Wilmon Forever

Wille just looks at him. His dark eyes convey everything Simon already knows; an answer that doesn’t need to be spoken to be heard loud and clear. 

Simon sighs, dropping his head into his hands to rub at his eyes, “We said we weren’t going to do this again, Wille.”

“No,” Wille says, his voice disarmingly soft like butter. “You said we weren’t going to do this again.”

“Exactly!” Simon replies, exasperated. 

“And yet, you just proceeded to eye fuck me for four hours straight.” 

“I did not!” 

“Yeah, you kinda did.” 

“Wille,” Simon groans, swallowing down the wayward giggle trying to claw its way up his throat. This is getting dangerously close to some cute banter and that is simply unacceptable. 

“Simon,” is all Wille says in response and god, how does Wille do that? How does he manage to take a single word, and his name no less, and make it the most fucking loaded statement Simon’s ever heard? 

“What?” Simon asks uneasily. 

“Come here.” 

“No.” Simon crosses his arms over his chest and bites his lip. 

Wille gives him a look. 

Simon tosses his arms out in frustration. They’ve had this conversation a million times. “Come on, Wille. We both know that—”

“—you want me?”

Maybe it’s the nonfunctioning, middle-of-the-night brain or just his body being a fucking traitor as per usual, but Simon isn’t quick enough to suppress a surprised laugh. Fuck!

Wille looks positively delighted. 

“Come over here.”

Simon shakes his head, pointedly ignoring the growing heat in his lower belly. Wille nods slowly, and how can a fucking nod be so goddamn smug?? 

Simon snaps. “Wilhelm, we absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, ever in a million years, ever have sex again.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because.” 

“Because why?” 

“Because I said so.” 

“Why do you say so?” 

“You know why.” 

“Remind me.”

“Oh my fucking god.” 

Wille smiles one of his wide toothy smiles, which unfortunately happens to be Simon’s kryptonite.

“I told you,” Simon says weakly, clinging to the doorknob to keep himself from crossing to the other side of the room where he would most certainly do something he’d regret.

Fine. If Wille is going to make him spell it out again, he’ll fucking spell it out again.

“I’m not fucking the king.” 

Wille shifts a bit in the bed, lifting an arm to rest behind his head, showing off a gloriously toned bicep and a bizarrely lickable armpit, completely unbothered as he gives a tiny shrug, “Hasn’t stopped you before.”

Dropping his head back against the door, Simon lets out a groan, aimed not only at Wille, but at himself too. Mostly at himself if he’s being honest. Because he can feel his resolve running very, very thin. 

Thin enough that there’s a solid chance he’s about to march across his room and slap the shit out of Wille. Or stick a tongue down his throat. Could be both. TBD.

“What do you want from me, Wille?”

The impulsive and frustrated question is rhetorical and Simon really wishes he would’ve used his useless brain before he’d asked it out loud. Because he knows Wille is going to answer it, and Wille might be quick to banter or tease and he’ll definitely use every trick in the book to get Simon into bed, but he’s never shy or insincere when it comes to stating what he wants. 

Wille pulls back a corner of the duvet, revealing several more inches of tempting, pale torso, then without a shred of hesitation or uncertainty, he says, “I want you in this bed with me.”

The room stands still, but every drop of blood in Simon's body pulses in reply.

“Preferably naked.”

God, Simon is so completely and utterly fucked.

And he’s about to be completely and utterly fucked. 

By the king. 

Again. 

With a resigned huff, Simon tugs off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans. “Fine, but this is the last time.”

Wille just smiles and scoots over, leaving a perfectly Simon-sized, warm-looking space open next to him. Simon can’t quite bite back his own fond smile, rolling his eyes before he crosses the room in two long strides to capture Wille’s lips in a fierce kiss. 

"He hates it when you call him that."

Simon kicked Wilhelm lightly under the covers. "He fell into a hole and it's not like we're ever going to see him again."

"Just say he retired five years ago..."

"What he won't know won't hurt him," Simon insisted.

Wilhelm grunted and nudged Simon back. "Tell me more about these cats."

"And the five dogs."

"No," said Wilhelm, and this time he turned his entire body to sprawl himself across Simon's back--as a sort of big spoon to Simon's now trapped little spoon. "I want to hear about cats."

Simon laughed. "So the dogs were pomeranians..."

Wilhelm retaliated by lovingly invading Simon's personal space even more. "Cats, Simon. Our first kiss was invaded by cats?"

His not long but not short either hair tickled Simon's sensitive neck; he could almost picture their tangled form from a bird's eye perspective, with Wilhelm's sunkissed blond hair mixing shamelessly next to his dark curls.

"And Boris and J-O," Simon added. "But that's not the weird part!"

"Oh?"

"You got a call and you picked up, which," Simon verbally shrugged, "first of all: rude. But it was August on the phone and he told you he was abdicating."

"A strange way to celebrate his coronation jubilee, but okay."

"He also said that your mamma was making a cake to celebrate."

"As if my mamma knows how to turn an oven on."

Simon laughed. "And then you hung up and went back to kissing me, except this time you had a cat's face!"

"Bet I licked you all over."

"Wille!"

"If I was suddenly a cat," Wilhelm said, nonchalant given the conversation, "I'd totally lick you. Your hands. Your hair. I'd.... hmm, what do you call it when cats make each other pretty?"

Simon sighed, but cuddled closer into Wilhelm's embrace. "Just go back to sleep, Wille."

Wilhelm hummed a soft "I love you," already falling back asleep.