╭₊˚๑dee﹕19﹕she/her : autistic☁️₊˚੭ ════════════════════════════════ part time writer, full time reader. Just a silly girl with silly obsessions ˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ current hyperfixations: first light, off campus, spiderman, supergirl, ☾⋆⁺₊
I’m dee, I’m 19 and write, read and yap about my fav characters/shows/possible other interests! I'm autistic and dyslexic ^.^
I love interacting with people on here even tho I rarely do it (yay social anxiety) so feel free to message me about anything!
I do not have a posting/writing schedule at all, I just kinda pop up now and again. i do not write smut.
Most recent: Never Grow Up — Mad At God universe
Currently writing: nothing and too many things at the same time
Here are the characters I (try/attempt) to write for! Feel free to send requests, however I make no promise that I’ll ever write it sorry guys.
And of course can’t forget my masterlist !!
Every now and then I make/post edits on @favouritesarefalling for Mad At God, which is an amazing Matt Murdock x oc fic by my pookie @petertingle-yipyip
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – dean’s ex was meant to be off-limits. garrett has several problems with that.
warnings – suggestive content, heated kissing, sexual references, situationship tension, arguing, strong language, dean being possessive-ish, party/alcohol setting
notes from me – loosely based on this ask!! thank u for sending it through babe! xx
word count – 8.9k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
The first time she realises Garrett Graham might actually be a problem, he’s sitting on the players’ bench after practice with damp curls, flushed cheeks, and a towel slung around the back of his neck, talking about leadership like he hasn’t spent the last forty minutes making half the men on the ice look mildly unemployable.
The rink has that post-practice emptiness to it now, all scraped-up ice and cold metal and fluorescent light, the air still carrying the sharp wet smell of snow, rubber, and boy sweat no amount of ventilation has ever fully defeated.
The rest of the team has already filtered out in waves of noise, sticks clattering, showers starting somewhere down the hall, somebody yelling something obscene about Logan’s tape job from the locker room. Garrett had stayed behind because she’d asked for a few more minutes, and because being captain also meant being professionally accommodating to journalism majors with deadlines and a possibly self-destructive interest in his forearms.
Sports journalism was, allegedly, her actual academic focus. This was supposed to be clean. Useful. A feature piece on Briar hockey culture through the lens of the captain everyone on campus already had some opinion about.
Garrett Graham, projected pro prospect, Bruins interest, team leader, annoyingly handsome campus fixture with a smile that had almost certainly caused several GPA drops across the student body.
She had come prepared with questions. She had her recorder running on the bench between them, her notebook open across one thigh, her pen uncapped and ready in her hand like a woman with purpose and professional integrity.
Then Garrett started answering properly, and that had become its own issue. He was good at being smug, obviously. That part was easy. Garrett carried arrogance like some men carried cologne, lightly applied but immediately noticeable.
But when she asked him about being captain, about what it felt like to have younger guys looking to him, about whether the Bruins pressure changed the way he saw the rest of the season, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, one hand turning a roll of tape between his fingers.
He spoke with this unexpected care that made it annoyingly difficult to remember she was meant to be extracting quotes and not just sitting there watching his mouth form words.
“I don’t know,” he says, eyes moving briefly to the rink like the ice might have an answer written somewhere under all the skate marks. “People act like captain means you’re the guy with the loudest voice in the room. Sometimes it is, sure. Sometimes you gotta call shit out. But most of it’s just… paying attention. Knowing which freshman needs to get his ass kicked in practice and which one needs you to pretend not to notice he’s about to puke from nerves before a game.”
Her pen hovers.
Garrett huffs a little laugh, looking down at the tape. “That makes me sound nicer than I am.”
“It really does,” she says, without thinking.
His eyes flick back to her, amused. “Wow.”
“No, I mean–” She laughs, because his grin has gone sharp now, pleased and teasing and very aware he’s caught her somewhere. “I mean, it’s a good answer. Annoyingly good. Like, I’m going to have to cut some of it down or people will start thinking you’re emotionally intelligent.”
He presses a hand dramatically to the centre of his chest. “That would ruin me.”
“Completely. Your whole brand gone overnight.”
“My brand is very layered, actually.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Yeah. Hot, talented, emotionally unavailable but, like, in a charming way.”
She snorts before she can stop herself, and Garrett’s grin widens like her laugh is something he’s earned and plans to be unbearable about.
The thing is, he keeps doing this. Slipping between real and ridiculous so smoothly she never has time to brace for either version. One second he’s making some dumb comment about Logan being held together by athletic tape and poor decision-making, the next he’s talking about pressure in a voice low enough that the empty rink seems to lean in around them.
He talks about the Bruins carefully, not like a boy pretending not to care, but like someone who cares so much he’s had to teach himself not to flinch every time someone says the word future near him.
“It’s there,” he says, after she asks whether the scouting attention ever messes with his head. His hand stills around the tape. “Even when I’m trying not to think about it. It’s there. People talk like going pro is this finish line, right? Like once somebody wants you, you’re supposed to just be grateful and shut up. But it’s weird. It’s a lot of people having plans for your body before you’ve even finished using it where you are.”
She forgets, for a second, to breathe normally. There’s no tragic little performance, no athlete pretending vulnerability because it looks good in a profile. Simply Garrett, sweat drying at his temples, towel loose around his neck, saying something true because she asked the right question and he trusted her enough to answer it.
Her pen hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds. Garrett notices. His eyes drop to her notebook, then lift again slowly to her face, one brow rising. “Are you supposed to be writing this down?”
For one horrible second, she just blinks at him. Then she looks down at the blank stretch of page beneath her last half-written sentence and makes a sound so undignified it bounces off the empty seats. “Oh, fuck. Yes. Shit. Sorry.”
Garrett bursts out laughing.
“Don’t laugh,” she says, already scribbling so fast the words are barely forming. “You said something good and I got distracted.”
“You got distracted?”
She gives him a look without lifting her head, though the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that she is smiling like an idiot. “By the quote. The quote was good.”
“Sure.”
“It was.”
He shrugs. “I believe you.”
“You’re being smug.”
He laughs again, softer this time, and when she glances up, he’s already watching her. His elbows are still on his knees, shoulders rounded forward, the tape forgotten between his hands. His smile’s faded into something smaller, warmer, almost private, and the look of it moves through her body in a way that makes the cold rink air feel suddenly useless.
Her fingers tighten around the pen. Garrett’s gaze drops, briefly, to her mouth.
The silence shifts. Loud in all the places neither of them is touching. She can hear someone in the locker room bark out a laugh, distant and echoing, but it might as well be happening in another building.
Then Garrett clears his throat and looks away first, jaw flexing once like he’s physically pulled himself back from the edge of something. “So,” he says, voice just rough enough to betray him. “You need more captain wisdom or can I go shower before I become part of the rink?”
She looks down at her notebook because it is safer than his face. “I think I’ve got enough wisdom for one day.”
“Smart. Too much and you’ll fall in love with me.”
Her laugh comes out too quick. Too exposed. “Yeah, God forbid.”
He stands, and even that’s irritating: the size of him unfolding beside the bench, broad shoulders, hockey thighs, damp curls, all that casual physical confidence men get when they’ve never once had to question whether their body works in their favour. He grabs his gloves and stick, then pauses at the gate.
“Same time Thursday?”
She nods. “For the follow-up.”
“Right,” he says, and his mouth does that slow, dangerous little curve. “The follow-up.”
Then he walks away before she can decide whether to throw her pen at him or herself.
By the time Garrett drops into the chair beside her in the cafeteria two days later, she has one hand buried in a bag of chips, half a sandwich abandoned on a napkin, and fourteen open tabs on her laptop because higher education is mostly just creating new and inventive ways to make Google Docs feel judgmental.
“Jesus,” Garrett says, leaning sideways to peer at her screen. “You writing an article or hacking the Pentagon?”
She doesn’t look up immediately. “Both. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Hot.”
That gets her eyes off the screen. Garrett’s already grinning, backwards cap low over his curls, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his forearms. He has a tray in front of him loaded with the deeply alarming quantity of food hockey players treat as a casual lunch, and he looks far too pleased with himself for a man who has interrupted her academic suffering with one word and too much eye contact.
She fights the smile. Loses. “Do you just sit wherever you want?”
“Yeah.”
“That tracks.”
“This seat taken?”
“You’re already sitting in it.”
“Great. Love when stuff works out.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches for her iced coffee, mostly so her hands have something to do that isn’t immediately stupid, like touching the bit of hair curling out from under his cap. “Don’t you have captain things to do?”
“I am doing captain things.”
“You’re eating fries next to me.”
“Team morale starts with carbs.”
“You’re such an inspiration.”
“I get that a lot.”
He steals one of her chips without asking, which should be annoying but is somehow just familiar now, another one of those tiny domestic trespasses they’ve started building between them without ever discussing it.
He asks about her other assignment, some feature for a media ethics class that has made her want to walk calmly into a pond, and then actually listens while she talks. He leans back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully, asking questions that are annoying only because they’re good.
“So basically,” he says after she explains the whole thing, “your professor wants you to prove journalists shouldn’t be assholes.”
“My tuition dollars at work.”
“Could’ve saved you a semester. Don’t be an asshole. Boom. Done.”
She points a fry at him. “That’s a devastatingly Briar hockey interpretation of media ethics.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m not thanking you.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
She laughs, and it happens too easily now. Garrett makes laughing feel like slipping. Like she can brace all she wants and still end up somewhere warmer than where she started. He keeps looking at her like he’s delighted by the exact shape of her thoughts, like he wants to be around for whatever she says next, even when what she says next is technically an insult.
Across the cafeteria, someone calls his name. Garrett doesn’t look away from her. That does something embarrassing to the back of her neck.
“So,” he says, picking up his drink. “You gonna quote me in this ethics thing too?”
“Only if I need a source on moral decline.”
He grins, biting softly at the inside of his lip. “Mean.”
“Accurate.”
He opens his mouth, probably to say something unbearable, when Dean’s voice cuts across the cafeteria with the clean sharpness of a puck hitting glass.
“G.”
Garrett’s expression changes so quickly she almost misses it. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it gets filed away. His shoulders tense by half an inch. He turns, and she follows his gaze to where Dean and Logan have just come through the cafeteria entrance, Logan with a smoothie in one hand and the relaxed posture of a man who’s wandered accidentally into tension he fully intends to enjoy.
Dean, on the other hand, looks pissed. He stands there in a jacket that probably costs more than her laptop, blond hair messy, jaw tight, eyes moving from Garrett to her and back again with something sharp underneath.
Garrett exhales through his nose. “I’ll talk to you later,” he says, already pushing his chair back.
She looks between them, trying to keep her face normal. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
He grabs his tray, then hesitates, turning back like he’s remembered something he very much doesn’t want to leave unsaid. “Hey,” he says. “You going to Beau’s mask thing?”
“The masquerade party?” She feels Dean’s stare from across the room like a physical object, which is absurd and irritating and makes her sit a little straighter. “It’s after the game, right? Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Garrett’s grin comes back just enough to make her stomach dip. “Sweet. See you there.”
She tilts her head, trying to sound light even though the air has gone weird around them. “Yeah. Or not. Because of the masks.”
He nods solemnly. “No, totally. Could be anyone. Real mystery.”
“Very mysterious.”
“Guess I’ll have to use my detective skills.”
“You have those?”
“No,” he says. “But I’m hot, so people help me.”
She laughs, and he smiles like he’s taking that with him.
