[pqorcelain]

𓏶 𝅗𝅥 ͜͜ ݃ ྀི꒱ྀ ̣̣̥ ♪ 𝒟evina 𓍼 8𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑛 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ ㅤㅤㅤ ꒰⠀⠀𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 / 𝐬𝐡𝐞 ░ ⣄.⠀⠀︵⠀⠀𝜗℘ . occasional writer . . . ━━╋━ made of angel dust ?? —— 𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑒𝑛 ‿࿔ᓭི༏ && a. living. doll. ꒱

꒲　◞ ᭄　.　🪦　m.list. — 'bout me. — rules.　୭

‎ © pqorcelain , 2♡25 | request :: open ꫂ᭪݁ . . . ‎

[pqorcelain]

My phone got restart and I lost all of my data . This is the third time this happened in this year btw .

[pqorcelain]

im boredddd lets delete our accounts and stop writing smut abt random people we dont knowwww

[pqorcelain]

guys send filthy request im bored

[lonerslug]

roomate!vi x reader who’s really horny and is in need of some touch (poor girl is touch starved) and vi offers to help her out:)!

the second roommate!vi 's hand lands on your thigh, you jolt like you've been shocked. her palm is warm, and rough -- and you've been starving for it for weeks. masturbating in your room when she's out, cause you're loud and you wouldnt want her listening... or maybe you do. you don't even realise you been holding your breath until she squeezes gently, thumb stroking the inside of your jeans.

"so desperate," she murmurs, voice soft and amused. her eyes flick down to where your hips shift, eager and needy. "how long's it been, baby?"

you can't answer. your mouth opens but only a whimper comes out. "tsk" vi slides her hand higher and cups the wet heat between your legs through the denim. you buck into her palm immediately, a broken little moan spilling past your lips.

"that long huh." she doesn't tease, well not cruelly. her thumb presses down, circles slow, and you grab her wrist, "more, vi, pleeaseee."

"easy. i've gotchya." she pushes you back onto the couch, and follows you down, cages you with her body. the mech gear tattoos winding up her forearms catch the lamplight, black ink, cogs and smoke, like she's built to take you apart piece by piece. you want her to,you want her to take everything.

vi's fingers hook into your waistband, tugging your jeans down just enough to slip her hand inside... no underwear. she giggles, her laugh, that tiny little giggle, ughhhh so hot. her breath warm against your cheek. "look at the sticky mess you've made on your jeans, so ready for me. "

"fuck yes, im so, so ready vi. please just-- " you softly grind on her hand.

"please what?" her fingers slide through your slick folds, gathering wetness, circling your clit with practiced pressure making your whole body jerk. a strangled cry caught in your throat. "use your words, sweetheart. i want to hear you beg."

you're past shame. youre past everything except the aching need for her touch. "please fuck me. with your fingers. i need you inside me. please, vi, gonna lose my mind."

she hums in approval. then she pushes two fingers into you, her middle and ring finger, slow and deliberate, stretching you open. your back arches off the couch, a sob tearing from your chest. finallyyyyy the emptiness is gone, replaced by the perfect fullness of her knuckles against your entrance.

vi finger fucks you with long, deep strokes, thumb pressing on your clit, watching your face contort with every thrust. you're already a mess -- gasping, squirming, digging your nails into her shoulders. she leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth, soft and tender despite the way shes driving you toward the edge.

"thaaat's it," she whispers against your lips. "let go for me. make a mess on my fingers, i want to feel you."

and you do, you shatter clenching around her, a broken wail muffled against her neck as she works you through it, slowing only when you start to tremble from overstimulation.

when she pulls out, she brings her fingers to her lips, tasting you, eyes dark with satisfaction. "good girl," she praises, and pulls you into her arms, letting you curl up against her chest while your breathing steadies.

your skin still tingles where she touched you. and you know this won’t be the last time.

© lonerslug

FINALLY GETTING BACK TO WRITING CAUSE ITS THE HOLIDAYSSSS!! this req was from 9 september SORRRYYy

[pqorcelain]

𝓉exts 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑛𝑜𝑡-𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒-𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟-𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 ! 𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑒 .

contents: ooc ish ellie, grammatical error (i made this at 2am), toxic ellie, fluff with a little bit of angst, afab reader, use of [name].

a/n: happy ending guys don't worry. btw im gonna write smth smutty with natalie scatorccio guys (i hope i dont procrastinate)

[pqorcelain]

new theme is so basic but i actually hate the previous theme even more because i hate brown

[pqorcelain]

hi bby

helloooo khloe baby

[rhiannonsknife]

how the yellowjackets would feel about dacryphilia? specifically if reader started crying from overstimulation, which of the girls do you think would be into it? i’m thinking for sure lottie, very “the wilderness needs it out of you” vibes, definitely shauna and misty too. although van would be the type to pretend not to be suuuper into it but it turns her on anyway (secret perv! van palmer whewww😮‍💨)

on the flip side, any yellowjackets you think would hard stop if they saw reader crying? not necessarily bc they aren’t into it, but more concerned?

