synopsis: Junior year at Briar University had been a time branded by relentless deadlines, monotony, and disappointment. You, a once eager and starry-eyed photographer for the school’s newspaper, had found yourself in a rut. On thin ice with your editor after one too many lackluster works, you’re given a last chance to save your position on the paper by covering the Briar hockey teams upcoming game. Unexpectedly, there, one measly photograph would lead you to exactly what you were searching for. Or, rather, who.
content: fem!reader, abrasive language, drinking, author has only a vague understanding of hockey, additional warnings to be added.
w/c: 4.8k
read on ao3
“What the hell is this?”
The flutter of papers as they’re slapped onto your desk registered first. Second was the shadow which loomed all too menacing above you. Third, and finally, was the none too pleased cadence of your boss—Photo Editor Oliver Finley— and what you already knew was a clear indicator of the impending verbal lashing you were about to recieve.
A nervous sigh slipped from between your lips as you looked up from the safety of your laptop to meet his angry eyes.
“Finley,” you gulped. “…What is it I can do for you?”
He smelt of smoke. First red flag. You knew what that meant. For goodness sakes, everyone in the office (the ones with any sense of self-preservation, at least) knew what that meant; a figurative and literal warning signal. Oliver was nothing short of a hardass on his best of days, but when faced with twice as many deadlines during the thick of the busy season, your boss transformed into a monster borne from your worst nightmares, and one who indulged in an unhealthy amount of cigarettes in attempts to stave off stress. An amalgamation of mean, terrifying, and utterly ruthless.
For all intents and purposes, the person where good things go to die.
“What’s wrong is this,” Oliver barked.
The papers— photos, your photos, you realized once you got a better look— were promptly shoved in front of your face. Practically nose-to-page with the pictures, you flinched away and sunk backward into your chair to create some distance. A frown came to your face.
“My shots from Art Fest…?”
Before you dangled candids you’d taken of the annual Briar Arts Festival. There were all sorts of things there ranging from dancers, to paintings, to sculptures. It had been an overwhelming job, in truth, but one you’d done nonetheless.
“Yes, your snapshots of a beloved campus tradition.” Oliver’s words took on a feigned calm. “Tell me, how is it that you managed to make an art festival seem— how shall I put this… drab. Blasé. Uninspired!”
Finley’s mouth smiled, but the teeth he bared beneath told you that it was anything but amused.
Left only to gape stupidly at the unexpected chastisement, Oliver didn’t give you a chance to properly process before he continued.
“You’re one of my more senior staff, so I handed you prime real estate on a major event because I thought I could trust you better than I could a rookie. Clearly, I was totally wrong,” Finley fumed.
Your eyes frantically roved over the photos trying to find what was amiss. Everything was there. People, the artists themselves, colors galore, campus, every possible angle there could be. Admittedly, you were frightened as you met Oliver’s eye once more. What the fuck is his deal?
“Of course you can trust me, what kind of accusation is that? I got everything I was supposed to. What more do you want do you want from me,” you grit out.
His fingers jabbed at the photo.
“When people look at these, do you know what they wanna see? The vibes. The energy. When you see art in any medium, you’re supposed to feel something. Do you know what I feel when I look at these—”
“Is this where I have to ask?”
“—Nothing. And you know what, this isn’t the first time. The Medieval faire, the homecoming parade, even those photos of the grill club. You catch everything but the emotion.”
Anger welled in your chest at those words, and it felt as though your heart banged against the cage of your ribs.
“What’s that supposed to mean,” you spat before you could stop yourself.
Oliver only sighed as he took a moment to rub at the crease which formed between his brows. When his gaze returned to yours, there was a tired quality to them.
“Your photos have no soul.”
Silence.
“Listen, this kind’ve stuff could fly last year, but you’re a junior now. This is your major. I expect more out of you.” Finley paused as he gave you a look halfway between pity and letdown. “I’m gonna give it to you straight. You keep bringing in this mediocre shit, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep you aboard. People are starting to notice.”
You could only look at him in disbelief.
“Are you seriously threatening to kick me off the paper right now… is that what it’s come to? You know I need this, Oliver.”