He walks away from her table and over to them, and for a few seconds she tries very hard to return to her laptop like she hasn’t just become fascinated by the world’s stupidest male summit happening beside the salad bar. It doesn’t work. Her eyes keep cutting over, catching pieces.
Dean talking low and fast, one hand moving once in a sharp, irritated gesture. Garrett looking away, then back at him, expression shut down into something stubborn. Logan standing just behind them, eyebrows slightly raised, smoothie straw at his mouth, looking like he would pay actual money for popcorn if the cafeteria stocked it.
Dean’s gaze flicks back to her. She looks down too late.
The whole thing sits strangely under her skin after that, a small ugly pebble in the shoe of an otherwise normal afternoon. Dean has no reason to look at her like that. Dean has no reason to chew Garrett out over sitting with her at lunch, unless Garrett has told him something, unless she’s misread the last few weeks completely, unless the reason Garrett keeps getting close and then stopping is not because he doesn’t want her, but because Dean somehow still thinks he gets a vote.
The thought irritates her enough that she closes three tabs too hard, as if her laptop deserves consequences.
“You’re kidding.”
She looks up from where she’s sitting on the bench near the rink entrance, one skate half-laced, the other sitting on the floor like a weapon designed by sadists. “I’m not kidding.”
Garrett stares at her. “You’ve never skated?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
Garrett gestures loosely. “Like, not even badly at a birthday party when you were twelve?”
“I grew up near tennis courts, not ice rinks, Garrett. We had other hobbies.”
He makes a wounded sound. “You’re writing a piece on hockey.”
“I’ve watched hockey.”
“That’s not the same.”
She tilts her head. “I’ve also interviewed hockey players.”
“Still not the same.”
“I watched you practice for three weeks.”
“Still,” he says, pointing at her with his stick, “not the same.”
She bends back over the skate, tugging at the lace with the kind of aggression that suggests the boot has personally wronged her. “If this is about journalistic integrity, I’ll put a disclosure at the bottom. The author has never voluntarily placed herself on a knife shoe.”
Garrett laughs, then crouches in front of her before she can fully process the movement. One second he’s standing there, being tall and smug and irritatingly warm in a Briar hoodie, and the next he’s on one knee between her feet, taking the laces out of her hands like this is a thing his body has decided is allowed.
“Here,” he says. “You’re doing it wrong.”
Her mouth goes dry in a way that feels deeply inconvenient. “I’m tying shoes wrong?”
“You’re tying skates wrong.”
“Different sacred art?”
“Very different.” His head’s bent, curls falling forward as he works the laces with quick, practiced hands. “You want them tight through the ankle or you’re gonna fold like a lawn chair.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m a great teacher.”
“You just compared me to outdoor furniture.”
“A beloved piece of outdoor furniture.”
She bites her lip around a smile and watches his hands instead of his face because his face is worse. His fingers are broad and nicked in little places, tape residue near one knuckle, nails cut short.
He tightens the skate with firm, efficient pulls, one hand briefly wrapping around the back of her ankle to hold her steady, and the touch is so normal, so practical, that her body has absolutely no business reacting to it like he’s slid his palm under her shirt.
Garrett glances up. She looks away immediately, which is subtle in the way a car alarm is subtle. He says nothing, because he’s learned mercy in one or two isolated categories, and finishes tying the second skate.
Getting onto the ice is an act of public humiliation, except there’s no public, thank God, just Garrett, which might actually be worse. He steps on first with the careless ease of a person whose body understands frozen water as a workplace, then turns and offers both hands.
She grips them immediately. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”
“You’re not gonna die.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I kinda do.”
“You’re too confident.”
He laughs, pulling her gently forward. “Okay. One foot.”
The first skate touches the ice and immediately slides an inch in a direction she did not approve. “Nope.”
“Yes.”
She frowns. “No, Garrett.”
“You’re fine. Both feet, come on.”
She gets both feet onto the ice and grabs his hands so tightly he huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t tease her as much as he could. That’s another thing about Garrett, one she hates more than the smugness because it’s harder to protect against. He knows exactly when to push and when not to.
He grins, sure, but his hands stay steady around hers, thumbs warm over the backs of her fingers, his skates braced wide enough that she knows without question he could hold her up if she fully lost it.
“There you go,” he says, softer. “See? You’re doing it.”
“I’m standing.”
“Standing is part of skating.”
She grips his hands tighter. “I’m incredible.”
“Generational talent.”
She laughs, then immediately squeals because the laugh disrupts whatever fragile treaty her ankles had formed with physics. Her legs straighten wrong, the skates slip, and she pitches forward straight into him.
Garrett catches her like it’s nothing. She hits his chest with a breathless little sound, hands landing on his biceps, his hands coming to her waist fast and firm. The impact knocks a laugh out of both of them, and for a second they’re just there, tangled and stupid, her skates sliding uselessly while Garrett holds her upright with the kind of casual strength that makes several parts of her brain quietly resign.
“Hi,” he says.
She looks up at him. His face is close. Too close for any version of this that’s still pretending to be about skating. His cheeks are pink from the cold, curls messy under the rink lights, grin fading as his eyes move over her face.
His hands are still at her waist. Hers are still wrapped around his arms, and holy fuck, his arms. Solid under her fingers, warm through his hoodie, steady in a way that makes leaning into him feel less like a choice and more like gravity having a point for once.
“Hi,” she says back, and it comes out smaller than she intended.
His throat moves. The rink is quiet around them. Huge and cold and empty, boards rising white around the ice, old skate cuts beneath their feet, one distant machine hum somewhere behind the walls.
She can feel his breath against her cheek now. She can feel the tiny adjustment of his fingers at her waist, like he’s reminding himself not to pull her closer and doing a bad job of it.
She tilts her face up. A question more than a move, her mouth parted slightly, her eyes dropping to his lips because she’s tired of pretending not to want the thing they’ve both been standing too close to for weeks. Garrett goes still. Completely still, except for the rise of his chest under her hands.
Her eyes flutter shut. His hands tighten once at her waist. Then he pulls back.
It’s not far, barely an inch. But it’s enough to let cold air rush between them, enough to make her eyes open and her stomach drop with the ugly, immediate heat of embarrassment.
“I can’t,” Garrett says, voice low.
She blinks at him. “What?”
His jaw works. He looks genuinely pained, which would be more flattering if she didn’t currently want to throw him into the boards. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because–” He glances away, breath coming out through his nose in a hard little huff. “Because of Dean.”
The name lands wrong. Wrong in her body, sour and metallic. She loosens her grip on his arms. “What about Dean?”
Garrett’s eyes cut back to hers. “Come on.”
“No, don’t come on me.” She shifts back on the skates, immediately wobbles, and grabs the boards beside them with one hand because anger, while energising, isn’t an adequate substitute for balance. “What about Dean?”
“You guys dated.”
“We barely dated.”
“You were together for, what, three months?”
“We hooked up for three months,” she says, sharper now. “Sometimes. When we were both free. It wasn’t a great tragic love story. We hung out at parties and occasionally made out in laundry rooms.”
Garrett winces. “I really don’t need the visual.”
“Then don’t bring him up while I’m trying to kiss you.”
His eyes flash at that, heat cutting through the restraint for half a second before he shuts it down again. “You think I want to be bringing him up?”
“I don’t know what you want, Garrett, because every time I think you’re finally about to do something about the fact that you keep looking at me like that, you suddenly remember friendship law.”
“Friendship law?”
“Bro code, house code, whatever the fuck you guys call the sacred little pact where nobody is allowed to touch anyone someone else once had mediocre sex with.”
His mouth twitches despite himself, then immediately flattens. “I’m trying not to be a dick to my friend.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re doing a great job being a dick to me instead.”
“I’m not trying to be a dick to you,” he says.
“No? Because it feels pretty dick-ish from here.”
He drags a hand through his hair, turning away for half a second like he needs the rink to help him survive the conversation. His skates shift on the ice with a clean scrape. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“Dean put a rule down, okay?”
The whole world narrows. Her fingers tighten around the top of the boards. “What rule?”
Garrett looks back at her and immediately seems to realise, too late, that he’s opened the wrong door.
She steps toward him, or tries to. The skates slide. She catches herself, furious enough that fear of the ice has temporarily become background noise. “Garrett. What rule?”
His shoulders sink. “He said you were hands off.”
For a second, she just stares at him. The rink noise fades into a thin ringing at the edge of her ears. Her face goes hot first, then her chest, then the backs of her hands, a spreading flush of disbelief so sharp it feels almost cold underneath. “He said I was what?”
Garrett rubs a hand over his mouth. “Hockey house is hands off. That’s what he said.”
“Hockey house is hands off,” she repeats, slowly, because maybe if she says it back, the words might become less insane. They do not. They get worse. They sit there between them, stupid and male and possessive in a way that makes her want to start swinging one of his sticks around until something expensive breaks.
“It’s not–” Garrett starts.
“No.”
He stops.
“No, don’t do that. Don’t soften it. Don’t try to translate asshole into something prettier.” Her laugh comes out once, bright and humourless. “Dean put a no touching rule on me?”
Garrett’s face has gone sheepish now, which, unfortunately for him, only makes him look guilty by association. “I didn’t make the rule.”
“But you followed it.”
His jaw tightens. “He’s my teammate. He’s my friend.”
“And I’m a couch he called dibs on?”
Garrett flinches. “That’s not how I see you.”
“But it’s how he talked about me, and you all just what? Nodded? Took minutes? Filed it under house law?”
“No.” He skates closer, hands half-lifted like he wants to steady her and knows better than to touch. “No, it wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
She gives a short, furious nod. “Right.”
Then she turns toward the exit. Badly. The skates immediately betray her.
Garrett moves on instinct, catching her elbow before she can eat shit in the middle of the ice. “Hey–”
“Do not hey me!”
“I’m just trying to stop you from breaking your ass.”
“My ass and I are leaving.”
“You can’t storm off in skates.”
She huffs. “Watch me.”
“You physically cannot.”
“I will crawl.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, skating backward as she clings angrily to the boards and inches toward the gate with all the dignity of a newborn deer seeking vengeance. “Can I at least help you?”
“No.”
“You’re going the wrong way.”
She shoots him a look. “I know where I’m going.”
“You’re heading toward the penalty box.”
“Maybe I belong there.”
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh and immediately thinks better of it when she looks at him.
By the time they get her off the ice and out of the skates, her anger has focused into something clean and bright. Garrett follows her out of the rink with her bag over one shoulder and the expression of a man walking behind an active bomb he’s personally helped assemble.
“You don’t have to do this right now,” he says as she shoves her feet into her boots.
“Yes, I do.”
“Maybe cool off first.”
She looks at him. “You think I’m going to cool off about being declared untouchable by a guy who once texted me you up? at one in the morning with a typo?”
Garrett’s mouth presses together.
“Don’t laugh.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
“You want to.”
“I really don’t.”
“You do. You’re just scared of me right now.”
“A little,” he admits.
“Good.”
The hockey house door swings open before Garrett’s even finished taking his keys out of the door, because God wants Logan to have front-row seats. Logan looks from her face to Garrett’s face to the fact that Garrett is holding her skate bag like a guilty chauffeur, and his eyebrows go up with immediate, delighted dread. “Oh, this feels like something I should not be in the doorway for.”
“Where’s Dean?” she asks.
Logan’s eyes widen slightly. “Kitchen.”
“Great.”
She steps past him.
Garrett follows. “Maybe we don’t–”
“No, you’re coming too.”
“Yeah,” Logan says, shutting the door behind them with the dazed cheerfulness of a man blessed by entertainment. “You’re definitely coming too.”