- 🐞

JACKIE TAYLOR : with jackie, i think it absolutely depends. an inexperienced jackie, who has only just figured out she’s gay and is entirely new to lesbian sex, would probably panic: pulling her hand away the very second she notices your eyes glossing over to ask if she’s hurt you/if you want her to stop. her sole focus would be on making sure you’re alright, wiping away those tears with the same fingers that had just been inside you, the sex part already forgotten. now, jackie who’s been fucking you for quite some time on the other hand….knowing all your limits & boundaries, she would merely chuckle lowly at the sight, unfazed by your crying. “oh, look at you…” she’ll murmur, amused more than anything, as she cups your cheeks and smears one of those tears across your face with her thumb. spurred on by it, jackie doesn’t slow down in the slightest, the pace of those two neatly manicured fingers picking up as she thrusts them in and out of your soaked cunt. even still, she remains very attentive and, while watching the tears fall beautifully, jackie would also keep an eye out to make sure she doesn’t accidentally cross any lines.  jackie who talks you through it…? soothingly cooing in that raspy voice of hers + praising you for taking her so well when your hips start to stutter against her hand, squirming while your tears soak into her pillows. needless to say, jackie won’t let you go anywhere. she keeps you pinned in place with a hand on your hip, grinning when you whine desperately for her.

SHAUNA SHIPMAN : oh shauna absolutely loves overstimulating you, even more so when she can see the evidence of what she’s doing to you running down your cheeks!! s3/antler queen!shauna, in particular, would not let you catch a break. in fact, she’d be outright laughing at how all the sensations have you sobbing against the furs into which she’s fucking you. obviously, shauna notices as soon as the first tears fall; she simply doesn’t care enough to let that stop her. rather, all the power she has over you in that moment only adds to the thrill that has shauna grinning at your tear-streaked expression. “seriously?” she might even scoff, “you’re fucking crying?” and as if her amusement isn’t humiliating enough all on its own, your crying only makes her rougher: shauna keeps one hand on your waist to hold you down, while the other relentlessly moves between your legs, ignoring the way you try to squirm out of reach as she pumps three of her fingers into your wet, swollen cunt. also shauna will mock you, and the more you cry & writhe, the worse it gets for you. her thumb locates your clit with ease, where it stands out stiffly from your slick folds, and, knowing exactly how to stimulate it in time with her thrusts, she leaves you no choice but to lie back and take it….even if you try to close your legs around her wrist, shauna simply shoves them apart again, snapping at you to keep them open for her. shauna whose rough fucking makes you squirt?? 

NAT SCATORCCIO : nat does not expect to love seeing you cry as much!! the first time she spots tears spilling from your eyes, she pulls back straight away, murmuring “hey, hey, you good?” to make sure you’re alright. yet even with all that genuine concern, what mortifies nat most is to feel her own clit throb in her pants at the sight…she tries to push that thought away as she wipes at your cheek, but smearing the tear over your pretty, fucked out features makes it all the harder to deny. despite being incredibly turned on that, nat won’t move until you’ve answered her properly, giving her a nod of confirmation. only after that assurance does she let herself touch you again, and even then, she watches your face for any sign that she’s misread it. when you start sobbing again as you grind against her fingers/mouth/thigh, nat knows not to stop, having permission to enjoy the view as the walls of your cunt squeeze her fingers. and, oh, how she enjoys it, nodding her head to urge you on and simultaneously quickening the pace. “yeah. fuck, yeah, that’s it!” nat rasps. “shit, youre doing so fucking good..” from then on, she keeps her attention split between what she’s doing and, more importantly, your reactions to it, wanting to make sure that the tears rolling down your ches are still tears of pleasure. “c’mon…” she’ll coax, cradling your face while rubbing your clit. “look at you, shit, you’re so fucking pretty like this.”

LOTTIE MATTHEWS : and you would be correct, 🐞 anon, because s3 lottie would be so into that!! you can practically see her eyes light up through the tears that have welled up in your own, nodding eagerly as they begin to spill over. “there it is…” she’ll whisper, reaching out to catch one of those tears before it can fall & drip into the furs/forest floor (lottie who then brings those same fingers up to your mouth, making you lick them clean while using her free hand to start touching you??). unlike some of the others, she doesn’t bother pulling away; she can feel you leaning into her touch, and besides, this is what it wants: “just let go, it wants us to...” lottie’s fingertips are quick to locate your clit, finding it blindly with her eyes set on you in absolute awe. “you don’t have to hold it in for me.” she says it so conversationally, as if she isn’t rubbing three of her fingers over that spongy spot at the front wall of your already sensitive cunt at the same time. with more tears trickling down your face, you can only rock your hips in response, which is thankfully enough of a reaction for lottie, who brings her thumb up as well and presses its pad to your clit. “good. that’s it.” lottie, who pulls you into a hug, your face to the crook of her neck, when the eye contact becomes too much for you to bear. she brushes your hair back with her fingers, running them through it like she would if she were comforting you, only that the fingers of her other hand continuously curl inside you.

