Tati's Works on AO3 Tati's Mobile Masterlist My name's Tati and I'm too old to be on here still but not old enough to know better š¤Ŗ Dream Dancer, Cloud Castle Builder, Mastering the art of singing along to the radio, passionate writer of tales and stories. I've been on the road so far with Sam & Dean. The 9th Doctor can take me to wherever he wants to...maybe the 10th Doctor, too. Karl Urban has a place in my heart since 2005 - and always will have. More of what I like: LotR, the Hobbit, Star Trek, Chicago Fire, MCU, NCIS, OUAT, Hawaii Five-O, NHL...
:: "Bad Idea Right?" āĀ āI only see him as a friend / The biggest lie I ever said.ā
AN: Nothing special or crazy, I'm just having William Nylander thoughts š
William Nylander x reader, friends to lovers, hidden feelings, High-tension, dominant energy after an on-ice fight.
Word count: 2.2K
The roar of the Scotiabank Arena was a physical thing, a seismic wave that vibrated through the soles of your shoes and rattled the fillings in your teeth. But for you, perched in your usual seat behind the Leafsā bench, the cacophony had collapsed into a single, hyper-focused tunnel of horror.
It started with a hit ā a dirty, late, predatory piece of violence on Scott Laughton that sent him crumpling into the boards with a sickening, splintering thud. The whistle shrieked, but justice, it seemed, would be swifter than any penalty call.
William Nylander, who had been gliding towards the bench for a change, didnāt break stride. He didnāt look at the ref. He didnāt even seem to think. His stick clattered to the ice as he changed direction, a sleek, blond missile locking onto his target: a hulking defenseman from Tampa known for his cheap shots.
āWilly, no!ā The whisper was torn from your throat, your nails digging crescents into your palms. This wasnāt his game. William was finesse. He was silky hands and effortless speed. He was the Swedish Prince, not the Swedish Punisher.
But the man you saw dropping his gloves wasnāt the Prince. This was someone else entirely. His face, usually a canvas of playful arrogance or focused intensity, was stripped bare into something primal and terrifyingly beautiful. His blue eyes, which youād seen crinkle with laughter over too many glasses of wine, were glacial chips of fury.
The fight was short, brutal, and shockingly one-sided. William moved with a predatory efficiency that stole your breath. He dodged a wild haymaker, stepped inside the bigger manās reach, and unleashed a series of short, vicious punches. A right to the jaw snapped the defensemanās head back. A left hook to the ribs made him grunt audibly over the crowdās roar. It wasnāt a brawl; it was an execution. When the linesmen finally waded in, William stood over his opponent, chest heaving, his knuckles already blooming red against the white of his gloves. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the ice ā a gesture of pure, unadulterated contempt.
Then he looked up.
His gaze swept the stands, not with triumph, but with a singular, burning purpose. It passed over the screaming fans, the horrified mascot, the cameras, and locked directly onto you. The anger didnāt fade. It intensified, morphing into something hotter, more possessive. He held your stare for three heartbeats that felt like an eternity before the refs guided him to the penalty box. He never looked away.
Your heart wasnāt just hammering; it was a frantic bird trying to escape its cage of bone. Youād known William Nylander since you were both gangly teenagers in Stockholm, back when he was just āWillyā and his biggest worry was whether his shot would ever be as good as his dadās. Youād moved to Toronto for university, and your friendship had seamlessly transplanted itself across the ocean. You were his safe space, the person he didnāt have to be āWilliam Nylander, NHL Starā for. You were the one whoād held his hair back after his first disastrous attempt at snaps, whoād dragged him to art galleries he pretended to hate but secretly loved, whoād sat with him in silence the night his grandfather passed.
And you were the one who, three weeks ago, had looked your mutual friend Sarah straight in the eye and said, āOh God, no. Me and Willy? Never. I only see him as a friend.ā The biggest lie youād ever told. A lie that had curdled in your stomach ever since, a secret poison you carried to every game, every dinner, every late-night text exchange.
The game ended, a Leafs win thanks to a last-minute power-play goal, but the victory felt hollow, drowned out by the image of Williamās bloodied, furious face. You waited in the family lounge, the usual post-game chatter feeling thin and false. When he finally emerged, he was showered and dressed in a simple blue hoodie and jeans, but he looked more untamed than ever. The cut on his cheekbone was stark against his pale skin, and the knuckles of his right hand were swollen and raw, the tape now gone.