The house smells like takeout, laundry detergent, and whatever tragic candle Tucker keeps lighting in a hopeless attempt to make four athletes living together seem less like a public health concern.
Somewhere upstairs, music thumps faintly. The living room is half-clean in the deeply male way, meaning there’s no visible trash on the floor but several cups have been abandoned on flat surfaces with the confidence of people who believe dishes migrate naturally.
Dean’s in the kitchen with Tucker, leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal at nearly six in the evening because money, talent, and good bone structure haven’t made him any less fundamentally ridiculous.
He looks up when she walks in. Then he sees Garrett behind her. Then he sees her face.
“Oh,” Tucker says quietly from beside the fridge. “Shit.”
Dean straightens. “What?”
She stops on the other side of the island, hands flat on the counter because otherwise she might start pointing and never stop. “Did you tell the entire hockey house I was hands off?”
Dean’s eyes cut to Garrett. “Seriously, man?”
Garrett lifts one hand. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t issue a royal decree over her body.”
“Thank you,” she snaps, then points at Dean. “You. Answer.”
Dean sets the cereal bowl down slowly. “It wasn’t the entire hockey house.”
Logan, arriving behind Garrett with exactly the expression of someone entering a theatre late but thrilled, says, “It was kind of the entire hockey house.”
“Logan,” Dean warns.
“What? I’m pro-transparency.”
She stares at Dean. “You put a rule on me.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh my God, does every man in this house get issued that sentence at orientation?”
Tucker coughs into his fist. Garrett looks at the floor.
Dean’s face flushes, irritation rising fast now that he has an audience and no graceful exit. “I told them not to mess with you.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because I didn’t want them to.”
She laughs once, so sharp Tucker actually looks toward the sink like he might find somewhere safer to stand. “That’s not an answer. That is something a toddler says about a toy truck.”
Dean’s mouth opens, then closes. He drags a hand through his hair, annoyed and cornered and visibly trying to decide how much honesty he can survive in front of Logan, Tucker, and Garrett. Not much, judging by the colour in his face.
“You and I had a thing,” he says.
“We hooked up.”
“We hung out.”
“Yes, Dean, that’s generally how hooking up more than once works. Sometimes there’s a couch involved. Maybe a movie nobody watches.”
Logan murmurs, “Educational.”
Dean points at him without looking. “Shut up.”
She leans forward over the counter. “We were casual.”
“Maybe to you.”
Dean’s face changes as soon as he says it, like the words have come out uglier and more vulnerable than he planned. Garrett stills behind her. Tucker’s expression softens by a fraction. Logan stops smiling quite so much.
Dean swallows hard, then doubles down because vulnerability has made him defensive. “I liked you.”
Her grip on the counter loosens, then tightens again. “Dean.”
“No, don’t Dean me. I did. I liked you, and you didn’t like me back.”
“I liked you fine.”
“You liked me fine,” he repeats, voice going high with disbelief. “Great. Awesome. That’s exactly what every guy wants to hear.”
“We weren’t in love.”
“I didn’t say we were in love.”
“You’re acting like I left you at the altar.”
“I’m acting like maybe it sucked watching you giggle with my best friend for three weeks after you decided you were too busy to text me back.”
Garrett winces. “Okay, let’s not–”
She turns her head. “You stay quiet.”
Garrett shuts his mouth.
Dean lets out a humourless laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that, G.”
She points back at Dean immediately. “Don’t redirect because you’re embarrassed.”
Dean shrugs. “I’m not embarrassed.”
“You should be. You made a house rule about me like I’m a disputed parking space.”
Dean’s face twists. “I didn’t want to watch my friends go after you.”
“Then say that to me like an adult.”
“I didn’t think I owed you a fucking press release.”
She smacks her hand down on the counter. “You owed me basic dignity.”
Dean’s mouth shuts, and for one tiny second he looks less like Briar’s rich blond menace and more like a twenty-one-year-old guy who handled hurt feelings with the political structure of a frat basement.
Then, because he’s still Dean, he recovers poorly. “Well, sorry I didn’t want Garrett’s tongue down your throat two months after mine.”
Garrett’s head snaps up. “Hey.”
“Oh, fuck off,” she says, loud enough that even Logan’s eyebrows jump. “You don’t get to act wounded and crude in the same breath like that makes you honest.”
Dean’s eyes flash. “You think I’m making it up? You two have been doing this little interview foreplay thing all over campus like everybody doesn’t see it.”
Garrett mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
She feels heat hit her face but refuses to look away. “Maybe if you had an issue, you could’ve talked to me instead of telling half the hockey team they needed permission to touch me.”
Dean scoffs. “I knew you liked him.”
“Yes, Dean. Congratulations. Your powers of observation survived your personality.”
Logan makes a strangled sound behind his smoothie. Dean points at her, the hurt cracking fully into the argument now, messy and oddly sincere under all the stupidity. “You didn’t look at me like that.”
“No, because you hooked up with someone else the same night you hooked up with me.”
Dean throws both hands out. “But I liked you more!”
The entire kitchen goes silent. Tucker closes his eyes. Garrett’s lips part in actual disbelief. Logan whispers, “That is an insane defence.”
She stares at Dean for one long second, then says, “Are you medically okay?”
Dean groans, dragging both hands down his face. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“Because from here, it sounded like you were asking for emotional credit for ranking me first in a rotation.”
Garrett mutters, “Holy shit,” under his breath, and she cannot tell whether it’s horror or admiration.
Dean drops his hands. His face is red now, properly red. “I know I was shitty. I didn’t handle it right. You were… I don’t know. You were cool, and fun, and you didn’t need anything from me, and then you were gone. And I was a dick about it.”
She watches him for a second, her pulse still hot in her wrists. Dean looks back at her with more honesty than he probably meant to bring into the kitchen, and that makes it harder to stay perfectly furious.
“You don’t get to be a dick by making rules about me,” she says.
His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yeah.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” She steps around the island, close enough now that Dean’s eyes drop briefly like he’s checking whether she plans to slap him. She doesn’t. She wants to, a little, but personal growth and witness presence both intervene. “You can feel weird. You can be hurt. You can tell Garrett you don’t love it. You can even privately sulk like a blond little prince in your room if that’s what your healing journey requires.”
Logan whispers, “Blond little prince.”
Dean says, “Shut the fuck up.”
“But you do not get to decide what I’m allowed to do because your feelings arrived late and badly dressed.”
Tucker nods once, like this is fair. Dean looks at her, then at Garrett, then back at her. His mouth twists. “Fine.”
“Take the rule off.”
He stiffens. “No.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”
“No.”
She glares at him. “Dean.”
“I said I know it was shitty. I didn’t say I wanted to watch it happen.”
Garrett rubs the back of his neck. “Man–”
Dean points at him. “Do not man me. You’ve been waiting for this vote.”
He scoffs. “I have not.” She turns slowly to Garrett. He pauses. “Not… exactly.”
“Oh my God.”
Garrett winces. “Bad timing?”
“Terrible timing.”
Dean crosses his arms. “See? This is why the rule exists.”
She whips back around. “Dean Di Laurentis, take the fucking rule off.”
“No.”
“Take it off.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
He looks at her stubbornly. “What?”
“Take. It. Off.”
The kitchen holds its breath. Dean’s jaw works. For a second she thinks he might keep arguing, might dig himself even deeper because male pride is a tragic renewable resource. Then his gaze flicks past her to Garrett, and whatever he sees there makes his shoulders drop slightly.
Garrett’s not smiling now. He looks uncomfortable, yes, and guilty, and still maybe like part of him wants to put his head through a wall. But there’s also something earnest in his face, something quiet and clear and not even aimed at Dean, not really. It’s aimed at her. Like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t want to need, and hating that he’s needed it anyway.
Dean sees it. She knows he does, because his mouth tightens with the final little pinch of someone losing a fight he probably should have surrendered ten minutes ago.
“Fine,” Dean says.
She points at him. “Say it.”
He stares. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Make it official.”
Logan perks up. “I can witness.”
“Nobody asked you,” Dean says.
“I’m witnessing anyway.”
Dean exhales hard, looking at the ceiling like he has been personally victimised by consequences. Then he drops his gaze back to her. “The rule is off.”
She waits.
Dean’s eyes narrow. “What else?”
“It’s decreed or whatever.”
Tucker presses his lips together.
Dean’s face goes flat. “You want me to say decreed?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
He stares at her. She stares back. Finally, with the exhausted dignity of a man being executed in his own kitchen, Dean says, “It’s decreed.”
Logan lifts his smoothie. “House law.”
Tucker nods solemnly. “House law.”
Garrett looks like he wants to laugh and die at the same time.
She smiles without warmth. “Good.”
Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen, past Garrett, past Logan, through the living room, and out the front door without looking back.
She hears Garrett say her name once behind her, but she keeps going, because if she turns around too soon, she might either kiss him in the driveway or scream again, and neither feels like a strategic exit.
Beau’s holiday house is the kind of place that makes absolutely no sense as a college party venue unless someone’s parents have too much money and not enough concern about upholstery.
It sits just outside town, all big windows and pale stone and a deck wrapped around the back like the architect had been asked to design somewhere specifically for rich kids to make terrible decisions under flattering lighting.
By the time she arrives after the game, the whole place is glowing gold from inside, music spilling out every time someone opens the front door, the lawn packed with cars, the porch crawling with people in masks and party dresses and button-downs worn by men who think rolling their sleeves up counts as formalwear.
The masquerade part has been loosely interpreted, obviously. Half the masks look expensive and intentional, feathered or black satin or glittering at the edges; the other half look like they were purchased from a party store by someone already drunk.
Someone near the stairs has a full plastic wolf mask pushed onto the top of his head. Someone else is wearing sunglasses and insisting it counts. Briar, as an institution, remains deeply unserious.
She finds Garrett in less than five minutes. Which is ridiculous, given the whole point of masks, but Garrett Graham is impossible to misplace. He’s standing near the back doors with Logan and Tucker, broad shoulders under a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark mask cutting across the upper half of his face in a way that should look stupid and instead makes him look like someone’s bad decision dressed up as a theme.
His curls are still a little damp from the post-game shower. There’s a tiny mark near his jaw from the game, a scrape or bruise starting to come up, and he looks unfairly alive, flushed from the win and the noise and whatever arrogant chemical floods the bloodstream of men who score in the third period.
He sees her at almost the exact same time. She knows because his body goes still. A pause in the middle of whatever Tucker is saying, drink half-lifted, head turning. His gaze moves over her once, fast and then slower, from the tiny silk halter dress skimming high on her thighs to the ribbon of her mask tied at the back of her head, to the heels she had worn with the full awareness that they weren’t practical and the private satisfaction that she would not need them to be for long.
The look hits her low in the stomach. There are no rules now. The thought should feel silly. They’re adults, technically. No one should need Dean Di Laurentis to revoke a house decree before two people can act like they’ve been wanting to act for weeks. But her body doesn’t care about the politics of it. Her body only knows that Garrett is looking at her like he’s run out of reasons not to.
She walks toward him, weaving through a cluster of girls by the kitchen island and one guy arguing loudly with someone about whether masks are classist, actually. Garrett says something to Logan without looking away from her, and Logan turns, notices her, then immediately smiles like an asshole.
“Tucker,” Logan says, patting him once on the chest. “We’re needed elsewhere.”
Tucker glances over, sees her, then gives Garrett a look that is equal parts warning and amusement. “Try not to start another legal dispute.”
Garrett doesn’t even look at him. “Go away.”