VAN PALMER : secret perv!van palmer!!!! agreed!!! much like nat, van’s initial instinct is to double check if you're alright, one palm coming up to your cheek as she frowns in concern. and yet, she doesn’t actually move away all that much: her fingers are still there between your thighs, seemingly unable to make herself pull back. as subtle as it may be, you can see the look on her face; van’s desperation to keep touching you, even past the point where you’ve lost your ability to hold it together. now, van would never push you to do something you aren’t comfortable with, and so she, too, obviously waits for your approval before she takes it any further. but van would be lying if she said the sight of your dazed, tear streaked face isn’t amongst the sexiest she’s ever seen…..(perv!van who asks to take a picture afterward…? perv!van who eventually begs you to let her record the whole thing). as soon as she has your verbal consent, van gets right back to it, grabbing the strap she’d been using at its base to reinsert herself. “fuckkk…” she groans as her cock bottoms out, your cunt squeezing it tightly. yet no matter how much van usually loves to watch your body stretched out around the thickest girth she could fit through the ring at the front of her harness, this time, her gaze stays set on your features, more turned on than ever to see those tears drip into the sheets. “you like that, huh?” van groans when the first thrust draws an instant moan from you, both of your legs twitching on the mattress in an attempt to keep yourself nice & open for van, despite how much the stretch burns in your overstimulated core.

TAISSA TURNER : taissa would take your crying as a sign to double her efforts!! whether she sees while she’s down between your thighs or propped up above you, either using her fingers or the strap, it only spurs her on further. the moment she notices the tears, gathered at your lash line until one slips free, tai knows she’s got you right where she wants you, at that point of overstimulation where you can no longer control yourself. she’ll still check, at the very least asking for your color (if you’re using the traffic light system); however, it’s rarely enough to make her stop altogether: again, usually, it’s taissa’s sign to do better. if she’s between your thighs, she’ll flatten her tongue where she licks through your folds and press deeper with each pass over your entrance; if she’s above you, she’ll move her fingers/hips faster to find the perfect angle. taissa’s main focus stays on your face, where wet streaks glisten on your cheek. it’s the fact that she can make you lose it to such an extent that turns her on so much, and that she’s got physical proof right there on your face. “come on,” tai pants, all that work she’s putting into fucking you through it not leaving her entirely unaffected, either. propped up on her forearms, she can still hold your face with at least one hand (if not both of them, when she’s using the strap), the side of her thumb picking up the tears. “you’re doing such a good job.”

MARI IBARRA : oh mari would be soooo smug about it!! also shes not letting you live that down, ever, but that’s a story for another time. anyway, not only would she be insanely pleased with herself for fucking you to a point of incoherence & tears, she would also make fun of you, mockingly pouting as she curls two of her fingers inside you over & over again. once the tears actually fall with a weak sob, a satisfied smirk forms on mari’s lips: “you’re seriously crying now?” she’ll ask, the words practically dripping with faux sympathy as she cocks her head and hooks her fingers against your g-spot harder. at the same time, mari’s thumb circles over your clit, not yet applying the pressure it would take to push you over the edge. “yeah? god, that’s embarrassing. couldn’t even hold it together, huh?” even as she talks like that, mari doesn’t stop curling her fingers, the whimpers that burst from your lips when the stretch of your overstimulated cunt taking another digit turns into pleasure encouraging her more. “poor thing…” mari who will keep your body pinned to the mattress too, either using her hand to press against your side and/or throw your thigh over her shoulder so your legs stay spread open when you make a weak attempt to close them. “aww,” she’ll laugh. “and you were doing so well…”

MELISSA HAT : melissa is mortified!! she stops whatever it is that she’s doing as soon as she sees that your eyes are even the tiniest bit glossy. you don’t have to outright cry for her to pull back, fingers frozen in place as she stares at you panicked. “oh my god, did i hurt you?” she blurts and withdraws her hand. apologizing profoundly, melissa stumbles over the words while she cradles your face to wipe away those tears. it’s up to you to reassure her, multiple times in a row, that you really are okay and that she’s made you feel so good!! and even then, melissa wouldn’t be fully convinced, still searching your expression for discomfort/doubt. she’s hesitant to touch you again, and when she finally does, she takes her sweet time, her fingers so gentle their tips only ghost over your clit. melissa also checks in every few seconds, whispering ‘is this okay?’s against your temple between each & every single moan that leaves your mouth. although the tears themselves aren’t as much of a turn on as they are for some of the others (if anything mel’s the one crying #lowkey), melissa is awed to know that she was able to make you feel so much. she holds you through your orgasm, imminent at this point, guiding you through your height by pumping two of her fingers in & out of you slowly and pressing kisses all over your damp face. 

MISTY QUIGLEY : we’ve got secret perv!van palmer, but i raise you: not so secret perv!misty quigley…..she, too, seems delighted to see those first few tears forming, her eyes lighting up in fascination as she tilts her head at you. “oh!” misty gasps, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose if she’s got her hand free and is sitting upright. “you’re- you’re crying.” although she can clearly see, stopping does not occur to misty, who’ll literally try twice as hard to make this good for you. “does that feel good?” she asks, gaze consistently flicking between your face and where she’s buried knuckle deep inside you. misty (whose finger rises to smear the next tear across your skin) doesn’t make you lick it clean like lottie did, but instead tastes it herself, then keeps going and presses her fingertips along the walls of your cunt until she finds your clit, letting out a victorious little “ah!” she’s genuinely fascinated by how much your body can take despite being so far gone that you’re crying that she keeps you on the edge for as long as she possibly can, drawing your climax out until you’re sobbing and then some. “no, don’t!” misty protests when you turn your head to bury your teary face in the pillows. “i wanna see!”