It wasn’t an eleventh hour plea on your part, it was simple fact. The paper gave you access to events which were hard to come by as a solo photographer, and a credible source to submit to. If that were to disappear… you don’t know if you could build a worthwhile portfolio without.
Finley said your name sternly, but in a way which carries a hint of softness. He was always good at balancing it when he wanted to.
“It’s not something I want to do, believe me. You’re hitting a rough patch, I get it, but there’s only so much that can be tolerated before standards start slipping too low.”
So much for camaraderie, I guess.
“Listen, I’m not leaving you out in the cold, okay? Nellie needs help with the sports column this week. Hockey. Briar plays Eastwood. Consider it a chance to prove yourself—”
“A last chance, you mean,” you interrupted sourly.
“A probation period I’m generously offering,” Finley retaliated.
“I’m never put on hockey, you know what happened the last time,” you childishly rebutted.
“Well you are now.” Oliver rapped his knuckles against your desk. He didn’t meet your eye, but there was a sincere tone in his voice when he spoke again. “I mean what I said. I want you to do good. In the meantime, I’d suggest you think on what I said. A fresh subject could be good for you.”
And with that, Finley turned heel and went off. Probably to raise hell in other parts of the office.
Well… this is just great.
Fuck— you internally swore— it’s cold.
The crisp air prickled at your lungs, sharp with each inward pull. If your hands weren’t so full, you might’ve tugged your sweater closer. Alas, in your right hand, the weight of your trusty Canon camera. In the left, a laptop hooked up to the cam for easy real-time uploads to HQ.
Hockey was a tough sport to capture you had come to remember thanks to this jaunt into the world of athletics. Tracking the players as they whizzed passed, the skirling sound of their skates as they cut into the ice. To take pictures was dangerous business. What with having to stick your Canon through the camera holes trying to get a shot before a horde of gross, heavy, and testosterone pumped men came crashing against the plexiglass mere inches away from where you sat.
As you watched a zamboni drag laggardly across the ice, intermission having been called a little while ago, you’re left to brood on precisely why you avoided sports photography like the plague. Hockey chief among the options offered at Briar.
Bitter resentment stewed within as well. At the paper for using you like Kleenex, throwing you away so easily once you’d served your purpose. At Oliver for setting you up with a mission which could only end in failure. And maybe even a bit at yourself.
With a sigh, you physically shook your head in attempts to ward away those thoughts.
You’d been down this path of photography before, in the throes of your youth, freshman year you had branded herself quite the adventurer. When you’d been so determined to find your niche, there was rarely an opportunity you’d pass up to explore different subjects. Back then, when you, as per Finley’s words, had soul in your work. Distinctly, you recalled the first and last time you’d been assigned on hockey. That opportunity had been limited to practice shots during warm-up, pictures of the team as they arrived, and capturing the immediate aftermath of the Eagles big win.
You cringed as you remembered how that day ended.
The moment you’d stepped out onto the rink, you’d taken one stride forward and the next moment you were going face-first into the ice. Long story short, you’d managed to save your face. The camera you’d been holding, not so much. The senior photographer who’d been with you managed to notice your tumble even in the chaos of victory and you’d been thoroughly chewed out afterward.
Never again, you had vowed after having to pay a hefty damaged equipment fee. As the buzzer overhead went off, calling the players rinkward bound, you couldn’t help but scoff at that broken promise to past you.
“Hey,” a voice called your name, loud with urgency.
Pulled from your reminiscing, you snapped your neck toward the person.
Your partner on the game, Nellie, jogged up to where you sat. Her auburn hair swayed as she slowed to a stop before you, green eyes rounded in a way that reminded you of a puppy.
“So… biiiiiig favor incoming,” she grimaced. “My ex is sitting like a few seats down over there and I really don’t wanna see his face right now. You think you could cover the defense zone so I could sit here instead…?”
Oh for the love of—
Players clad in white, blue, and red, eagles blazoned on the fabric of their uniforms, came streaming onto the rink. The stands above roared with renewed vigor at the teams emergence, and with the crowd, your anxieties rose too.
“I—” you began, but before you could continue, Nellie’s pink lip jutted into a pout.