“Romantic,” she says when she reaches him.
His mouth curves. “You like it.”
“I like a man with manners.”
“Bullshit.”
She laughs, and his gaze drops to her mouth. It lingers there, and the noise of the party seems to press in behind her, warm and muffled and irrelevant.
“Good game,” she says, because some part of her brain’s still committed to sports journalism even while the rest of her is busy mentally dragging him upstairs.
Garrett’s smile deepens. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. That assist in the second was disgusting.”
His brows lift behind the mask. “Disgusting?”
“Complimentary.”
“Good.” He leans a fraction closer, voice lowering just enough that she feels it under the music. “Because I was trying to impress you.”
Her breath catches. Just a little. “You were?”
“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his drink, casual in the way men only are when they’re doing it on purpose. “Had to. Big sports journalist in the stands.”
She tilts her head. “Is that what you were thinking about during the game?”
“Among other things.”
“Like what?”
His eyes move over her again, slower this time, and his jaw shifts like he’s physically stopping himself from saying the first answer. “You sure you want that list?”
Her skin warms under the dress. The party keeps happening around them. Someone screams laughing near the stairs. A bottle drops in the kitchen and shatters, followed by a chorus of deeply unhelpful cheering. The music changes to something louder, bass shaking faintly through the floorboards. Garrett doesn’t look away from her once.
She steps closer, because she can. Because Dean said decreed. Because Garrett’s hand is flexing at his side like he wants to touch her and is still, idiotically, waiting to be invited.
“So,” she says, looking up at him through the mask, “does house law have anything else to say tonight?”
Garrett’s grin comes slowly. “House law can go fuck itself.”
She pouts. “That’s very disrespectful to the institution.”
“The institution caused me a lot of personal suffering.”
“Poor thing.”
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice drops again, rougher now. “You have no idea.”
For a second neither of them moves. She can feel her pulse under the thin straps of her dress, in her throat, behind her knees, all of her suddenly aware of the distance between his hand and her waist like it’s a measurable failure of the room.
Garrett’s eyes hold hers, dark behind the mask, the smile fading into something hungrier. Want, clean and badly restrained, finally allowed to exist in the open.
He sets his drink down on the nearest table without looking. “Upstairs,” he says.
She nods once. Garrett’s hand comes to the small of her back immediately, warm and broad and sure, guiding her through the crowd with a kind of focus that makes people move before they consciously decide to. They pass Dean near the bottom of the stairs, because the universe has comedic timing and a cruel streak.
Dean sees them. Sees Garrett’s hand. Sees her dress. Sees the direction. His mouth tightens for half a second. She lifts her eyebrows at him.
Dean looks at Garrett, then at her, then rolls his eyes toward the ceiling with the suffering grandeur of a man who’s made peace with a lawless society. “Use a room with a lock,” he says.
Garrett points at him without stopping. “That was almost mature.”
“Don’t make me regret personal growth.”
“Too late,” she says sweetly, passing him.
Dean mutters something that sounds like unbelievable, but there’s no real heat in it now. Not enough to stop anything. Not enough to matter.
The upstairs hallway is darker, warmer, the party noise blurring as Garrett leads her past a bathroom with a line outside it and a half-open door where two people are already making a terrible attempt at discretion. He finds an empty bedroom near the end of the hall, pushes the door open, checks once, then pulls her inside.
The door shuts. For half a second, they just stare at each other.
It should be funny, maybe. All that build-up and now a quiet guest room with somebody’s aunt’s decorative pillows on the bed and a framed beach print on the wall. It should break the tension, but it does the opposite.
The sudden privacy makes the weeks behind them arrive all at once: the rink bench, the cafeteria, his hands tying her skates, the almost-kiss, the kitchen argument, every look he swallowed because someone else had written a rule neither of them agreed to.
Garrett steps toward her. She steps toward him at the same time, and they meet in the middle with no grace at all.
His mouth is on hers hard and immediate, one hand at her jaw, the other at her waist, walking her back against the door with enough force to make the wood thud behind her shoulders.
She gasps into him, and he takes it like he’s been waiting weeks for the sound, kissing her deeper, hotter, his body crowding hers until there’s no space left to manage. Her hands go straight into his hair, knocking the mask slightly crooked, and Garrett groans low in his throat when her nails scrape over his scalp.
“Finally,” she breathes against his mouth.
He laughs, but it sounds wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.”
He kisses her again, and it goes messy fast. Garrett kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing and is still a little pissed he had to wait to do it, mouth confident, tongue sliding against hers, teeth catching lightly at her bottom lip until her fingers tighten in his hair. His hand slides from her waist to her thigh, finding bare skin under the hem of the dress, and she makes a small sound that seems to go straight through him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at her. His thumb moves once along her jaw, like he needs to see her face properly and cannot tolerate the mask hiding any of it. “Take this off.”
“You take yours off.”
“Gladly.”
He reaches behind her head for the ribbon, but she gets impatient and pushes his hand away, tugging at his mask first. It catches briefly in his curls, and he hisses.
“Jesus, easy.”
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.
“You’re violent.”
“You like it.”
“I really do,” he says, and then her mask is gone too, Garrett pulling it free and dropping both onto the floor like they have personally offended him.
The next kiss feels different with their faces bare. Hotter somehow, more exposed. His hand cups her cheek for one strangely tender second, thumb brushing near the corner of her mouth, and that small softness nearly undoes her more than the door had.
His eyes flick over her face, the cocky edge shifting into something warmer, more careful, before she drags him down by the front of his shirt because tenderness is lovely but she has limits.
He laughs into her mouth and lifts her. Hands under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist automatically, the movement so easy for him it makes her stomach flip. He carries her toward the bed while still kissing her, which is both impressive and deeply obnoxious, and when her back hits the mattress she pulls him down with her by the collar.
The bed bounces. Somewhere downstairs, the party roars at something completely unrelated. Garrett settles over her, one knee between her thighs, forearm braced beside her head, his other hand sliding up her side over the silk of her dress. His eyes are dark, mouth swollen, curls a mess from her hands.
“You good?” he asks.
It’s low, almost rough, but there’s no performance in it. The little practical care tucked inside all that heat. It makes something in her chest go soft and aching before the rest of her body can vote against it.
She nods. “Very good.”
His grin returns, slow and devastating. “Very?”
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
She pulls him down again, and his laugh disappears into the kiss. His weight settles more fully over her, warm and heavy in a way that makes her whole body go bright beneath him. The silk of her dress rides higher under his hand.
Her fingers work at the buttons of his shirt with increasingly poor coordination, and Garrett lifts enough to help, grinning against her lips when she huffs in frustration. “Journalism major can’t handle buttons?”
“Shut up. I’m under pressure.”
“Performance issue?”
She bites his bottom lip. Garrett’s sound is immediate, low and pleased and a little startled. “Okay.”
“Still want to be annoying?”
“If you do that again? Kind of.”
She laughs, breathless, and he kisses the laugh right out of her, mouth moving down to her jaw, then the side of her neck, slow enough to make her squirm and deliberate enough to make her understand he notices.
His hand slides down her thigh, thumb pressing into the soft skin there, and she arches into him before she can pretend to be composed.
“Garrett,” she says, half warning, half something else.
He lifts his head, eyes on hers. “Yeah?”
For a second, all the stupid jokes fall away. The room narrows to his face above hers and the warmth of his hand on her thigh and the fact that there’s no rule anymore, no Dean in the doorway, no rink air between them, no cafeteria table, no almost.
Only Garrett looking at her like he’s still checking that she’s here with him, not because someone decreed it, not because he’s finally been allowed, but because she wants this too.
She reaches up and smooths her thumb over the little mark near his jaw from the game. “You really were trying to impress me?”
His smile softens around one edge. “Baby, I’ve been trying to impress you for weeks.”
Her stomach turns over. “Yeah?” she says, quieter.
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once on her thigh. “It’s been brutal. I had to talk about my feelings and everything.”
A laugh breaks out of her, warm and helpless, and Garrett’s face does something unbearably pleased at the sound. “That must’ve been so hard for you.”
“You have no idea.” He dips down, brushing his mouth over hers once, twice, not quite kissing properly yet. “I almost quoted a book.”
“You read?”
“Occasionally. Under supervision.”
She smiles against his mouth. “Hot.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
He kisses her again, slower this time, and it turns heated almost immediately because slow with Garrett isn’t gentle so much as dangerous in a different direction. His mouth drags over hers like he has all night and not nearly enough patience for it.
Her hands slide beneath his open shirt, over warm skin and hard muscle, and Garrett exhales sharply against her cheek when her nails trail down his ribs. “Fuck,” he says softly. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.”
“Mean.”
“You like mean too.”
He lifts his head and looks down at her, grin gone lazy and bright and so Garrett it makes her want to laugh and bite him at the same time. “I’m learning a lot about myself tonight.”
She hooks one leg higher around his hip. “Glad I could contribute to your education.”
His eyes drop, tracking the movement, and the humour in his face goes darker. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I’m feeling very academically supported.”
She laughs again, but it thins into a breath when his mouth returns to her neck and his hand slides higher under the edge of her dress, all warm palm and careful pressure and that infuriating confidence he’s earned.
Outside the room, the party keeps going, loud and bright and masked and stupid, but inside the guest room everything has shrunk to the bed, the silk twisted at her hips, Garrett’s open shirt under her hands, his mouth at her throat, the low sounds he keeps making like every inch of her is something he has been denied on principle and now plans to appreciate with interest. Someone starts chanting for reasons that almost certainly involve alcohol.
Garrett pauses with his mouth against her jaw. “You think that’s about us?”
She snorts. “If it is, I’m transferring.”
“Can’t,” he says, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Article’s not done.”
“Oh, right. My journalistic duty.”
“Mhm. Very important piece.”
“On Briar hockey.”
“And its captain.”
She looks up at him, pretending to consider this while his thumb moves distractingly over the bare skin above her hip. “I might need another interview.”
Garrett’s grin spreads, slow and wicked and warm enough to make her toes curl against the sheets.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Extensive follow-up.”
His mouth brushes hers. “Baby, I’m available whenever you need me.”
do you think june picked up any speech habits from fisk early on
oh yeah for sure. I think it only makes sense. he has this powerful and parental presence in her developmental years, so I feel like she would definitely end up copying speech patterns and other habits from him. possibly also in a way to feel closer to him/have him respect her more/see her as a daughter
a random thought i just had is that june doesn’t really have friends her age. everybody that’s around her has always been older because it’s always been liv’s friends and her social circles so i think thatll make everything with daniel that much more of a blow to her because that was the first person that was closer to her age that was like a friend
how about next time we keep random thoughts to ourselves! 🤗
and when she says “why can’t you come stitch me up? why can’t it ever be enough? why can’t you come stitch me up? why can’t it ever be enough?” it’s alivia yersova.
i was going through the inner circle for something and i came across the stuff for june’s parents, fucking dr jack abbot is her bio dad? idk why that was so funny to realize😭😭
HELP YES 😭
i was surpised neither of you had mentioned it until now
his character pope in animal kingdom fit my vision for her dad just too well
Pairing: Matt Murdock x Livia Yersova , Ben Poindexter x Livia Yersova
Word Count: 9,105
Summary: Livia Yersova has made bad decisions in the past, but maybe revisiting one of those isn't the worst choice she could make. It does, however, start an interesting chain of events.
Livia and June walked into Josie’s in silence. Josie was nowhere to be seen, leaving Matt and - to Livia’s surprise - Cherry at the bar. June slid into the seat beside Matt and Livia stood beside them. Matt turned almost immediately to their presence.
