nyxteeth

[nyxteeth]

deal // 0.9k june & luce

cw: mild gore

The walls of the mine press in around them, the stale, coppery scent of blood mingling with the damp earth. June stumbles, her breath hissing between her teeth as Luce catches her under the arm.

“June, honey, lean on me,” Luce says, her voice soft but urgent. She adjusts June’s weight, her small frame carrying more than seemed possible. A maternal surge of strength, turning feather to stone.

June’s leg is a mess; the makeshift bandage wrapped around her thigh is already soaked through, blood trickling down to her boot in a sticky stream.

“I’m fine,” June mutters, her voice sharp but unsteady. “Seriously, I’ve had worse.”

“Sure you have,” Luce says with a small, exasperated huff. “And I’m a billionaire. Just let me help you.”

The distant echo of claws scraping against stone and gurgling otherworldly growls sends adrenaline surging through them both. June’s face tightens as she tries to pull away, leaning heavily against the damp wall of the tunnel.

“Luce, stop,” June says, her voice rising slightly. “You have to go. I’m slowing you down.”

Luce freezes, her wide eyes catching the dim light of their dying torch. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” June says, gritting her teeth. “They’re gonna catch up if you don’t leave now. It’s me or both of us.”

“No,” Luce says, her voice breaking slightly. “No, June, don’t even start with that.”

June gives a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Come on, Luce. Don’t act like you don’t know I’m right. I can’t run. I can’t… I can barely stand. You’ve got a chance. You’re faster than me, smarter than me… you could actually make it.”

“June, stop,” Luce says, stepping closer. Her voice trembles, but she’s firm. “I’m not leaving you. You don’t get to decide that for me. You’re my best friend. My Junebug.”

June’s breath hitches at the nickname, and she clenches her fists, pressing them against her sides. “I’m trying to save you, Luce. Don’t be dumb about this.”

“Don’t you dare call me dumb,” Luce snaps, tears brimming in her eyes. “If you think for one second I’m walking out of here without you, you don’t know me at all.”

“Luce…” June’s voice cracks, and she slumps back against the wall. “You don’t understand. I… I don’t want to—” Her words falter, and her breath comes out in shallow gasps.

Luce’s hands find June’s face, her fingers gently brushing the dirt away. “Hey, look at me,” she says, her tone soft but commanding. “We’re getting out of here together. You hear me? Together. That was the deal, remember?”

June’s eyes widen slightly at the word “deal,” and for a brief moment, the present flickers and gives way to a memory.

*

*

It was five years ago. The world felt too big, too sharp, too hostile. They were sitting on the roof of June’s garage, the night sky sprawling above them. June had her knees pulled to her chest, the eyeliner she always wore slightly smudged, a half-smoked rebellion cigarette stubbed out to her left. On her right, Luce was lying on her back, her arms spread wide as if she could hug the stars, eyes half-lidded with introspection.

“Watcha thinkin’ about?” Luce asks, suddenly.

She always had a knack for that— knowing, sensing. June never particularly liked being seen, but she didn’t mind being vulnerable with Luce, didn’t mind the way she unravelled the tight-knit seams around her chest by a loose thread only she could find.

There’s a short pause before June realises she doesn’t want to keep it to herself.

“I’m scared,” she admits, her voice small, breaking the thick silence. “What if… what if I die alone? Like, what if it just happens and no one’s there?”

Luce sits up, her big, expressive eyes locking onto June’s. “You won’t. Because I’ll be there. And if we die, we die together. How about that?”

June blinks at her. “That’s so freaking morbid.”

“No, silly— it’s romantic,” Luce counters, grinning. “Like, super dramatic. Poetic. We’ll make a pact, okay? No one dies alone. Not us. Ever.”

June stares at her. Luce stares back— all sparkling, determined eyes and pinched pout. This wasn’t a joke to her.

June rolls her eyes but can’t stop a smile from tugging at her lips. “You’re so weird.”

Luce holds out her pinkie. “Swear on it. C’mon.”

June hesitates, then links her pinkie with Luce’s. “Fine. But if we get eaten by bears or something, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” Luce says, her grin widening.

*

*

The memory dissolves, and June’s vision clears to find Luce’s face inches from hers, her tear-streaked expression fierce and unwavering.

“Together,” Luce repeats, her voice low but firm. “That was the deal, Junebug.”

“You’re insane,” June whispers, tears spilling over now. “You’re… you’re gonna get yourself killed, I can’t— I can’t run.”

“Then if we can’t run we hide,” she says, sharply.

Her sharp words slice through June’s heroism.

“I’m not leaving you, Junebug. Just trust me, okay?”

The sound of claws on stone is deafening now. Luce stands, pulling June’s arm over her shoulders, her other arm circling June’s waist.

“Luce…” June’s protest is faint, her strength draining fast.

“Shut up,” Luce says, her voice steady even as her tears fall. “We’ve got this. Together, remember?”

June nods weakly, leaning into Luce as they start forward. The torch embers flicker one last time before plunging them into darkness, but Luce’s grip on June never falters. And in the silence between their laboured breaths, they press on, together.

[nyxteeth]

crash // 2.8k lydia x elliot alderson

cw: ptsd, dialogue-heavy, codependency (probably), not beta read this is just for my discord besties <3

Lydia sits perched on the windowsill of her fire escape, her gaze vacant, unfocused, as though looking straight through the grime-streaked city below. The hum of traffic and the occasional wail of police sirens drift upward, blending into the muffled sounds of a restless night. She doesn’t seem to hear any of it.

Her ears are ringing again.

The cigarette in her hand burns low, forgotten, the ash clinging stubbornly to the tip. When she brings it to her lips, her fingers tremble, just enough for the movement to seem unsteady. The smoke curls in ribbons around her as she exhales shakily.