He didnāt greet anyone. He strode straight towards you, the crowd of family, agents, and friends parting for him instinctively. The playful glint was gone from his eyes, replaced by a simmering, dangerous intensity.
āYouāre here,ā he stated, his voice gravelly. It wasnāt a question.
āOf course Iām here,ā you replied, trying to sound normal. āYou okay? Your hand ā ā
He caught your wrist as you reached for his injured hand, his grip firm but not painful. He didnāt look at it. He kept his eyes locked on yours. āWe need to talk. Now.ā
He didnāt wait for an answer. He simply turned, still holding your wrist, and began pulling you through the maze of back hallways. You knew this route ā it led to a small, unused equipment storage room where youād hidden once to avoid an overzealous fan. He pushed the door open, flicked on the light, and pulled you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
The room was cluttered with old nets, spare sticks, and the faint smell of rubber and disinfectant. He released your wrist only to plant his hands on the wall on either side of your head, caging you in. The dominant energy radiating from him was palpable, a live wire crackling in the small space.
āWhat the hell was that, Willy?ā you managed, your back pressed against the cool cinderblock.
āThat,ā he said, his voice low and rough, āwas me being very, very clear.ā
āAbout what? That you have a death wish? That defenseman is twice your size!ā
āHe was running his mouth,ā William cut in, his eyes blazing. āFrom the first period. Talking about you. About us.ā
Your blood ran cold. āWhat? What could he possibly say? He doesnāt know me.ā
āHe knows enough. Saw us together at that charity thing last month. Said I had a cute little āgroupieā who followed me around.ā Williamās jaw tightened. āSaid he wondered if you were as quiet in person as you looked on TV. Wondered if youād beā¦ appreciativeā¦ of a real manās attention after the game.ā
Bile rose in your throat. The crude, violating words hung in the air between you. Williamās proximity, his anger, wasnāt intimidating ā it was protective. A shield heād forged with his own fists.
āSo youā¦ you did that for me?ā you whispered.
āI did that because no one gets to talk about you like that,ā he growled, his breath warm against your face. āNo one gets to look at you like that. And definitely no one gets to make you feel anything less thanā¦ā He trailed off, his chest heaving.
āThan what?ā you breathed, captivated.
He shook his head, a frustrated motion. āForget it. Thatās not why I brought you here.ā He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a physical touch. āI heard you, you know. Weeks ago. With Sarah.ā
The floor seemed to drop out from under you. The lie, your cowardly, pathetic lie, was here in the room with you, as real and ugly as the cut on his face.
āI was justā¦ā you started, but the excuse died in your throat under his penetrating gaze.
āYou were just lying,ā he finished for you, his tone flat. āTo her. To me. To yourself. āI only see him as a friend.āā He mimicked your voice, a poor but painfully accurate impression. āThe biggest lie you ever said. Right?ā
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, born of shame and a sudden, terrifying hope. āYes,ā you admitted, the word barely a breath.
The admission seemed to crack something open in him. The rigid, angry tension bled out of his shoulders, replaced by a different kind of intensity ā softer, but no less overwhelming. He brought one hand up, his thumb ā the one not swollen ā brushing away a tear that had escaped.
āWhy?ā he asked, his voice now laced with a raw vulnerability youād only seen glimpses of before. āWhy would you say that?ā
āBecause I was scared!ā you blurted out, the truth bursting free. āBecause youāre William Nylander. Because this,ā you gestured between the two of you, āthis thing we haveā¦ itās the best thing in my life. And if I ruined itā¦ if I told you how I really felt and you didnāt feel the same way, or worse, you did and it all blew upā¦ Iād have nothing. I couldnāt risk it.ā
A memory flashed between you, unspoken but shared: that night in the sauna at his summer house in Sweden two years ago. The steam, the silence, the way his eyes had held yours a beat too long before heād looked away and made a joke about the temperature. The almost-kiss that never happened, the line youād both been too terrified to cross.
He was silent for a long moment, just looking at you, his thumb still tracing a gentle path on your cheek. āYouāre an idiot,ā he said finally, but his voice was thick with emotion.