“How’d you find me?” Matt asked, turning away for a moment and then pushing a shot glass into Livia’s hand.
“How do you think?” Livia spoke, though her focus was being pulled away. That damn pull in her head was turning to a yank, almost painful to ignore.
Livia handed the liquor to June instead. The blonde took it, sniffed it, then gingerly sipped. She coughed on the taste and Livia cracked half a smile. June stuck out her tongue in disgust and put the small glass gently on the bar top. She shook her head and slid it away.
“Poindexter was just trying to settle an old score, with Foggy and Karen and Livia and you.”
“No.” Livia commented, her head tilting as she thought. “If that was the case, he wouldn’t have gone for Foggy. It would’ve been her.” Livia gestured to June. “Sorry, Bug.”
“From where I’m standing, you look like a guy blowing up his life.” Cherry began ranting but slowed his words, as if he remembered Livia and June were there. “What do you need, Matt? More pain?”
Josie came back, caught sight of Livia, and smiled. Livia returned the expression as Josie pulled out a familiar bottle.
“Oh, no.” Livia laughed slightly. “You still have that bottle?”
“Foggy was basically the only one to ever drink it, other than when he got you all in on it.” Josie reasoned. She pulled a couple additional glasses for Livia and June.
“Was he drinking it that night?” June asked.
“Mhmm.” Josie nodded as she poured. “Never finished his last round, though.”
Livia’s brows furrowed, watching the liquid flow. She remembered a lot about that night, most of it playing back in her sleep, but what Foggy was drinking… She didn’t remember the O’Melveny’s.
“He was celebrating early.” Matt spoke his thoughts slowly.
“He knew he was gonna win.” Livia continued. “He knew and someone made sure he wouldn’t.”
A flash of anger, burning through her blood, coming on quicker than she could stop. Her heart thumped hard for a few beats, hard enough to make Matt spin in his seat towards her.
“Poindexter didn’t just show up. He was sent.” Livia said urgently. Her hands twitched, half the familiar motion of activating her Bites. That changed everything. “I have to…”
Livia turned and all but ran out of Josie’s. She had to get back to the office for her car. She needed to get to Riker’s. She needed to talk to Dex.
A few feet down the block, she was flanked on either side. Matt looped his arm through her left, June through her right. Livia clenched her jaw but kept her eyes straight.
Determination pushed her forward, setting her stride to an urgent pace. June’s gloved fingers dug slightly into the flesh of Livia’s arm.
“Are you sure about this?” June asked quickly. “Maybe you should stop and we talk this through.”
Livia wasn’t really sure about anything but she wasn’t about to tell June that.
“I’m sure.” She lied. “Dex wanted to see me. He’ll talk to me.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Like hell you are.”
“Liv, if this guy is still half as crazy as he was before, you can't go alone.”
“I won’t be alone. Clearly, Matt’s going.”
June just rolled her eyes.
“I can handle Dex.” Livia insisted. “I’d rather him not get any ideas about you..”
“I thought you trusted me to handle myself.” June offered her own challenge.
Livia forced her steps to stop. Matt was uncharacteristically quiet as the three stepped aside, out of the way of other pedestrians. Livia glanced at Matt, who seemed more interested in her response than offering one of his own.
Livia ran a hand down her face as she considered her words.
“I know you’ve grown up.” Livia spoke carefully. “But I don’t get why you’re so interested in meeting Dex.”
“Fisk liked him, right? Maybe I want to know why.” June lifted her chin defiantly.
“Same reason I did.” Livia met June’s stare. “He’s dangerous. You saw what he did at Josie’s that night, how many people he killed without blinking.”
Neither woman backed down for a few moments until Livia let her powers slip, pulling June’s determination back just enough for the eye contact to break. She didn’t want to do it, but she didn’t have time to sit there and have a standoff in the middle of the street, especially when she knew Dex had been moved into gen pop.
“I believe you, Liv. I do.” June nodded. “But if there’s something else to Foggy’s death, I deserve to know. I shouldn’t have to hear it second hand...”
Livia dropped her eyes and sighed. She wouldn’t say it but June did have a point.
“Liv, June’s right.” Matt said gently. “All of us deserve the truth.”
“Fine.” Livia caved. “But you don’t say anything to him. You wait, you focus.” Livia tapped her temple twice. “And you tell me if it’s going bad.”
“Okay.” June nodded. There was a hesitation in her agreement that Livia knew came from their earlier conversation, but for the moment, it was settled.
“And you have to trust me. If you question me in front of him…”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Same goes for you.” Livia looked at Matt. “You have to trust me.”
“I do.” He nodded once.
“You have to trust me with him.”
“He’s the one I don’t trust.”
“But he trusts me.”
“You trust him?”
Livia didn’t have an answer. Instead, she kept walking, which she supposed was answer enough.
After clearing prison security, the three were escorted to a cold, concrete room.
Matt stood against the wall, positioned just right so he was blocking June from direct sight.
“This was a mistake.” Matt complained. “June shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m standing right here.” June argued.
“June’s grown now, Matt.” Livia shrugged, not looking over at either of them. She was intently focused on her ability, locking down her own emotions and keeping everyone else out. Her bones vibrated with the insanity of a prison as soon as she stepped on the property. One distraction and she’d be overwhelmed. “If you didn’t want her here, you should’ve said something. We can’t do anything about it now.”
“You’re supposed to look out for her.” He groaned.
“Like you did?” She whirled to face him. “When she ran off to my cousin for five years, you were looking out for her. Right?”
He shook his head and mumbled to himself. June shot Livia a disapproving look. Livia took a deep breath and readjusted in the metal chair. She didn’t know why she said it. Matt hadn’t done anything specific to start a fight with her, but that place had her nerves on edge. The commotion was banging against her mental blocks and defending against it took more focus than she would’ve liked.
Livia still felt the daggers June was staring into the back of her head. She did her best to ignore those too, but Livia knew exactly what those meant. It was because, despite it all, June still held out hope that Matt and Livia could end up together again but Livia was ruining it. She, however, tried to keep a more realistic view of the situation.
Matt was with Heather, despite the fact that he was actively self-sabotaging that by falling back into Daredevil. Livia wouldn’t deny that she liked having Daredevil back.
It also didn’t hurt knowing that Daredevil was hers. No woman Matt dated would ever have the connection to that side of him that she did. Except maybe Elektra, but Livia doubted El would manage another resurrection. In that way, behind their masks, they’d never lose each other. No matter who the other one was involved with.
Livia was lost in thought when Dex was brought in. The only thing that brought her out of it was the jangle of the chains. He was cuffed to the metal surface immediately but he didn’t seem to mind. It was like he was used to it. Something about that made Livia’s chest tight.
His eyes were locked onto Livia’s. He was eerily calm, which was about as far from what Livia expected as he could be.
Then she considered the routine of jail. The structured, tight schedule, especially for someone as dangerous as Dex. That probably got all those crazy little ducks in his head in a row.
At least she didn’t have to be overly concerned with him trying to kill her or June. She could focus on that pang of familiarity in her chest and the tension in her shoulders relaxed.
The guard was saying something. Matt answered, Livia hadn’t registered any of it.
“Hey, Aly.” Dex said calmly, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. She tried not to cringe at the nickname only he ever used, at the deep chord it struck in her. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”
“Aly?” June parroted.
“And who’s that you’re hiding over there?” Dex looked over quickly.
“Don’t talk to her.” Matt said sharply.
Dex simply smirked then returned his focus to Livia.
Livia swallowed the lump in her throat. “Well, it’s been a while. I figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.”
“You look good.”
Livia’s head cocked slightly, eyes tracing the long scar on his cheek. “So do you.”
He chuckled to himself and for a brief moment, Livia felt a rush of memory. She thought of the man she knew years ago, if it was possible he was still in there.
Was he?
Could she bring him back?
Thinking of it as years ago was still so strange for her.
Still, she thought of the man she knew before Fisk. The man whose bed she would find if she wasn’t in Billy’s. The man that essentially saved her life when she bled out.
She couldn’t help but smile slightly. It was also at that moment when she understood something else, something deeper than a memory.
Dex felt the same as before. Something in her wanted to cling to that familiarity. A deeply hidden need for the past, for the life she was yanked out of, reared its head and whispered in her head ‘Don’t lose this. Don’t lose him.’ even though Dex wasn’t hers to keep or lose. If anything, she lost Dex in that other life.
But still…
Matt grumbled something before clearing his throat. It was his not so subtle way of reminding Livia he was in the room and there was a point to their visit.
“I was surprised you asked to see us.” Livia said, pointing between her and Matt. “Considering what happened last time we saw you, the consecutive life sentences and all.”
June let out a small laugh.
“Why does Fisk want you dead?” Matt asked sharply.
Livia’s hand tightened into a fist but she said nothing, only looked at Dex with a question in her eyes.
“Did he hire you to kill Foggy?” Livia asked softly. The words were a slice to her tongue, a burn to her throat, a bullet to her heart, but she had to ask.
She had to know.
“You hear that?” Dex turned his head slightly. “Outside… The roar of the jungle.”
Livia was, in fact, trying very hard not to hear it.
“Gen pop.” June said quietly.
So much for not talking.
“Is that what I am to you? Dex looked over at June again. “An animal?”
June’s ability tapped at the edges of Livia’s boundaries. She withdrew them, just enough for June’s intention to sneak in. June was intimidated, uncertain, but also determined. She didn’t know what to say.
Livia looked over her shoulder to the blonde and gave one small nod, a simple signal that said Livia would protect her. That she was safe.
“You’re no better than anyone else in here.” June said firmly, carefully controlling her voice. She understood there was no room for wavers, no chance to falter. She had to be strong. She had to be a soldier in that room. “In fact, I think you’re worse.”
“I don’t think she’s much better, either.” Dex tilted his head towards Livia. “Are you, little June? Fisk talked about you all the time.”
Livia didn’t have to see June to know her eyes would’ve gone wide, mouth slightly dropped.
Livia shifted in the seat, leaning her elbows on the table. She tapped the metal surface with her nail and Dex focused back on her as a realization began to creep in.
“Livia…” June said suddenly.
Livia didn’t falter in her eye contact. “Ty chto-nibud' slyshish'?” (You hear something?)
“V lovushke. Ili, mozhet byt', zastryal.” (Trapped. Or stuck, maybe.)
“Dex…” She said carefully. Everything had to be so careful considering the upheaval of control on her abilities. “Do they keep those chains on all the time?”
He looked down at the chains and she watched his shoulders move with a heavy sigh. He was lost in his thoughts for a few quiet moments. Livia couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in his head. He finally looked back up at her but said nothing.
He didn’t have to. Livia could read it on his face and a new sense of regret began to gnaw at her.
Part of her still wanted back the man she knew, despite him having killed one of her best friends. She put him there, from the very start. She left him to fall to Fisk’s plans and manipulations. She left him broken. She sent him to prison. She owed him something, didn’t she?
“Why’d you send for us?” Livia asked, a kindness in her words she didn’t necessarily intend to put.
That damned yearning was going to be a problem.
“I thought about writing to you but…” He shrugged a shoulder.
“I don’t think they’d be dumb enough give you a pen.”
“You never came to see me before.”
“Almost did once… Years ago, I was in the hospital to see someone else and I saw your PT. Honestly, I thought I’d try to kill you if I got any closer that day.”
For a split second, he smiled at her.
“Some things don’t change, do they?” He asked, almost playfully. “You have though.”