[pqorcelain]

bye i just spent 4 hours with my friends at the mall ❤️🤤

[akaz2908]

[mygaynesshasnolimits]

Both of their eyes are teary 🥺

[pvrnowitch-deactivated20260522]

ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID .

PROLOGUE

SYNOPSIS — Here’s how it all started. How you met. Why she bothered you so much. She knew how to get under your skin, even from the beginning. The obligations you were forced to carry, the fears that kept you up at night, she sensed it all. You hated the way she saw you— through you— like there was something else she was desperate to reach. You were now her very own passion project. And she’d use that to her advantage.

WORD COUNT — 4.7k

CONTENTS — ellie williams x reader, heatedrivalry!au, dual pov, ellie is two years older, brief backstories for context, deep family issues, joel is ellie’s dad, mental health issues, anxiety, insecurity, societal and personal pressures, unhealthy coping, heavy sexual tension, banter, rivalry, jealousy/envy, cigarettes, flirting if you squint, ellie’s annoying as fuck and loves to piss you off, terrible depictions of a hockey game, downsides of fame, mentions of l/n (last name). proceed with caution.

PROLOGUE COLD, CRUEL, BITING

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It wasn’t anger, what you felt. Not exactly.

You weren’t the furious kind. Never a problem-child. As far as everyone knew, you were mute. Perfect. Polished. Not because it came naturally, or because it’s the way you were raised, but because you had to be. Failure was a luxury you couldn’t afford. And with all eyes on you, you’d grown used to never coming close to it.

Hockey was important to your family. You knew that. Your father was a legend of his time, a top player, a name you had to live up to. You were certain there were more golden metals lined up across your living room walls than family photos. You’d never questioned it, though. Never thought that, maybe, it wasn’t normal to care more about public image than anything that might resemble love.

After your father’s injury during one of his games, the doctors had made it clear he’d never be able to play again. A life-long career he’d built with his own two hands, a team he’d captained and trained for years, gone within the blink of an eye. Forgotten once a clip of his brutal accident went viral.

He’d been devastated. Mortified. Then, he’d made it his life’s mission to make you the next him. And after his long recovery, with a permanent limp to accompany his haunting memory, your father had forcefully tossed you into the world of hockey.

Cold, cruel, biting— hockey.

You were nothing short of seven years old with star-printed bandaids on your battered knees and missing front teeth. Your mother, forever too distant to argue, stayed quiet as your father’s passion became yours. Even still, you’d quickly learned that the only recognition that mattered was the kind followed by golden metals and article headlines.

If nobody remembered, it didn’t happen.

That’s what your father always said.

As you grew into puberty, hockey became a second skin, a beating heart, a tough shell of equal protection from the world and from yourself. The cameras didn’t matter so long as you got the goal. You were good at hockey. That meant something. When you were on the ice, gliding like you defied all the common laws of physics, you were sure— for a moment— that nothing else existed.

You were well aware that your father lived vicariously through you, nitpicking each move you made as though he couldn’t fathom that your mind and flesh were singularly your own. His control bled into every aspect of you, blurring the lines between father and manager. His voice was a constant buzz in your ear, an endless reminder that nothing was ever enough. But you didn’t have a say. You never did.

Now, captain of your team and one of the most trending, influential players in the world, you were burdened with the task of representing your family. Your name. Your father’s legacy. And although you were older now, and you’d be damned if you let anyone hold that same control over you, you knew that you still couldn’t fail.

Winning was engraved in you.

Like you were a machine and your father was the inventor.

Coping was never your strong suit. You tried the breathing, the journaling, the top-notch therapies— all the stupid crap that people preached so much about. But the stress still gnawed, still twirled inside your gut. You were a ball of nerves with tensed shoulders and a tight jaw, because the truth is, fame didn’t leave room for emotions.

Fame didn’t comprehend you as anything other than a player number on the back of a jersey, or the replicant copy of an all-time hockey legend. No amount of fancy therapy could make you think any differently. No amount of medicine could outshine your dulled-out youth.

But hockey could.

And it did.

Because hockey made you focused.

It made you forget.

And that was far more productive than any emotion you could’ve possibly felt.

Ellie was sick and tired of everyone telling her what to do.

She didn’t give a shit about brand deals, or fawning girls, or whatever bullshit the media had spewed out that week. Much less did she give a shit about what the world and all of its people thought of her. She just wanted to play hockey.

Well— play hockey and win.

The stick against the puck, the puck against the net, again and again in a continuous, constant rhythm. She’d memorized the sounds, learned to count the seconds as though she could anticipate the next move, the next goal. Adrenaline pumped through her veins like hockey was her drug of choice.

It made her feel alive.

Nothing had ever made her feel that way before.

She’d always been consumed by a strange sort of numbness. Not the kind that came from trauma or the act of blocking things out, but the kind that existed there regardless of any fact. The kind that remained. She didn’t understand. She had a family that loved her. Friends that cared. For a long time, she had a girlfriend. But none of it felt right.

None of it felt real.

The pressure of winning was more sustainable. The anger it ignited, more physical. Hockey gave her a sense of control she desperately craved. It was a place where her anger could belong. The sweat building on her skin, the lack of breath coming in and out of her lungs, the game so rough she could drop dead on the ice— it was the one thing she had a say in.

Control was all she needed.