“Oh, please! I’ll owe you big time.”
Her insistence gave you pause.
Logistically, the offensive zone was where you’d get the most news worthy photo. You were hoping that if the team finally managed to pull it together and score a goal, you might get the fantastical shot you were looking for. Where the emotion of the photo was so palpable not even Finley could question it. The most clear cut path to success.
Yet, in forty minutes of game time, your cameras storage had been filled only with complete and utter mediocrity.
You bit your lip as you stood with all your stuff in hand, giving up your spot.
It wasn’t like you’d gotten anything for the entire first half of the game. You weren’t going to get anything for the rest. It’d been a long time since your heart had resonated with what you saw through the lens. If what you brought back to the office wasn’t what was wanted, then, so be it.
“Fine. Hurry and get set up,” you relented.
Nellie was swift to take your seat, already popping the camera cover off of hers. She tossed you an appreciative smile, genuine, and you responded with your own. Albeit, more lacking than anything.
“Thank you so much. I won’t forget this,” she promised.
“Yeah… no problem,” you murmured.
When you relocated to the new spot, defeat hung heavy over your dejected form before the final buzzer had even sounded.
It was mechanical the way you lifted your camera. The thing was heavy like a machine gun. Each time the shutter went off, your finger feathered onto the button like a trigger, and it felt as though you shot every dream you had entered college with to hell by way of deadly force and precision.
The spotlight moved every which way, causing glare in the photos. You shifted another way, lo and behold, the players sped in the opposite direction giving you nothing but back.
By some stroke of luck it seemed Graham had cleaned up his act sometime during intermission. Cheers went up in the crowd, and with such speed you could put the players themselves to shame, the shutter of your camera went off as you angled it toward the offensive zone best you could. The conditions weren’t ideal, but nonetheless you captured… something.
Pressure between Briar and Eastwood built in the coming minutes. Where Eastwood had ruthlessly taken the lead the first two periods, the Briar boys had finally gotten off their asses and started to play when they slid on to the ice this time around. Nearly neck and neck, the teams had turnt up the heat from a simmer to a boil.
Though not even that tension could ignite you.
Passively, you allowed your camera to roam in a last ditch effort. Straying from the puck, away from the opposing goalie, past the neutral zone between the bold blue lines.
First you latched on to 22. He was on the right wing as he tore up the ice, attempting to carry the puck out of the neutral zone. Player-to-player 22 was checked and intercepted by the Eastwood opposition. With startling speed, the puck was transported back to the defense zone.
In all your complacence, eye glued to the view finder, you’d been so focused on 22, it startled you when lonely player 66 had decided your attention should’ve been on him instead. He laid claim to it anything but slowly. One moment he’d been who knows where, the next he charged in your direction as a bull charges the matador.
He was on the Eastwood player in an instant, and with fine… ‘stickmanship’ he was trying his damndest to take back the puck.
Your heart was just about ready to vault out of your mouth. Fingers once firmly locked on to your camera turned rather more jelly-like and your hands flinched ever so slightly, ready to retreat back into the safety which the plexiglass barrier provided.
Time came to a halt, and though an uneasy feeling roiled in the marrow of your bones begging you to pull away, your eyes remained locked. A faint hum muddled your normally very sensible senses. Something familiar, close, yet ever so far. Kindled yet not quite aflame. Something about how the light caught his jersey, the reflection of the ice as it bounced off of his pale skin from within the barred helmet, the ferocity in which he pumped himself across what felt rather more like a battlefield lit a match. It made your insides tingle with anticipation.
Closer they came, harder you bit into your lip, none did you move. You should, you really should. It was dangerous if you didn’t have enough time to close the camera hole. For yourself, for the players.
Selfishly you didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
Though Finley believed you’d lost your touch, your attention to detail when honed was something you still very much prided yourself in. As the stadiums blaring lights shone done against the scuffle, your eye caught the metallic glint of 66’s skate through the lens. By no means were you a hockey expert, but it almost looked as though he planned to maneuver a sharp turn to escape the winger rather than scrap it out for the puck. For he had distributed his weight ever so slightly into the foot on his free side. His body was angled that way too, you could tell because the he wasn’t centered on your cam. Even the way his stick was leaned, as though it itched to change course. Little signs, all of them, but signs nonetheless.