“Yeah, you shot my best friend in front of me.” She rolled her eyes.
“No.” Dex leaned forward, broad chest hitting the edge of the table. He shot an annoyed glare at the chains before settling.
Livia felt the tension grow beside her. Matt and June were both suddenly very alert, like two coiled snakes waiting to strike. She knew she should say something, gesture them off or just ask what she needed to. But she was intrigued by what Dex saw.
“It’s something else. Isn’t it?” Dex’s voice was low and calm, like he knew something no one else in the room did.
“No, I’m fine.” Livia shook her head.
“You can lie to them.” He nodded towards June and Matt without looking away from her. “But I can see it in your face, Aly. You’re tired. You’re hurting. You sound it, too.”
“What is he talking about?” Matt demanded. “Liv?”
“Nothing.” Livia said firmly. She wasn’t breaking eye contact either. “You’re wrong, Dex.”
“I don’t think I am.” He smirked.
Livia stood from the chair, moving a few steps closer to Dex’s side of the table. She noticed him pull on the chains slightly, as if he had intended to reach her in some sense. Whether that was to try and embrace her or strangle her was anyone’s guess.
“Everyone thought you were just a shooter on a rampage…” Livia spoke calmly, watching Dex’s face for a reaction. His eyes followed her every moment, watching her like he could memorize something about her or like she’d disappear if he looked away. “Settling scores, getting vengeance… But we both know there was a better target if you wanted to hurt us.”
Dex’s eyes slid past her to June and then back. The quick move confirmed something she already knew.
“I wouldn’t…” He nearly whispered.
Livia leaned her hip against the edge of the table. “That’s not what it was. Was it?”
“You did it for someone.” Matt added, suddenly appearing at Livia’s side. Livia felt Matt’s hand on the small of her back. Protective. Possessive even. “You did it for Fisk, didn’t you?”
“I don’t think…” June tried.
“Another night in here, I might not be able to answer that for you.” Dex said tightly.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Matt used a condescending tone and Livia rolled her eyes slightly. “What do you want me to do? Want me to get you out? Want me to file an appeal?”
“Stop being an ass.” Livia bit out. Matt only scoffed in response.
“In another life, you two might’ve been defending me.” Dex said, looking Livia up and down.
“And if you had shot almost anyone else, I might’ve considered it.” She said, almost too quickly. Livia wasn’t quite sure if it was true or not. Judging by the finicky control over her abilities, she assumed Matt would call her out on it in one way or another later on.
“But I tried that once. Remember? I tried to help you, protect you, defend you… You chose Fisk’s games over mine, over me.”
She sat on the edge of the table and when he looked up at her, she reached out and ghosted her fingers over the length of the scar. “Look where that got us…”
“Livia.” Matt said firmly. “Seriously?”
Livia smirked then withdrew her hand. She shrugged innocently and let her hand fall to Dex’s arm.
“Just tell me, Dex.” She used her gentlest voice. “Who sent you after Foggy?”
“I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.” Dex answered. Livia thought there was a plea, maybe even desperation, in his words and it was a familiar jolt down her spine. “But it’s gotta be outside.”
“You know I can’t risk that.” She shook her head.
“I’m bargaining for my life here, Aly.”
“I know, honey...” She said softly. “But you can tell me now, right? Tell me the truth and then maybe I can help.”
Livia hadn’t even touched her ability. She didn’t need to. That about Dex hadn’t changed. He was absolute putty in her hands. With the right pressures, with the right words, she could get just about anything from him.
She slid off the table and knelt at his side. Her hand that was on his arm went to his knee instead. His eyes never left her. She smiled innocently.
“Help me figure this out… Please?” She lifted her brows, making her eyes look a little bigger.
He was going to break. She could feel how thin his resolve was. He wanted to bargain, to get something out of it, but Livia was smarter. Livia knew just the strings to pluck, the looks to give.
Before Dex could answer, Matt yanked Livia to her feet and pushed her away. She let him, even laughed about it.
Livia felt June’s hand in hers. She had the instinct to pull away, to go shove Matt against the wall and shout at him, but she couldn’t. Not with June and Dex watching her.
“We don’t trust you for a second.” Matt said firmly, standing in the spot Livia had been in.
“Liv?” June tried softly. “I think he’s baiting Matt.”
“Are you sure?” Livia answered in the same hushed tone.
“Pretty sure, yeah. He wants him to-“
The sound of bone on metal cut off June’s words. She gasped at the sudden noise, grabbing tighter to Livia at first. Livia’s head turned quickly as Matt was slamming Dex’s head against the metal table. There was another sound buried underneath.
Someone breaking.
Bone? Teeth? Livia couldn’t tell.
Every time Matt slammed Dex down, Livia flinched. She felt June’s hand in hers still, the gentle way her shadow tugged her back, but she pushed forward. Livia shoved Matt away by his chest.
“What is your problem?” She hissed. He only rolled his eyes.
Dex looked up at her with a bloodied smile. There was banging behind her, Matt calling for someone, then the door opened.
“Please, Dex.” Livia said suddenly, letting her own desperation leak into the words. Something in Dex’s bloodied expression softened when he met her gaze. “Give me something to go on.”
Dex leaned in slightly, though the guard tried to pull him back. Livia held up a hand to stop him. She even took a step closer to meet Dex halfway. He cracked half a smile.
“It wasn’t that Fisk.” He said lowly and shot her a wink. “Thank you, Counselor.”
The wink and the tone of voice made Livia’s blood run a little warmer.
“Fuck you.” Matt spat as he pulled Livia away again.
Livia’s feet stumbled slightly but June was at her elbows to catch her. She was more focused on watching Dex leave, processing his last words to her.
Not that Fisk.
What the hell did that mean?
Livia was practically mute the rest of the day, though Matt thoroughly chewed her out for her actions. She drove her trio back to the city, dropped off Matt, then went home. She fished out the dresses, even helped June pin and cut hers.
June would wear white, an off the shoulder satin gown with trains at either arm that connected at her spine for the illusion of a full cape. Livia said with the extra fabric of the sleeves, June didn’t need gloves. She could easily hide her hands if need be, but the tension of their earlier disagreement lingered heavily in the statement. June opted for a sheer white pair that she’d covered in glitter out of boredom. She added a few pearl embellishments to match her necklace then went off to do her hair and makeup.
Livia disappeared back into her room to finish getting ready. She would wear black, a square neckline with sheer cape sleeves. The bodice was a corset and a high slit ran up her right leg. The back was open until the bottom of her shoulder blades, exposing her devil horns at the base of her neck and the bold ‘memento mori’ across her shoulders.
Her heels were black, silver accents to match the silver jewelry she wore. Rings on both hands, a simple watch, a diamond choker layered with a longer silver chain. Dark red eyeshadow with red eyeliner, hair in long curls down her back but pinned out of her face.
She ordered a car as she did her hair and makeup.
Once done, she stared at herself in the mirror. She was as put together as ever, a well-decorated beauty if she did say so herself. But something in her eyes seemed hollow.
It had seemed that way since Foggy was killed. Only now, there was a brightness in that hollowness. It was ignited by the hope of finding the truth, of potentially being able to avenge her friend, not just mourn him. Livia would admit she hadn’t done that part well but now she could do something about it.
She just had to figure out what the hell Dex meant with “not that Fisk”. What other Fisk was there?
A light knock on the door frame made her turn.
“I thought you might want this back.” June said carefully, turning something small in her hand.
“You look beautiful, June.” Livia smiled at her little shadow.
June had opted for gold accessories. Her hair was neatly pinned, purple eyeshadow pristine. A gold chain with a heart pendant, subtly engraved with a J, complimented her pearl choker and dangling gold earring completed the look.
“You said you would come back for it…” June came and stood beside Livia, offering her the object. “The day you went to Wakanda, it was the only way I was going to stay in New York.”
Livia looked down and saw…
“My ring.” Livia commented, looking but not taking the jewelry. She swallowed slightly and met June’s eyes. “Maybe you should keep it.”
“Matt got it for you.”
“Yeah, but I think it makes more sense for you to have it.”
“It matches your accessories.”
“It matches you.” Livia shook her head fondly before she took the ring in one hand and spun June’s gold necklace with the other. “You’re a Murdock, June, whether you want to be or not.”
June made no protest as Livia released the clasp, hung the silver band, then replaced her necklace into position. She only sighed slightly.
“Murdock-Yersova.” June mumbled.
Livia nodded once. “Murdock-Yersova… I’m proud of you, June.”
The statement, though true, was sudden and made June’s eyes go wide.
“Should I be worried? Or more worried, I guess.” June said carefully, watching Livia expression.
“No.” Livia smiled for a moment. “Everything’s fine, I just… I haven’t been as present with you as I should.”
“You’ve been weird lately and seeing Dex didn’t help. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Not right now, but I’ll let you know.”
“That’s… something, I guess.” June gave a single nod. “You look great, by the way. If Matt could see you, he’d lose his shit.”
“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that last part.” Livia chuckled.
“You can pretend all you want. You know I’m right.”
“I don’t dress for men, Bug.”
“Fair, but you can’t deny that men notice.”
“That may be the one thing men always notice.” Livia mumbled.
“Are you bringing anything?”
“Just a small clutch, probably. Enough for my phone, lipstick-”
“I meant weapons.” June cut in. “A knife. Something?”
“Are you?” Livia raised a brow.
June offered a proud smirk as she shifted some of the fabric of her sleeves. Buried in the folds was a small sheath holding a single throwing knife.
“I have one on both sides.” She confessed.
“I love you, but your aim is shit.” Livia teased. “Don’t throw those unless you’ve got clear visual.”
“Hopefully, I don’t have to throw them at all.”
“Then why bring them?”
June shrugged as she readjusted her dress in Livia’s bedroom mirror. “I guess I’d rather be safe than cornered… I don’t trust Fisk to invite you and me without having something to gain.”
“Smart girl.”
“So.” June turned to Livia expectantly. “Where’s yours?”
Livia had to admit that she didn’t have anything stashed. Her dress was one she had bought on impulse, something that she could have that was just pretty. She had to admit that June was right. The gala would be public but there was always a shadowy corner to do business in. Livia crossed the room to her hidden case of gear under her bed. She slid it out and pulled a single thigh holster, dual compartment with a gun and thin pocket knife. She shimmied it up her leg and managed to clip it around her waist. It sat just above where the slit started.
Livia’s phone buzzed from her bed.
“Car’s here.”
Security was tight as Livia and June walked up the steps. There was a small crowd already waiting as they approached, so Livia took the chance to adjust her skirts. She pulled it down, hoping to give a bit more room between the holster and the slit. June did something similar, rolling her shoulders back and adjusting the flowing fabric.
Most were waved through, a brief check on a clipboard followed by a gesture. Livia watched the task force that was posted every few feet, could feel their emotions in the peripheral of her defenses.
She could set them off, she thought. Find one with the itchiest trigger finger and give a little nudge. It’d ruin Fisk’s whole night.
But they were at the front of the line before she realized.
“Yersova.” Livia said. “Alivia.”
“Step this way.” The woman said, gesturing Livia in and to the side rather than straight. “Next.”
“Yersova, June.”
“Step this way.” The same sideways gesture.
“What is this?” Livia asked quickly. She raised her voice just enough to draw a few head turns and end a few conversations.
“Random search.”
Livia rolled her eyes and caught a glance of the clipboard. Her name, as well as June’s, was written in red.
“Random.” Livia nodded once. “It feels like profiling.”