It made her stop thinking about all the other things she couldn’t change. How her father was the only parent she had. How he’d given her everything since the moment he’d taken her in, and now he was getting older, sicker, less able. How she felt like she owed him, but didn’t know how to give back. How her friends had their lives figured out, in their 20’s already settling down, and she still had no idea what she wanted to do with her life other than play hockey.

Maybe she needed a different outlet. Maybe obsession wasn’t the answer. Maybe control wasn’t the purpose. She knew that. It was a truth she didn’t want to admit, but a truth that ate her alive nonetheless. Her father had repeated it many times. He insisted that her impulse would be the thing to ruin her.

Maybe that’s why, when she saw you on the ice for the first time, she felt this visceral need to know more.

You were an answer to some sort of unknown equation, a push to her endless pull. She felt a loose bolt in her head that only you could tighten. And it wasn’t obsession that drew her in. Nor was it her infectious need for control.

It was strategy. Patience. Technique.

You were an uncontrollable force. An unpredictable entity.

And she was determined to figure you out.

December 2013

The weather this morning had seemingly decided that today wasn’t your day. It was gloomy and grey, large clouds looming over you like some sort of warning. A terrible start to the most important day of your life, you thought. The game that would dictate much of your future— and whether or not your father would respect you as an adult player.

You were eighteen now. The youngest player on either team. The so-called ‘nepotism baby’ that the public either spat on or worshipped with little-to-no in between. Today was your chance to prove yourself. Sure, being your father’s daughter gave you undeniable opportunities. But getting up there— up to the very top— you’d done that all on your own.

Your father had dialed you about twenty times this morning, to which you could only decline. The voicemails went on about how he wouldn’t make it to your game, though you weren’t exactly surprised. He hadn’t gone to one of your games since middle school. Instead, he watched from the television in the comfort of his home, probably so he could yell at you freely through the screen. You were certain your mother watched too, only she never had much to say about anything.

As important as hockey was to them, they sure didn’t seem to care enough to show up.

Your phone rang again. You felt it vibrate in your pocket, picking it out with a loud, annoyed sigh. You watched your breath escape into the cold air.

It was your father.

This time, you answered.

“Game’s about to start, Dad, I don’t have time for this,” you spoke into the phone, hiding by the emergency exit at the back of the building like it could save you.

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

“I’ve been… busy…” you lied through your teeth, squinting your eyes like the conversation hurt to entertain.

“Are you caught up with what the press is saying?”

“What? No—“

“They think Boston’s got this in the bag. You gotta step it up, kid. Anticipate. Watch instead of do.”

You swallowed his words. Internalized them, nonetheless.

You didn’t have it in you to argue. Not when he was mostly right. Not when you’d already spent most of your life trying to get him to understand.

“Yep. Got it. Thanks.”

“Just… make me proud.” He paused. “You know what to do.”

You closed your eyes, already feeling a headache form between your eyebrows. “Yeah. I will, Dad,” you said, voice quieter than expected. “Say ‘hi’ to Mom for me, will you?”

And just like that, the call was over. You were left with nothing but the burdening silence of your racing thoughts and the chilly winter breeze. You held the phone up to your forehead like you half-expected it to ease some of your worry. But it was no use. You were a mess, and the day had barely begun.

You dragged out a breath.

Regulated yourself. Composed yourself.

You checked the time on the phone screen, still not quite ready to have your hockey skills broadcasted for the entire world to see. This was your first international game. Your first time close up on a big screen. Your first time hearing equal parts praise and hatred. With only a few minutes to spare before the big moment, you dug into the pocket of your jacket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter you’d absentmindedly tossed in there earlier, silently grateful that you had.

You let the smoke reach the back of your throat and sneak its way into your lungs, exhaling slowly as the familiar scent of tobacco pooled your senses. You didn’t smoke often enough for it to be considered a bad habit, but it was enough to be something you turned to when reality bit too hard.

“That kinda morning, huh?”

You heard her before you saw her, the voice catching you completely off guard. Your head snapped to face her— Ellie Williams. Boston’s best player. America’s most talked-about celebrity at the moment, known for her cocky attitude, unmatched winning streak, and hot-headed temper.

She also happened to be your opponent.

America might’ve been wrong about many things, but Ellie Williams being a heartthrob wasn’t one of them. She was even hotter in person. Her slim figure loomed over you, barely but noticeable, maybe more of a confidence thing than actual height. Her eyes were dark despite the awfully bright green of them, focused like she was already studying you.

You shook the thought away as quickly as it’d formed.

She pulled the grey beanie lower over her head, crossing her arms over her chest as her feet took deliberate steps towards you. She settled beside you, leaning on the wall like everything about her was fixed and casual.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here, Golden Girl,” she teased, her voice low as she pointed up to the faded ‘no smoking’ sign pinned on the wall behind you.

You rolled your eyes. That damn nickname made you want to puke every time you heard it. “Please don’t call me that.”

You exhaled smoke into the air again, choosing to ignore her initial comment.

There, at your lack of regard, she cracked a smile. It was more of a smirk, you thought, but a smile nonetheless. You couldn’t tell if she was mocking you or simply watching you, but, god, that look she gave you made you want to scream.

“I’m Ellie,” she quickly switched topics, extending her hand for you to shake.