The question was: did you trust yourself enough to see them?
You made your choice.
The sound of the mens skates ripping into the frozen ground so near sounded out like nails on a chalkboard. However, the sound of your camera as you took a rapid succession of photos proved louder.
Just as (somehow) anticipated, 66 spirited the puck away with finesse. He was off faster than you could blink and the puck was passed to his teammate on the opposing end.
Cheers went up in the stands, you didn’t know why, too focused on photoing away.
The period was almost over.
You could only hope all that stress was worth something.
The horns blared so loudly, your eardrums threatened to burst. Perhaps your brains with them. The entire stadium shook, waves of blue and white bouncing in celebration. Briar had pulled the lead 4-2, dominating Eastwood in the last period.
The opposing team was quick retreat from the rink after the end-game formalities had been done, leaving the victors to celebrate their win. You’d been quick to collect your camera and make way to the zamboni doors, time fleeting as you waited for your queue to get out on the ice.
It hadn’t been the favorable trade off of duties, but as Nellie was assigned to taking farther out shots, you were tasked with facing your fear of on-rink shots.
I’m a grown woman, experienced in her craft. Thousands of people have photographed on ice before, I can too… maybe.
As the doors opened, you gripped your camera a little tighter.
Thankfully, after twenty minutes of being slashed to hell beneath sharp skates, the textured ice became somewhat easier for the soles of your shoes to grip on to. With the bravery of a blind man stepping into a pit of vipers, your decisive strategy was to take as many photos as humanly possible and hope something good came out of it.
A shaky breath left you and fogged up the gelid air. Fueled by faith rather than confidence, you glued your eye to the cameras viewfinder as you began snapping away. Happiness buzzed between each warm body out on the rink, the air rife with joy.
As the Briar team began to file out, you made sure to catch them as they did, their numbers soaring by.
Helmets came off, gloves came off. You’d gotten a good angle on Graham, spectacular lighting for a player called Tucker, and even a bright smile from 22.
Everything had been going so great, though it wouldn’t be your luck without some incident happening.
In the blink of an eye, 66 was before you once more. He slid nearer, though not so fervid as before. Leisurely movement ruled him as his long fingers fumbled to remove his helmet.
When it came off, you had to resist the urge to pinch yourself. Your breath hitched.
Of course, you’d heard the rumors about 66. The whole school had.
Dean Di Laurentis.
tanding at 6-foot-something, broad, and beautiful it was impossible for someone like him go unnoticed. Spiky blond hair, slick with sweat now, was the first thing you noticed. It caught the light like it was spun of the sun itself as he shook it out. He had a face to boot frustratingly enough. A sharp nose, angular cheek bones, and a jaw that looked as though it’d been carved from the same block of marble Michaelangelo had made The David from.
Your one-track plan to button mash had failed you the moment he graced your sights. You could only find it in yourself to stupidly follow him with your camera in what was a mix of both your shot nerves and, embarrassingly enough, awe.
The step you took to move back had been one done with too much haste. The rubber bottoms of your shoes weren’t given steady enough purchase on the slippery floor, and with that, panic flooded you as the ice slipped from beneath you.
“Shit—” you cried out.
With no more than a screech of protest, you were falling.
Well there went all your fun money for the month in order to replace this damn camera. See ya’ never nice night out. Good-fucking-bye to a mini shopping spree. That new sweater you wanted? Fat chance. Ha! You got lucky last time. This time, your face and camera were going to be shattered.
“Woah, woah,”—A moment passed, strong arms encircled you, and you very noticeably weren’t a bloody smear across the ice— “I know I’m a looker, but no need to go falling for me in front of all these people.”
One blink. The world had gone steady. Two blinks. You were face level with the boards you’d seen player after player smashed into at least a dozen times in the last hour. Three blinks. You craned your neck upward at an awkward angle to meet the most stunning pair of blue eyed you’d ever seen.
“I—” you began.