“Ma’am, we have no reason to-“
“Look at the way my dress fits.” Livia gestured to her bodice, the firm corset hugging her ribs. It left an ache in its place, right above that permanent tender spot, but she ignored it. She endured it, fully willing to loosen it later in the evening if need be. “How would I hide a weapon?”
That drew some gossipy whispers.
“It’s our name.” June scoffed. “Yersova, because we’re Russian you assume we’re up to something.”
“No, I-“ The woman tried to defend. “I’m just doing my job!”
“Are you?” Livia challenged. “I’ve been watching. You didn’t stop anyone else.”
“What is the fuss about?” Buck appeared, asking his question with a pointed tone.
“Mr. Cashman, I’m just following instructions.” The woman said desperately, showing him the red printed names.
“Hello, Buck.” Livia smiled innocently. “Come to save the night?”
“Ms. Yersova, you look…” His eyes trailed her up and down, following the boning of her corset to the curve of her hips to the slit of her dress. “You look stunning. Please, excuse my friend here.”
He offered Livia his arm. She accepted, took June’s hand with the other, and walked past the woman at the door.
June used her free hand to mock her with the shape of an ‘L’.
Livia had to chuckle.
“I apologize for that.” Buck spoke as he guided the women to the party. “We had to round up a full detail on relatively short notice.”
“Not everyone is equipped for this line of work, I suppose.” Livia commented absently.
“Yet those are exactly the ones Fisk gives a gun to.” June commented.
“Mayor Fisk will be glad to know you’ve arrived, Miss June.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Manery, Bag. Nam nuzhno soblyudat' prilichiya.” Livia spoke quietly, shooting June a pointed look. (Manners, Bug. We need to keep appearances.)
“I should get back, then.” Buck nodded, patting Livia’s hand before withdrawing his arm. “If you’d be so kind, Ms. Yersova, to save me a dance?”
“You can have the first one if you really want it.” She winked.
Buck grinned and June made a sound of disgust from beside her.
“Okay, ew, we’re going now.” June said loudly before dragging Livia away.
“That was so gross. Never do that in front of me again.”
“He’s harmless.” Livia laughed.
“I highly doubt that.”
“Compared to men I've dated before. Trust me, he is.”
June opened her mouth to argue then gave a nod of concession instead.
The presence of the task force was hard to ignore. Everywhere Livia looked, there were men and women in bulletproof vests with watchful eyes and skittering nerves. It was eerie, to be watched so intently but also aggressively ignored.
“…Mayor Wilson Fisk, and the First Lady of New York, Vanessa Fisk.” Someone announced.
Livia’s head snapped over and the realization hit like a punch to the stomach. She felt like an idiot for not understanding sooner.
Not that Fisk meant it wasn’t Wilson Fisk that fired him.
It was Vanessa. And now, Livia wanted her dead more than ever.
June noticed this shift. Whether Livia’s thoughts were projecting something or Livia’s own ability had given her away, she didn’t know and she didn’t quite care. She was going to find a way, maybe several ways, to make Vanessa Fisk suffer.
“What’s wrong?” June asked quietly.
“Pieces are fitting together.” Livia answered quietly, manicured nails digging into her palms. If she kept going, she’d draw blood.
“What pieces?”
“Who had Foggy killed.” Livia whispered. “What Dex said makes sense now.”
June began to say something but snapped her mouth closed when Vanessa caught sight of them. The woman offered a warm, welcoming smile but there was a devious plot behind her eyes as she locked eyes on June. Livia took half a step forward.
Before Vanessa could get to the women, Heather was in front of Livia. Livia flinched at the sudden appearance but relaxed once she realized who it was. She offered as friendly a smile as she could, though she saw the lingering look Vanessa offered over Heather’s shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
“Have you heard from Matt?” Heather asked, tapping her phone against her palm. “I’ve been calling but no answer.” She sighed.
“Yeah, sorry.” Livia shook her head, offering an apologetic smile that only made Heather give her annoyed, expectant expression. “The three of us went-“
Heather breathed a chuckle, pushing her tongue against her cheek as she nodded. “Of course.” She muttered.
“Excuse you?” June said sharply.
“You know, I really wanted to believe him about you.” Heather looked Livia up and down.
“Alright, I’ll bite. Do I even want to know what that means?”
“Are you still in love with him?”
“What difference would it make? He chose you.”
“You can have any guy you want, Livia, so just... I dont know, back off. At least a little?”
“Back off?” June laughed. “Lady, you’ve got some nerve.”
“Look, Heather, if it's not enough for you to have him come home to you at night.” Livia shrugged. “That’s not my problem.”
“Wow.”
“Don’t 'wow' her. Now’s not the time to start this fight.” June snapped, taking a step forward. Livia didn’t stop her, just moved slightly so everyone was on equal footing.
“And what's your problem with me?” Heather turned to June.
“Thank you for finally noticing! Do you want key points or an essay?”
Heather only offered a scoff in response.
“I suggest you're careful with your next set of words about or towards her.” Livia said easily, glancing around the room for an excuse to leave the conversation.
“This is why she acts like this. You always step in and enable her.” Heather argued.
“Don’t start this fight with me right now either.” Livia met Heather’s eyes. “You won't like how it ends.”
“No. No. Someone needs to be the one to say it to both of you.”
“Do they?” Livia cocked her head. “What needs to happen is you getting out of my business. You think you’re better than us because you have some fancy, expensive degree? So do I. You think your fancy office makes you better than me? I have one, too. You have nothing I don’t.”
“I have someone.” Heather lifted her chin slightly.
“You didn’t seem all that convinced a few minutes ago.”
“Finally found you ladies.” Matt greeted with a quick smile. “Sorry I’m late. Turns out you two aren’t the only ones to wear Chanel No.5 and YSL.” He looked between Heather and Livia in turn to their respective scents.
“We’re used to it.” Livia gestured between her and June.
“Oh, hey Matt.” June’s voice cracked as she looked towards the ceiling, fanning her watery eyes. Livia’s head snapped at the sound, pushing her ability almost instantly.
It came back… smug?
“June, are you crying? What's wrong?” Matt asked, moving to June’s other side. He put one hand on her arm and the other on the side of her face.
“Heather was just-“ June tried to explain.
“Oh, don't even.” Heather cut in. “I didn’t say anything mean.”
“Just because you didn’t think it was mean doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt her feelings.” Livia countered.
“She’s doing this because she knows you and Matt will-“
“Stop.” Livia said firmly. “Don’t act like you know her, alright? You think surviving a serial killer after Daredevil and Exodus show up makes you tough? It doesn’t. You and I can go blow for blow right now to prove it and I guarantee you're on your ass in two minutes.”
“Hey, Liv.” Matt tried, reaching out to tap her arm. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. Nothing about this is okay.”
“Seems a little overestimating, don't you think?” June chimed in with a sniffle. “We all know you can put her down with one shot.”
“Take you with us to Poindexter and you come back a little feisty.” Livia had to chuckle.
“What?” Heather snapped towards Matt. Livia’s brows raised at the tone but she said nothing. “Seriously, him? Matt, what were you thinking?”
“We’re just gonna…” Livia grabbed June’s hand and began pulling her away.
“What? No, I wanna stay and watch.” June argued.
“No, we’ve already gotten him in trouble with the missus.”
June huffed a sigh but didn’t fight Livia’s pull.
Before the two could get far, Buck had appeared in front of them. He offered Livia a nod and a slight smile before focusing on June.
“Mayor Fisk has requested a conversation, Miss June.” He said politely.
June hesitated, looking over Buck’s shoulders towards Fisk. Livia simply looked over at June and waited for a reaction. She could see the thoughts processing behind June’s eyes but she also knew she had to keep her word. She couldn’t push June one way or the other.
“Okay.” June finally said, her voice barely audible over the chatter of the party. She looked over at Livia and took her hand. “Come with me?”
“I’m afraid the mayor has asked for a private conversation.” Buck explained.
“Go on.” Livia nodded. “Dover'tes' svoim instinktam.” (Trust your instincts.)
June blew out a sigh, shook out her hands, then nodded to Buck. The man gestured across the room to where Fisk was watching. Livia offered her own glare, meeting the large man’s eyes for a brief moment. He nodded as if he understood, or maybe it was a means of thanking her for not interfering. Regardless, Livia felt an uneasy knot twist in her stomach and she had the itch to yank the knife from her holster and throw it across the room. She could hit him. She knew she could, but she also knew the task force bullets would hit before her arm came back down.
“I hope this won’t leave you alone for too long.” Buck said, drawing Livia’s focus back to the present moment.
“Believe it or not, I don’t keep a large social circle these days.” Livia answered with a short chuckle. “I have a nasty habit of chasing people away.”
“Who would be dumb enough to let you?”
She couldn’t help the way her eyes trailed over to Matt. “You’d be surprised…”
“I was taught that it’s rude to leave a lady on her own.” Buck offered Livia his arm. “Can I get you a drink?”
“He has manners, he can shoot.” Livia smiled and hooked her arm through his. “You’re ticking all the boxes, aren’t you?”
Buck chuckled with a slow nod. “I am a man of many talents.”
“Just the way Fisk likes them.”
“You should know.”
Livia gave a small noise of agreement and shrugged slightly. She hoped to get a bit more information out of Buck, but even if that failed, at least he was fun.
“You remind me of a guy I used to date.” Livia said before the bartender came over for their orders. Livia ordered her drink as a double and Buck gave no objections. He ordered the same.
“Is that a good thing?” He raised his brows.
Livia shrugged slightly. “It’s not necessarily good or bad. He was interesting. Ran his own company, kept a lot of secrets, tried to kill me.”
“Is that what you think of me, that I’ll try too?”
“Oh, god no.” She grinned. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
She shot him a wink and he laughed as the drinks came back over. He handed Livia hers and she bowed her head slightly in thanks. She watched as his eyes traced the shape of her body once again, lingering for a second longer at her hips and the slit up her thigh.
“Are you looking for something?” Livia asked, a certain silk in her voice she didn’t pull out often.
“You’re quite something to look at as a whole, Ms. Yersova.” He shook his head slightly. “Though I do apologize for staring.”
“Stare away.” She gestured to herself. “At least someone’s appreciating this dress.”
“You look very expensive tonight.”
“I have very expensive tastes.”
“And how did your last boyfriend handle that?”
“There was hardly a problem he couldn’t throw money at.”
He nodded as if he had uncovered some vital piece of information as Livia sipped her drink.
“Can I ask about the tattoos on your back?” Buck gave a small gesture to request she turn around.
She did, sweeping her hair over her shoulder. She felt his finger brush the bottom border of the letters between her shoulders.
“Memento mori seems a bit depressing, don’t you think?” He asked and she turned to face him again.
“It is but it’s also true. We all die, some deserving to and some not so much. Just a way to cope with it, I guess.”
He came a step closer, leaning slightly closer to her. “How much death have you seen?”
“More than we have time to discuss tonight.” Livia patted his chest and took a step away, feeling a new sensation of buzzing anxiety that she could recognize anywhere. She took the glass that was intended as his drink and he simply watched her with a question in his expression. “It seems I’m needed elsewhere, and I’m sure you can relate to needing a drink after a chat with the mayor.”
Buck laughed slightly and straightened his posture, adjusting his suit jacket. “Enjoy your night, Ms. Yersova.”
“Call me Livia.” She smiled. “You still owe me a dance.”
“How could I forget?”
Livia followed the buzzing through the crowd until she came to June. The blonde seemed unharmed, just shaken. Livia offered June the drink and she took it gladly.