Your eyes squinted, suspicion filling your being. “Yeah, I know who you are.” You met her hand with yours, briefly shaking up and down. “And clearly you know who I am, so…”

Ellie nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving you. “So…” she echoed, as if waiting for you to say the next word.

“So…” you repeated. “I’m gonna wish you good luck.”

She finally looked down at her shoes, sucking in a breath through her teeth. “I don’t believe in luck.” She shrugged.

“Well, I do,” you insisted, your gaze never faltering, your tone never softening.

And she just looked at you. Memorized you with that same so-close-yet-so-far look. You didn’t know what to make of it. Was she doing it on purpose? Was she trying to leave a mark?

You blinked, clearing your throat. “Anyway, I should probably get in there,” you mumbled, scratching the side of your nose just to give your hand something to do.

You took one last hit of your cigarette before dropping it to the ground. Then you turned, already walking away, prepared for the never-ending thrill of your upcoming game. But before you could make it too far, Ellie spoke again.

“You won’t be so nice when we beat you,” she said, her tone still teasing like she wasn’t letting up, still cocky like she wouldn’t accept your unbothered response.

“Keep dreaming, Williams,” was your simple response as you continued your path straight ahead.

You smirked to yourself when she didn’t say anything else.

The rest of the day, however, was an awful blur. And you were convinced Ellie Williams was a goddamn bad luck charm. The second you stepped foot on the ice, she was on you like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. She was quick. That, you could admit. And they weren’t lying when they said she got under other players’ skins. It must’ve been a tactic. A way for her to get into your mind and destroy your focus a little. Either way, she was getting to you. And you didn’t like it one bit.

You should’ve expected it, honestly. The aggravating messiness, the annoyingly perfect stealthiness, the way she moved with such ease and fluidity. For a moment, you caught yourself just observing her, watching her as she focused on the puck beneath her control. She didn’t tremble, she didn’t falter, she didn’t even seem nervous at all. In that brief moment of weakness, you wondered what it might be like to live in her skin. To inhabit her mind. To take control of her hands, and her hips, and know what it felt like to be so free.

Then, before you knew it, you’d blinked back into reality. The puck slid across the ice in perfectly timed intervals, your eyes forcing themselves to chase it rather than her. Then, when the puck neared you just enough, her shoulder nudged roughly against yours— an act you were sure was so purposeful, so meticulously planned, that it made you angry. The impact made your body jerk.

“What the hell?!” Your arms extended on either side, shoulders raising in frustration as you glared at her.

If you weren’t live on international television right now, you probably would’ve shoved her right back. Except it didn’t matter at all whether you did or didn’t shove her, because the whole world had just seen that interaction. And they wouldn’t forget it, to say the very least.

Ellie slowed in her tracks. “Watch where you skate, L/N.” She smirked again, her stick sweeping the puck away from you.

You wanted nothing more than to wipe that stupid smug look off her freckled face. When the game finally reached its end, and you were all sweaty and breathless and riled up, you were convinced she was the most annoying person on this planet.

Worst of all, not only did her presence make your blood boil, but she had actually beat you. Canada versus America. Montreal versus Boston. The game that you were so sure you could handle. She fucking won, just like she’d said she would. And that pissed you off even more.

Both teams were now lined up for the post-game handshake. Your teammates had their spirits crushed, and as captain it was your duty to keep a good face, not just for them, or for you, but also for the press. For the fans. For the viewers at home. You couldn’t show any ounce of weakness, especially not now that Ellie probably expected it.

That sore-loser mentality had no place in the hockey world.

You’d learned that from your father, too.

A harmonious series of ‘good game’ flooded your ears as each player shook another’s hand. When it was Ellie’s turn to shake yours, she took it with a strange familiarity. With her helmet tucked under her arm and sweat dripping from her forehead, the wetness glistening in contrast to the white of the ice, she leaned in close to your ear.

“See you at the draft,” she whispered, lingering momentarily, but only enough for you to catch it.

When she separated, you caught that same smirk.

And as she skated off, you did nothing but clench your jaw.

It was official— you hated Ellie Williams.

June 2014

You really didn’t want to be here right now. Six excruciating months after your pitiful loss against Boston, and you still found it hard to show your face at any of these gatherings. It felt like all anyone ever wanted to talk about was how Ellie Williams had beat the daughter of the greatest hockey player in history. To put it simply, you were embarrassed. Not just that you’d lost, but that you’d been so sure you’d win.

It wasn’t all bad, though. You’d gotten drafted, and so had Ellie, which meant that you were both the brand new, talented faces of the major league. Despite the loss, you’d made it a step further into your hockey career. And it’s safe to say that it wasn’t because of your father’s status, but the unforgettable image you’d already put out there for the whole world to see.

In those months following the game, you were sure you’d never seen your father so disappointed. What he’d said on those phone calls, you didn’t even want to remember. The yelling, the insults, the scolding like you were still a little girl that needed to be disciplined— it made you feel lucky that, for the next few months, you’d be too busy traveling the country for hockey games and promos to see him.

So you sucked it up. Just for today. You let yourself forget your father’s words, let yourself destroy the weight of his anger towards your failure. You couldn’t allow Ellie to get to you like that. And you wouldn’t— you’d make sure of it. It just felt impossible when the mere thought of her made you want to rip the hair right off your scalp.