āI know.ā
āA complete fucking idiot.ā He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. āDo you have any idea how long Iāve been in love with you?ā
The world stopped. The hum of the arenaās HVAC, the distant echo of cleaning crews, it all faded into a silent, roaring white noise. All that existed was his breath mingling with yours, his scent, his confession hanging in the air like a promise.
āSince the sauna,ā you whispered, the memory crystal clear.
A slow, genuine smile, the first youād seen all night, touched his lips. āSince before the sauna.ā He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. āSince you laughed at my terrible Swedish pop music playlist and then sang along to every word. Since you dragged me to that modern art exhibit and I spent the whole time watching you explain the paintings, your face all lit up. Since forever, Y/N.ā
The last of your resistance shattered. You reached up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, avoiding the cut. āThis is a bad idea, right?ā you murmured, echoing the unspoken fear youād both carried for years. āA terrible, messy, complicated idea.ā
Williamās smile turned wicked, the playful glint finally returning to his eyes, now mixed with a profound tenderness. āThe worst,ā he agreed, his voice a low rumble. He closed the final inch between you, his lips brushing against yours, a whisper of a kiss. āBut I donāt care.ā
āMe either,ā you breathed against his mouth.
And then he kissed you properly.
It was nothing like youād imagined in all your secret, guilty daydreams. There was no hesitancy, no awkwardness. It was a claiming, yes, born of the nightās violence and possessiveness, but it was also a homecoming. It was the sigh of a door finally swinging open after years of standing locked. His lips were softer than you expected, moving against yours with a desperate certainty. You could taste the faint, metallic hint of blood from his split lip, and it only made the kiss more real, more urgent.
Your hands slid up to tangle in his still-damp hair, pulling him closer. He responded with a low groan, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly until your feet left the ground. He carried you the few steps to a cleared-off equipment crate and sat you on its edge, stepping between your legs without breaking the kiss. The high-tension energy of the night, the fight, the confession, it all funneled into this single, searing point of contact.
He pulled back, breathless, his forehead resting against yours again. His eyes searched yours, the blue now dark with want and wonder. āTell me again,ā he whispered. āTell me the truth this time.ā
You framed his face with your hands, looking directly into the eyes of your best friend, the man youād secretly loved for years. āI am in love with you, William Nylander. I have been for so long I canāt remember a time when I wasnāt.ā
He let out a shuddering breath, as if heād been holding it for a decade. āGood,ā he said, his voice cracking slightly. āBecause Iām not letting you go. Not tonight. Not ever.ā
He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as if memorizing the feel of you. The dominant, enforcer energy had melted away, replaced by something infinitely more powerful: a vulnerable, absolute devotion. His injured hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his touch impossibly gentle.
The sound of a distant door slamming startled you both apart. Reality, with its schedules and cameras and complications, began to seep back into the room.
William didnāt move away. He kept his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. āMy place?ā he murmured. āNo reporters. No teammates. Just us.ā
āJust us,ā you echoed, the words a sweet promise.
He helped you off the crate, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your face, a slow, brilliant smile spreading across his features ā the real one, the one reserved for quiet mornings and private jokes. The smile of your best friend.
and i also think itās ridiculous to diminish this by saying something along the lines of ātheyāre rich white men and we should just expect thisā
we canāt just dismiss peopleās actions because theyāre in a position of sociopolitical privilege and if we continue to normalise those in positions of privilege upholding the systems of oppression that benefit them, nothing will ever change.
i donāt care if theyāre rich and white, at the end of the day theyāre grown men and they should know about the world they live in and have a back bone and empathy for other people. i will not accept their bigotry simply because they donāt have personal experience of systematic oppression. if anything i hold them to higher standards because they have that relative social power to challenge bigotry.
buddying up with trump and kash patel is not okay no matter how privileged you are and i refuse to hold them to lower standards. they are from places where they get to witness first hand the impact of this administration or they have latino heritage or idk their fucking mother works for the team at the butt of the jokes theyāre laughing at.
being privileged is not an excuse. they have the money, power and the resources to learn and they should have a back bone and use their fucking brains.
can we stop normalising rich white men being awful people!!!!!!