“Everything go okay?” Livia asked. “That was quick.”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know. I feel weird now. Is that normal?” June said quickly.
“I am the last person to ask about feeling normal.” Livia chuckled. “You’ll be alright.”
“Where’s Matt?”
“Trying to smooth things out with Heather still.”
“That wouldn’t be happening if you would just tell him the truth.” June offered.
“You know I can’t do that.” Livia shook her head.
“He would pick you in a heartbeat.”
“It’s been too long this time.”
“You’d be surprised what goes on in his head.” June mumbled into her own glass.
“I thought you didn’t like to do that.” Livia quirked a brow.
June shrugged a shoulder as she swallowed. “Not often, but he can be… loud, especially when you’re around.”
Livia glanced back at Matt and she saw the intention building between his shoulders. She tapped June’s arm and gestured towards the man, and June mumbled a complaint in Sokovian. They watched Matt pull Heather towards Fisk. June grabbed Livia’s arm and began to pull her in the same direction.
Matt’s plan came to a screeching halt when the spotlight shone on Fisk and Vanessa appeared at his side. Livia let out a small sigh of relief and June’s grip loosened slightly. She made another comment in Sokovian before downing the rest of the drink. She coughed afterwards and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
“God, that was strong.” June complained and coughed slightly. “What was that?”
Livia lifted her own glass with a wink before finishing hers. “I ordered a double, Buck ordered the same. I took his and-”
“Ew! Buck drank that first?”
“I gave you my glass, dumbass.” Livia set both empty glasses on the tray of a passing waitress.
“What are we going to do about- Oh, great. He’s dancing.” June gestured towards Matt, who was now on the dancefloor with Heather.
Livia could see FIsk’s lips moving, and judging by the way Matt was reacting, he was purposefully taunting the man.
“Does he need a rescue?” June asked Livia.
“Probably…” Livia sighed. “Hope you wore dancing shoes.”
The women made their way to the edge of the dancing crowd, slipping through small gaps to get closer to Matt. Livia pushed her power slightly to try and get a better read on the situation. Matt was tense, as expected. Fisk was calm, confident, and a little proud. Something in his talk with June must’ve gone his way. Vanessa was in love, the fucking bitch. There was someone else teetering at the edge of her boundary, someone familiar but oddly calm. For a moment, she thought of Dex. He was the only one who hadn’t felt different to her since the Blip, but there was no way she could feel him, not with the miles between them.
She tried to shake it, but her attention caught on Buck.
He was muttering to Fisk and a new spike of panic came from Vanessa. Livia was now very interested. Given what she knew about Vanessa, there wasn’t much that could rattle the woman.
She caught Buck by his arm and pulled him closer. He tensed slightly, attention snapping to her, but he seemed to relax a bit once he realized it was her. Over his shoulder, she saw June’s jaw drop.
Livia offered Buck a simple smile as she slipped one hand into his, the other on his shoulder. His free hand sat on her hip, a light pressure against her body.
“Hello, Livia.” He forced a calm smile. It would’ve fooled anyone beside Livia, who could feel the unease stemming from him. “I was just coming to find you.”
“No, you weren’t.” Livia shook her head.
“No.” He chuckled. “I wasn’t. I apologize, it’s just that things have taken an… unexpected turn.”
He stepped back to spin her, her back against his chest. His hands were holding hers across her body but there was a subtle, almost searching pressure from his arms. She turned her head slightly to speak over her shoulder.
“You’re still checking me for weapons, aren’t you?” Livia asked. There was no accusation in the words, no malice. She was careful to only sound curious. “You don’t trust me.”
“It’s my job not to trust anyone.”
“Not even the men you work with?” Livia spun back to face him. “The Task Force.”
“They are useful, of course.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Would you answer if I asked you a similar question?”
“Ask away.”
“Mayor Fisk has mentioned that you are friendly with a few vigilantes… Do you trust them?”
“I trust them more than the mayor.” She said honestly. “I trust that they aren’t going to abuse the power they have and I trust them to put their friends and neighbors first… I don’t trust Fisk to do that.”
“Hmm.” He nodded once. “You and I seem to believe the opposite.”
He was looking around now, hardly focused on the dance at all. It was admittedly impressive that he hadn’t stepped on her foot yet.
“Buck, what’s going on?” Livia asked gently. “I saw you with Fisk. I can tell something’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing.” He shook his head. “But I do unfortunately have to get back to work… We can continue this conversation when things are settled, perhaps over a nice dinner to make up for everything.”
“Don’t do that.” She snapped. “If something is happening, something that could jeopardize the people out there I care about, I should know.”
Her eyes darted between his and the guilt of a secret seemed to cloud his stare for a moment. She pushed her ability a bit, past the emotions. She could just reach the anticipation he was feeling. Someone was coming, or expected to come, but she needed more. She needed to know who.
“Alivia.” Buck spoke and it spooked her. She withdrew her ability almost completely and focused on his words. “I understand your concern for your friends but believe me. This isn’t yours to concern yourself with.”
She stared at him in silence again. She knew she could get him to tell her. She could get any man to do anything. Instead, Livia thought of the only real connection left between herself and the Fisks. To that painstakingly familiar set of emotions just in her peripherals.
“It’s Dex, isn’t it?” She breathed.
Buck sighed inwardly but said nothing.
“He got out?” She made her voice shake.
“Killed a prison guard, used his badge to escape.” Buck confirmed. Livia’s grip on his sleeve tightened and his other hand tried to pry her fingers off. “Trust me. We have it covered. You and Miss June have nothing to worry about.”
“You don’t understand.” Livia almost laughed. “If Poindexter is coming here to kill someone, it’s almost certain he will… You need me.”
“Everything is under control, but I have to get back out there.”
“You can’t stop him.” She said simply. Livia thought of the last celebration Dex crashed, the absolute mayhem on the way up to the Presidential suite after Fisk’s wedding. “If he comes here, he’ll be on a mission. He’ll kill whoever steps in front of him.”
“All the more reason to keep you away then.”
“I might be the only one he’ll listen to!”
“The mayor wouldn’t-“
“Fuck the mayor!” She released her grip on his sleeve and stepped away. “When Dex gets here, don’t come asking me for help.”
She maneuvered past him and returned to her place beside June. He walked past them both, shot her a look over his shoulder, and returned to his post. Livia made a face mocking him once his back was turned.
“What was that about?” June asked, bumping Livia with her hip.
“This night is going to go very wrong very fast.” Livia explained calmly. “We need to be ready for anything.”
“What kind of ready?”
“The kind that’s gonna send these dresses to the dry-cleaners.”
“Right.” June nodded once and looked down at her hands. Livia followed June’s line of sight but said nothing. She watched June trace the length of one of her fingers before gently pulling the fabric off. June pulled the other, took a deep breath, then tucked the gloves into her small purse. She looked back to Livia with a fiery determination in her eyes. “Ready for anything. Incoming.” June nodded to something behind Livia.
Livia turned and collided with Matt. He reached to help her steady herself, chuckled an apology, and then guided her to the dancefloor.
“What are we doing?” Livia asked as Matt’s hand found her lower back, pressing her slightly closer.
“It was her.” He explained. “He was away, she was in charge. She did it.”
“Vanessa.” Livia nodded. “That must’ve been what Dex meant when he said ‘not that Fisk’.”
“You already knew, didn’t you?” His brows furrowed.
“It clicked earlier, when they made their entrance.”
“Why didn’t you come talk to me?”
“Because you need to be a good boyfriend.” She sighed. “Heather already thinks I’m still in love with you and wants me to back off so if I tried to sweep you away for this conversation, it only would’ve made things worse.”
“Are you?”
“Seriously?” She deadpanned. “That’s what you took from that sentence?”
He laughed slightly and Livia couldn’t help but crack a smile.
“June is going to have a field day with this.” Livia shook her head.
“Did she end up talking to him?”
“Yeah, said it made her feel weird.”
“Weird how?”
Livia shrugged slightly. “I didn’t ask. Figured we could all talk about it tomorrow.”
He nodded slowly. “You know that I… I don’t want you to back off. Right? It doesn’t matter who I’m dating. Livvy, you’re part of my life, regardless of anything or anyone else. You do know that, right?”
“Of course.” She did her best to offer an honest smile. “Besides, June will go to hell and back to make sure we don’t fall apart again so…”
He flashed her a grin. “She gets that from you.”
“I highly doubt that.” Livia glanced and saw Heather and June talking awkwardly. Livia lifted a hand and gestured Heather back over. “I’ll hand you back to the missus but what do we do about Vanessa?”
“We find a way to prove it.”
“Can we?”
“Only one way to find out.” He gave a small shrug as Livia stepped away. She let Heather take her place and slipped through the crowd, meeting June halfway.
“Oh my god!” She squealed, taking Livia’s hands and squeezing. Livia just laughed and shook her head. “You two were so perfect! It’s like you two were made to dance together.”
“Don’t make this a big deal.” Livia said softly, trying to get the blonde back down to Earth. “He just wanted to talk and needed to do it away from Heather.”
“What about?”
“Remember when we got here, and I said pieces were coming together?”
June nodded.
“Well, he just agreed. We know who had Foggy killed.”
“What? Who?”
“Vanessa.”
As soon as the name left Livia’s mouth, she heard the gunshot. She heard June scream. Livia quickly scanned the crowd, looking for something to give away the shooter. Her eyes met Buck’s briefly before he focused higher. Livia looked up, past the lights, and saw the outline of a figure. He had a rifle and it felt like he was looking at her now. She reached under her skirt and pulled her knife while the crowd parted around her in their panic to leave.
Heather’s scream cut through her focus. Not because of her voice, but because of what she said.
She said Matt.
Livia turned and saw Heather kneeling on the ground, hands shaking and panic streaming off her. She turned to June, who was now staring in frozen shock with watering eyes.
“Let’s go.” Livia said, but June didn’t move. She groaned and stood in front of her, giving the woman’s shoulders a slight shake. “Listen to me. You can either be his daughter or you can be my soldier right now. Only one of those is going to be useful, so which is it?”
No answer. Her lips were moving, her hands moving in and out of fists, but nothing.
“June!” Livia said loudly, causing June to flinch. “Soldier. Daughter. Which is it?”
okay normally when you post the current chapters i dont do a reblog review but i simply couldn't help myself this time 😻
the bug nickname will always make me feel warm and soft ugh i love our girls
matt vouching for June to after immediately say she shouldnt be here 😭 i literally laughed out loud when i read it
OKAY the audacity of matt.... saying June should go with them to then turn it on liv and say she should look out for her dpmo
YEAH CLOCK HIS SHIT LIV I WAS THINKING THE SAME THING
dex and livia flirting right in front of matt. hell yeah.
dex has always seen liv in a way that matt never will be able to. and the same is true if you flip it tbh
dex and junes dynamic is so interesting and when you involve liv in it it gets even more interesting. i would deep dive but lowk too lazy 💔
im, softly said, obsessed with how you write June! you just absolutely nail her every single time! her witt, her insecurities, everything about her you just get perfect!!!
i love junes one sided beef with heather shes just so real for that
wanna know BAD what june and fisk yapped about...
MY SHAYLASSSS. her(june) father just got shot. her(liv) husband just got shot. im NOT okay.
ugh what a cliffhanger... i guessss it gives me time to catch up with wcs 😔 (I WILL PICK IT UP IN A MOMENT TRUST)
I CAN EXPLAIN!! i think its bc a lot of buck is still unclear! like obvi its fun to see liv flirting but im just still on the fence with buc, he is growing on me but im still unsure
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