and when Simon ventured too far away from Wille, their bond stretched thin, gathering too much energy, pinching at Wilhelm’s conscience and threatening to snap back into him.

Looking for a way to cut this invisible cord, Wilhelm tried drowning the distracting sensation in the burning liquid someone kept pouring into his red plastic cup.

curious?