Your back was pressed against his lower abdominals, the padding beneath his gear hard and uncomfortable to the touch. It was graceless the way he held you, rather more like a sack of grain than a woman. Arms hooked right under your armpits which were probably sweating buckets from the sheer embarrassment.
“Hot as your are— and you are bangin’ baby—I don’t have time to chat. Both feet on the ice,” Dean urged.
‘Baby?’ Who does this guy think he is?
You elect not to say whatever snotty remark comes to mind as, at present, the sweet talker is the only thing keeping you upright.
Coltishly, your feet were stuck out in front of you, limp as a newborn fawn. Through combined efforts of both 66 and yourself, him pulling you up, you managing to find steady footing, you were vertical once more.
Shakily, you turn the camera in your hands to check for signs of damage. To your luck, you find none, and breathe a sigh of unbridled relief.
“Thank you,” you eked out, still in a semi-state of shock. “You kind’ve saved me… and my camera.”
In the near distance, you could hear his name being shouted from the tunnel. When your gaze flickered in that direction, you could see his coach— Jensen, you believed— beckon him from the rink.
Dean winked in response to your gratitudes.
“That’s just what I do. Win games, save photographer chicks. I accept multiple methods of repayment, if you want, maybe later you could—”
“DI LAURENTIS,” Jensen yelled again, putting whatever that idea had been on hold.
“Coming,” Dean shouted in return.
His famously short attention span had already been stolen away by another. Similar to that of a bee. Always chasing whatever flower looks brightest in hopes of finding the sweetest nectar. Celebration and his fifty-something year old coach proved to be a more appealing blossom.
And with that, he was skating off again. He clambered off of the ice and past the bend of the hallway where your eyes couldn’t follow.
You frowned somewhat with a groan, left alone as the stadium began to empty in droves, noting your little tumble caused the cuff of your pants to get all wet and gross. This is what you get for giving things a damn second chance.
Pre-gaming Block Party at the hockey house left Dean with a pleasant buzz. The alcohol warmed him from the inside, his blood a steady thrum through his veins. Music bumped from the speaker in the living room. With each clap of the base, his fingers sunk deeper into Hallie’s hips. She ended up on his lap somehow, the details an unimportant blur.
“Fuck, you’re so hot. That tongue’s almost as nice as your tits,” Dean groaned.
Victory had left his normally voracious appetite for the horny, shameless, and exciting into a cavernous maw of greed.
“Block party can wait a little longer,” she whispered hotly against his ear.
Dean sunk further into the couch cushions as she chased his lips. Wet and insistent, their mouths met and locked together.
“We can pregame with some non-alcoholic fun… a winner deserves a prize,” Hallie murmured.
With a breathy chuckle, Dean temporarily broke the kiss to come up for air.
“Oh, I like the sound of that.”
“You’ll like the feel of it too.”
She winked before they rejoined. The girl admittedly had game. Hallie was a close friend of Kendall’s, certified puck bunny, and a great fuck. They’d hooked up once before, a long time ago, and though Dean was typically more of a one-time-only type of a guy, anything over two years ago was practically ancient. Expired, even. And like a license, needed to be renewed.
Or at least that was his logic.
They’re kissing and light petting devolved into a full blown makeout. A quickie would have to do. Though before those plans could progress, John Logan’s voice broke through the haze.
“Yo, Dean!”
Laughs broke from the kitchen. Dean tried to ignore it.
“Hey D, you gotta check this out,” Tucker yelled out next.
Unknowing, or, at least, unseeing of what he was doing in the next room over, the pair continued to call him.
“Busy over here guys,” Dean replied smoothly.
Overhead, the floorboards creaked under the weight of another. The footsteps continued until they reached the stairs and suddenly, to his misfortune, Garrett lumbered down the steps on queue. Graham caught one look at Dean getting all hot and bothered on the communal couch and let free a cartoonishly loud groan.
“Come on man, we’ve talked about this. Take it upstairs. We sit there, we eat there, we don’t want you boning there.”
Dean ignored him in favor of laving his tongue over Hallie’s jaw. From the corner of his eye, he could’ve sworn Graham gave him the finger as he ambled passed to where the rest of the guys were. When he went around the bend of the wall, an ‘oh shit’ could be heard and then a stream of agreements and ‘I know rights’ followed. It took about ten seconds before G started to squawk too.