i think we can and should expect that someone cares enough about other human beings to not support trump or sit there giggling with him. theyāre not stupid, some of them have literally grown up in areas directly being torn apart by ice raids and at the very least they have access to the news?
saying we should expect them to be bad people because there rich and white diminishes all responsibility on THEM. we should expect them to not want to get friendly with a maniacal dictator who was besties with a pedophile and has a history of sexual assault himself.
this isnāt just a case of privilege and upholding privilege. this is them being friendly with a well documented criminal sex offender. and that shouldnāt be okay or normalised no matter how rich or white you are.
your whiteness and your privilege should not excuse you from bigotry or supporting bigots. theyāre not passive bystanders simply because theyāre white and rich and being white and rich shouldnāt give you an excuse to rub shoulders with these evil people.
The meaning of life? I'll tell you the meaning of life.
When looking at the world right now, it might be hard to find something meaningful. With the rise of AI, and billionaires, and war, it feels like the world is just getting worse and worse.
But I look around, and I see aspiring artists in my classes, combating the rise of AI generated art and I feel a sense of hope.
I see protests against war, and how much care all these people have for others they don't even know and I still feel that sense of hope.
I watch as those with less radical views come into power, as charities get more money and people gain more rights and I feel hope.
There's so much bad in the world, you almost forget about the good.
And there is so much good.
So maybe, the meaning of life is to hope for one, cause just maybe
fucking tell me again how allegations 'ruin a young mans future' they tell us that straight to our faces as he gets generational wealth and she gets fucking shamed, disrespected and publicly scrutinized.
The Vegas Golden Knights are looking to sign Carter Hart. Take my hand, let's bully the front office <3
Per Chris Johnston via the Athletic (archived)
In the same article, he says the Canes have reconsidered their own hiring of Michael McLeod due to backlash:
You can and should bully the shit out of any NHL team for this. There aren't a lot of active Knights fans on here but a few are taking action over on Twitter, and it would be sweet if hockey fans across the league spoke up and added their voices to our efforts.
If you are having trouble with what to say, below the cut is a helpful email scaffold that @stereax kindly drafted! Please add/take away details at your discretion.
[Email subject line: something along the lines of "Please do not sign Carter Hart".]
Hi! My name is [YOUR NAME], I am a [Golden Knights/hockey] fan [since XXX] and an advocate for sexual assault survivors. I am writing to you today to implore of the Vegas Golden Knights to not sign Carter Hart.
I find it deeply distressing that [my favorite/any] NHL team would consider signing any players that were involved in the recent Hockey Canada scandal. This is not just about the game of hockey, but a deeper and more pervasive issue of the culture of sexual assault within hockey. While none of the players were convicted of sexual assault (due to insufficient evidence), the evidence is clear that these men deeply traumatized EM, trauma that has taken her years to recover from. By signing Hart, or any other player involved in the scandal, Vegas sends a message to sexual assault survivors, and indeed many female fans of hockey, that their voices are not important, and that what they have gone through does not matter if the person that abused them is marginally better at a sport than someone else. This goes against Vegas's core value of community.
[If Vegas goes forward and signs Hart, I will: cancel my season tickets/not renew my season tickets/no longer buy tickets/cancel my KnightTime+ subscription/no longer be a fan of the team/whatever other consequence you can think of.]
Please reconsider signing Carter Hart. By not signing Hart, the Golden Knights can take a stand for sexual assault survivors, underline that there is no room for such heinous actions in the NHL, and reaffirm that hockey truly is for everyone.
with the recent reports of carter hart's most likely destination being vegas, @/wndasmaximoff on twitter created a change.org petition. I highly urge you all to take twenty seconds out of your day to sign it and share with people you know.
Urge the Vegas Golden Knights to not sign Carter Hart
you can also email [email protected] with your concerns on the same sentiment. if someone has made an email template please let me know and I'll link it here.
now, if for some unfortunate reason this franchise decides to sign him and due to general proximity of the purpose of this account, this is also the obligatory notice that I will try to not include him in content but for archival purposes there may be posts with him in it.
however, if this is the case, he will be tagged in everything he may be a focus in. if seeing him makes you justifiably upset, I highly suggest muting the tag of his name, as I will always tag all players in what I post, and this way it won't show up on your dash and you can avoid any and all mention of him.