“We don’t care that she came in number two,” the man in the fine suit and tie said to your father. “Montreal is head over heels, especially with how young she is.”

Your father glanced your way to see if you were still listening.

The man spoke about you as if you weren’t right in front of him. You did nothing but stand there and look pretty, just like your father said to do. Either way, you were too distracted to respond. Too preoccupied by the sight of Ellie standing on the staircase in that dark tuxedo, her dress shirt half-unbuttoned to expose parts of her collarbones, hands deep in her pockets like she was too cool to be anxious.

You blinked. Looked away before anyone could catch you.

“Many kiddos out there will see themselves in her. That’s important, these days,” the man continued, his hands swaying dramatically like his words held so much meaning.

“I completely agree,” your father chimed in, listening closely and intently— or at least, pretending to.

You stayed quiet, still half-blinking like you were drifting in the spaces between here and somewhere else. Taking a sip of champagne, you found your mind wandering. Past summers, scheduled vacations, that lunch date you’d planned with your best friend and never followed through with— anything to keep you from falling over the edge.

“She seems to have a bright future ahead of her,” the fancy man in the suit continued, pulling you away from your distant, everlasting thoughts.

Your father nodded. “Yeah, she’s amazing,” he paused to look at you. “She just needs discipline.”

You looked down at the champagne glass beneath your fingertips, unable to meet his eye.

“Nothing a little PR training can’t fix,” the man responded with an awkward chuckle, probably feeling the tension in the air.

You cleared your throat, then put on a smile. “I promise, I won’t disappoint.”

The man nodded once, convinced. “I have no doubt about that.” He grinned, looking at your father as if to tell him that he should be proud.

Instead of dwelling on your father’s lack of reaction, you looked up again. Maybe it was out of habit, or a simple, practiced mindlessness. Or maybe it was something more intentional. More visceral. Either way, you saw Ellie up there again, standing at the top of the stairs beside her father, nodding her head at every muffled word like she was paying close attention. It bothered you, how easily she blended in. How all this fame and fortune seemed built into her, like she didn’t even have to try.

Having grown up in the limelight, this stuff should’ve come naturally to you. The cameras, the interviews, the picture-perfect agenda— it was your birthright. Your inheritance. You couldn’t understand why the constant attention made your mind circle, why your palms felt drenched in sweat and your chest felt like it was compressing and collapsing in on itself.

The version of you that everyone else saw… that wasn’t you.

It never was.

Maybe that sentiment was more suffocating than you’d thought. But it was the hefty price that came with following your dreams.

All of a sudden, you blinked. Your mind and body were one again. And then, you noticed her looking right at you. She had that same expression, like she was daring you, tempting you. She took a sip of champagne as she stared at you. She mumbled something in her father’s direction. You couldn’t hear what it was, but she held out her champagne glass for him to grab. Then she looked at you again, her eyes a shakingly piercing green.

Her gaze didn’t leave yours as she stepped into the women’s restroom, disappearing from your line of sight.

Was she communicating something?

Was this another challenge? Another attempt at pressing your buttons and pushing you over the edge?

You cleared your throat, utterly conflicted.

You thought about staying put beside your father, letting their words muffle in your ears for yet another hour. But this feeling you had, it couldn’t be ignored. This urge. This thrill.

“Hey, Dad, I’m gonna run to the restroom real quick. I’ll be back,” you whispered, handing him your champagne glass.

He nodded. Waved you off.

He didn’t care enough to argue.

Your legs seemed to have a mind of their own, leading you to nowhere in particular. Part of you wanted to stop, to stay, to ignore whatever hold Ellie had over you. But the way her gaze had carried such power, the way her eyes sunk into you— tore through you— it was impossible to push away. And impossible to understand. A strange curiosity filled your being.

Before you knew it, you were entering the women’s restroom, sucking in a breath like you were bracing yourself for some kind of disaster. And then, there she was, leaning against one of the porcelain sinks like she’d been waiting for you. Her confidence baffled you.

“It’s been a hell of a day,” she said, awfully casual.

“Yeah.” You let out a breath. “Twelve hours straight of ‘stand there and look pretty.’”

She looked you up and down, as if taking in all the fancy clothes and expensive brands you had on, as if memorizing this very scene.

The moment felt heavy.

“Is that why you followed me here?” she asked, her head tilting to the side like she was desperate to get under your skin. Always teasing. “Needed a break?”

Your face felt hot. “What? No— I wasn’t— I didn’t follow you.” You crossed your arms, defensive all of a sudden.

“Hm,” she mumbled, probably not convinced.

She studied your body language like she was trying to dissect you. Like she was desperate to know what you were really thinking. What you hid underneath. You felt exposed. Raw. The vulnerability made your gut twitch.

Ellie sucked in a breath, then dropped her shoulders like she was letting down a wall. “I guess we’ll be seeing each other more often now,” she said.

“Yep.” You nodded, unable to muster up too many words. “Montreal and Boston. Destined to clash.”

She looked at you with that familiar mischievous grin. “Better get used to it, Golden Girl.”

Your eyes narrowed, face stoic. “I told you not to call me that.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I dunno, I think it’s kinda fitting.” She looked up at you again, and you just knew that whatever she was about to say would piss you off. “Y’know, you being all perfect and proper all the time.”