“Dean—” he began.
Though before he could finish, Dean was already tossing his head back with a frustrated sigh.
“Yeah, yeah, I have to check it out. I’m coming.”
Dean attempted to press a last kiss to Hallie’s lips, though her reciprocation wasn’t as wholehearted as it had been a few moments ago.
“I’ll be back in a sec, yeah?”
She gave his face a light shove and rolled off his lap.
“I’ll see you later.”
He watched her walk away dejectedly. Her hips did that sexy sway thing chicks do when they’re pissed. A thing that said ‘look what you’re missing out on’ as they walked further and further away from your grasp.
Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave.
Annoyance spurred him on as he vaulted over the couch like a track athlete. He made his way to where he was beckoned with his arms crossed firm over his chest.
“Well you irritating SOB’s, you’ve cockblocked me to the highest fuckin’ degree. You better have something good for Daddy Dean.”
“Maybe don’t try to fuck in our living room then,” Graham snickered.
“More importantly, is Daddy Dean something we can veto? Because I don’t think I wanna hear those words together in a sentence again. Ever again,” Logan added.
Dean pushed his way into the huddle they’d formed around Logan’s phone. The glow of the screen reflected bright. Staring back at him on the little screen was… himself.
“Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “I look magnificent!”
A photograph posted to the school’s Instagram account from when he’d shirked that Eastwood player. Body positioned at an angle which looked as though he defied gravity, snow sprayed beneath his skates from the harsh maneuver. The colors of his jersey bled against the white rink boldly, and beside him, the Eastwood opposition was dwarfed.
Whoever had taken the shot must’ve had a damn steady hand, because as Dean zoomed into the photo, every detail down to the glint in his eye was visible. His brows knotted in concentration, the twist of his mouth within the cage of his helmet.
“Now that’s an action shot. You’re goin’ viral, bud. Don’t forget about the rest of us now that you’ve made it,” Tucker grinned before going to grab a beer from the fridge.
Dean looked at the comically high like count and whistled wolfishly.
“Bow down, Graham. I’m gunning for fan favorite now.” Di Laurentis waggled his brows at his captain, to which Garrett only rolled his eyes. “A gentleman of the people, if you will.”
“You are not a gentleman,” Tuck piped up.
“You’re right,” Dean shrugged. “I’m too walking-sex-appeal for that.”
“Yeah, okay Casanova. Was that Hal I heard leaving about two seconds ago,” Graham questioned mockingly. “Maybe the fame went to your big head, made you lose your charm.”
Dean scoffed. The group began to migrate from the kitchen to the front door, Block Party starting soon.
“A) Casanova fuckin’ wishes he had game like me, B) … there is no B. People could write whole research papers about how culturally significant my dick is to this campus. I was made for fame baby.”
Ultimate lover of the blond here. I’ve come to the realization everything I’ve ever written in my life has been about a blond. Men with goldy locks you’ve bewitched me.
Elia Week 2026 Day 4: “What Could Have Been” - No War AU ❦
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ Queen Elia helping her beloved daughter Princess Rhaenys get ready on her wedding day, putting on her maiden’s cloak - the same one she once wore for her own wedding. I like to imagine that in this AU, Rhaenys would be marrying someone kind, someone who she truly loves, and who would treat her with the love and respect she deserves 🧡
✎ Art by the lovely rhaenyra69 on Twitter, commissioned by me for @eliaweek 🌞
Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was killed by Robert Baratheon. Aerys sent his new heir, Prince Viserys, and the pregnant Queen Rhaella to Dragonstone, while keeping Elia Martell and two children as hostages at King's Landing.
Baby Elia with her mom in the water gardens of Sunspear
Art by: ExploringWithAlexus on VGEN
@eliaweek
Dorne is partially inspired by Palestine, so both Elia and the Princess of Dorne are wearing traditional Palestinian inspired clothing. Elia is also holding a wooden toy horned turtle as a nod to the Old Men of the River.
Because of the Palestinian influence, I encourage whomever comes across this art to consider looking into resources to help inform you on the genocide that the Palestinian people have been enduring.
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