If you're interested in doing fantasy this year reblog/comment/dm me with whether you'd want to join the espn league, yahoo league (or both) and I'll send over the link to join.
Still have lots of open spots and itās tons of fun. Open to newbies or experienced fantasy managers.
Hey, I'd love to try this but I'm completely new and have no idea what I'm supposed to do šš¤ so, if you're willing to put up with me as a complete newbie, I'd love to join.
I know i don't really have that much a platform or pull, but i want y'all's help.
As you know, two days ago, that nazi asshole charlie kirk was shot and killed. One of the professors at my uni posted about it and said he wouldn't mourn him and wondered where this kind of response was for the Minnesota rep assassination, school shootings, etc. He didn't even know who the bitch was.
And now he very well may lose his job.
This is such a kind man. When he saw my backpack falling apart, he gave me his old one that normally would have cost 200 dollars. When i couldn't afford the art supplies for his class, he gave me some to keep that i still use. He has been one of the most supportive and understanding professors i have ever had, and he doesn't deserve to lose a job he's had for almost 20 years just for telling the truth and not mourning a man who doesn't deserve it.
Its not my petition, and i know they rarely accomplish much of anything nowadays, but it will at least bring attention to it
Sign it. Spread it around. Reblog this post, get it out there. Please.
Protect the freedom of speech on American campuses - Reinstate Michael Hook!
This isn't hypothetical, folks. The professor has been put on leave because Republican lawmakers had the sheer nerve to demand he be fired for making a not actually especially inflammatory comment on his personal Facebook page. They have no legal standing at all to do that.
The fun thing is he would understand why people were getting him outfits with storks on them. Thatās a word, itās his name, straightforward. All the humans get him the same gag gift, but like, theyāre putting effort in at least. This is a genuinely nice outfit. Stork will be a walking zero-effort pun sometimes, rather than waste a perfectly fine robe.
Itās fine. This is a readily comprehensible human illogic. Exactly the kind of thing he expected from moving to Earth.
Six years in he finds out about the stork bringing babies.
Stork has a good long meditation session about this myth, his name, his job, the outfits, the whole shebang (or whatever Vulcan concept is the equivalent).
And he decides heās honored by it, in a humanly illogical way.
The humans are asking him to do what is after all his job, and specifically requesting him for the joy his name brings them on top of an already agreeable and satisfying task. He has no objection to engendering positive emotions in others. Harm hastens the heat-death of the universe, Surak teaches, so happiness must logically slow it down.Ā
Plus, Vulcans of his generation loveĀ puns. There were two decades of punning competitions in colleges across the planet. So when he realizes that he isĀ a walking zero-effort pun, and that the humans alsoĀ love the pun, he is all for it. He is the Joe Cool of the entire Vulcan population in his city.Ā
And via this pun, the humans are including him in a cherished and traditional myth, by casting him as the literal bringer of life and the expander of families.Ā
Thereās no downside. Stork wears his robes, pins, keychains, and other bird-related tchotchkes with genuine pride.Ā
For real though working together with some human social workers, a Vulcan would be an excellent caretaker for children in an adoption center.
Child has a meltdown? Imagine Stork, perfectly calm and unbothered, approaching the kid and sayingĀ āYou appear quite upset, Eliza. If you would please allow me to relocate you to theĀ ābean-bag-chair,ā we can discuss the source of your distress.ā
A Vulcan educated in medicine and child psychology would be endlessly patient with a kid with behavioral issues. Stork wouldnāt get or upset or frustrated. After all, these are children with medical and psychological conditions. It would be illogical to blame the child or to not treat them with the appropriate care.
Even if the a little one was having a bad day or was just overtired, Stork wouldnāt get angry. He might even be a calming presence. Any new kids acting out would learn real quick that theyād have better luck trying to arm-wrestle a Klingon than get a rise out of Stork.
Not only that, Vulcans live much longer than humans. Imagine Stork looking virtually unchanged as decades pass. Kids heād helped years ago would turn up fully grown, maybe there to adopt their own kids, and run into Stork, looking almost exactly as they remember him.
And heād probably remember them too. āWelcome back, Eliza.ā
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