“Right.” Your voice was monotone. Unimpressed. You let out a breath through your nose that resembled a scoff. “And now I know why they call you Bad Temper. You bashed your shoulder into me halfway through the damn game.”

Two could play at this game, you thought.

Instead of responding, Ellie just laughed. Truly, fully chuckled under her breath. She must’ve found you utterly amusing, and in a way, that bothered you more than any response. In a swift movement, she eased off the sink, slowly approaching you as her hands snuck into her pockets. Your eyes drew down to her tux, then back up once you’d realized you’d been looking.

She inched closer in brief, deliberate movements. Always careful, always stealthy. She always had tricks up her sleeve, and not just on the ice. With her eyes jabbing into yours, she placed herself in front of you, blocking the entrance. Now, you couldn’t leave.

“You’re still mad about that?” she asked, her voice low and menacing, brows curling like she couldn’t believe it.

You huffed, crossing your arms harder over your chest like it would keep you stable. “I’m not mad.”

She smiled again. You caught a pair of dimples— one on either cheek— then mentally scolded yourself for noticing such a thing. “Right,” she practically whispered.

You rolled your eyes, curiosity dying as another sort of heat began to wash over you. You swallowed the large lump in your throat, leaning over Ellie’s shoulder to reach for the door handle. But before you could escape through the threshold, her hand found your wrist.

“Good luck out there, L/N,” she murmured, low enough for only the two of you to hear. The sentiment should’ve felt genuine, but her tone was ever playful.

You scoffed, full-on this time. “Whatever, Williams,” you said, fighting past the hold on your wrist and through the entrance.

Outside of the women’s restroom, you were once again faced with the real world. Your father somewhere in the nearby distance, with other fancy people talking his fancy ear off. Your heart was thumping in your chest at an unnatural rhythm, a strange adrenaline consuming your system. You didn’t know what the rest of the night would hold, nor what the future of your career would look like.

All you knew was that Ellie Williams was on the opposite team, not just on the ice, but everywhere else.

taglist — @lesmerri @dulcesthoughts @abstabz @cutflwr @liifeunwritten @marcvo @seasonsofchaos @notlinearr @isaellie @fibrogirlie @sevikas7princess @baicurious @girl-so-gay @stup1d-inc @liztreez @starduszt @switchermar @m0on1ight1 @ph4rmacyfa1rie @disasterlogy @ikarisisnotonfire @kanadadryer @lesbikitti @mothsinwyoming @thinkingabtellie @letmebeurbaby @milanyas @moonlightxaridw @jujueilish @ellielovrfr @yoongzmin @thebaddestbitcheva @ellieskitty

a/n — alright gays, what do we think?? i hope it’s not too obvious that i know nothing about hockey… let me know your thoughts!! comment if you’d like to be tagged in the upcoming chapters and maybe check out my taglist if you’d like to be tagged in other future works.

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated .ᐟ

[akaz2908]

[quintoneatsdirt]

they better kiss in szn 4 or i might have to riot

[one1tap]

[pbnba]

UCONN IS THE ONLY SCHOOL TO HAVE BOTH THE WOMENS AND MENS TEAM IN THE FINAL FOUR

[pvrnowitch-deactivated20260522]

ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID .

SERIES MASTERLIST

navigation | read on ao3

⚢ PAIRING — Hockey!Ellie x Hockey!Reader

SYNOPSIS — Montreal’s ‘Golden Girl’ versus Boston’s ‘Bad Temper’. You shared nothing in common but a love for hockey and an unbearable disdain for each other. It was written all over the articles, shown all over the news, apparent to anyone that dared to watch you interact for more than five seconds. What began as secret hook-ups and addictive hate-sex quickly evolved into something you couldn’t quite grasp. She undid you, consumed you, and she’d done it oh so easily. As years passed, you never stopped clashing on the ice. But your rivalry became passion, fantasy now reality. You were supposed to hate each other— so why didn’t you?

WORD COUNT — none yet > ongoing

CONTENTS — ellie williams x reader, heatedrivalry!au, celebrity!au, modern!au, enemies to lovers, hate sex, wlw sports, secret relationship, hook-ups, doomed yuri, toxic yuri, dual pov, time jumps, story spans over five years, heavy angst, trauma, lore, fluff, SMUT, avoidance, denial, pining, public scandals, violence, homophobia, ilyacoded!ellie, shanecoded!reader, OCs, ellie is (kinda) ooc but i try to keep her lore-accurate, afab!reader, you being masc / fem isn’t mentioned, brief mentions of athletic body type, substance abuse, self image issues, explicit language, brief mentions of y/n and l/n, i don’t know anything about sports i’m just an amateur writer having fun. proceed with caution.

CHAPTER INDEX

PROLOGUE —

coming soon …

CHAPTER ONE —

coming soon …

CHAPTER TWO —

coming soon …

CHAPTER THREE —

coming soon …

CHAPTER FOUR —

coming soon …

CHAPTER FIVE —

coming soon …

EPILOGUE —

coming soon …

taglist — @lesmerri @dulcesthoughts @tabspsps @cutflwr @liifeunwritten @marcvo @seasonsofchaos @notlinearr @isaellie @fibrogirlie @sevikas7princess @baicurious @girl-so-gay

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated .ᐟ