Her knee bounces against the iron railing in an uneven rhythm, a release valve for the anxious energy that’s been clawing at her chest all day.

Beside her on the sill, Elliot hunches against the brick wall, his hood drawn tight over his head, hands buried deep in his pockets. He’s not close enough to touch her, not quite— Elliot never really gets that close —but there’s a quiet kind of comfort in his presence. He doesn’t say much, but she feels him there in the way his head tilts slightly toward her, in the faint scrape of his sneaker against the railing when he shifts.

“Hey.” He says, short.

She blinks, startled as though surfacing from underwater. “Huh?”

“Lost you for a minute.”

She hesitates, taking another pull of the cigarette. Smoke trails upward in a ghostly ribbon, caught briefly in the orange hue of the streetlights before dissolving into the cold night air. Her knee keeps bouncing. She doesn’t notice it until his eyes flick downward, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

“Sorry,” she mutters, the word half-swallowed by the exhale of smoke. She forces herself to control the jitter of her knee under his gaze.

“I just—” Her voice falters. She takes a moment, the filter burning hot between her fingers. “Long day, I guess.”

His gaze is uncomfortably perceptive.

“You having nightmares again?” He asks, quietly, clinically. But there’s something soft beneath. Concern, maybe.

She stiffens, the words striking closer than she’d like. For a second, she considers brushing it off, throwing up some casual deflection, but there’s something about Elliot— his quiet insistence, the way he doesn’t press but somehow still gets answers.

Her leg resumes its anxious pattern as she stares at the cigarette in her hand, the ash building precariously at the tip. Flickers of her nightmares— her past —come to her unbidden, as they always do when she thinks too long about it: the suffocating dark of the crawlspace beneath the floorboards, the smell of cloying wood decay and something metallic, the slow, deliberate drip of blood seeping through the floorboards above her.

“Yeah,” she says, and it pitches weak.

Elliot doesn’t press her. He waits, letting her find the words on her own, though his gaze lingers on her, steady and observant. Breath held like he was leaving space for her.

“The night of the attack,” she continues, tone flat but wavering beneath the surface. “I was… I was under the floorboards. My mom—“ Her voice cracks. She stops short, squeezing her eyes shut.

Elliot shifts slightly, just enough that the fabric of his hoodie rustles. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

“My mom hid me,” Lydia forces out. “Pushed me under the floorboards like she used to make me practice. Never understood why, I used to think it was some game.”

She laughs, but it’s devoid of humour.

“But this time she just— she kissed my head, and shoved me in.”

Her free hand drifts upward, rubbing at her face absentmindedly, as though trying to wipe something irritating away. Her breath catches.

“I couldn’t see anything,” she whispers, her voice trembling now. “It was so dark. But I could hear them. The men. My dad was shouting— trying to fight, I think. And then I heard… I heard the sounds. The hits. The screaming. Gunshots.”

Her fingers press harder against her cheek, trembling now. “And then… then it got quiet. Except for this…” Her breath catches, and she rubs her face again, harder this time. “I felt it. It was dripping through the floorboards. Her blood. It was on me.”

The cigarette trembles between her fingers, the ash threatening to fall as she stares at it, unseeing. Her voice is barely audible when she speaks again.

“I stayed there for two days. I didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Even after they were gone, I couldn’t… I just stayed there.” She lets out a bitter laugh, shaky and broken. “Some survivor, huh? All I did was hide while they died.”

“You were just a kid,” Elliot says, voice steady. Soft and pointed.

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and raw. Lydia stares at him, her lips pressed into a hard line, but her eyes shine with unshed tears.

For a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the city below. Then a car backfires in the distance, loud and sudden. She flinches violently, the cigarette slipping from her fingers.

Elliot moves without hesitation, his hand darting out to catch it before it hits the skin of her thigh. He places the cigarette back in her hand carefully, his touch brushing hers for a brief moment. Then he leans back against the wall, his hood shadowing most of his face.

For a while, neither of them says anything. The city below them churns and buzzes. A couple argues in the distance, their voices faint and muffled by the night. Somewhere farther down the block, a bottle shatters, punctuated by laughter. It’s chaos, but to Lydia, it feels almost like white noise—static to drown out her thoughts.

“You ever talk to anyone about it?” he asks after a long pause.

She shrugs indifferently.

“Until you? No.”

His jaw tightens.

She huffs. “Not like it changes anything.”

He hums, leg swinging over the sill as he leans back in. He hesitates.

“You coming inside?”

She takes a deep breath. Eyes closed for a moment longer than a blink.

“In a minute.”

.

.

.

Elliot pulls his hood tighter around his face, leaning back into the creaking chair by his desk. He watches Lydia climb back through the window, her movements quiet but taut with unspoken tension. Her sock-covered feet land softly on the floor, and for a moment, she just stands there, arms crossed over her chest, scanning the cluttered room like she hasn’t been here a dozen times before.

She always did this— checked her surroundings, her exit points. A habit. A survival instinct. Elliot doesn’t comment, but he notices.

“You still keep it freezing in here,” she mutters, half under her breath. She moves to the bed and sits heavily on the edge, running a hand through her hair.

“You didn’t have to come,” he replies, his tone flat, but not unkind.

She lets out a dry laugh, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Yeah, well, I guess I didn’t feel like being alone tonight.” She pauses, then adds, “you’re kind of a last resort, though.”

It’s a weak joke, but Elliot’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly. Almost.

Lydia leans forward, her elbows on her knees, staring at the worn floorboards as if they might offer her some kind of answer. “I used to think hacking would fix it,” she says suddenly. “The pain. The anger. Like, if I could just… dismantle the people responsible, it’d stop feeling like this.”

Elliot stays silent, his eyes on her. He doesn’t need to say it— he understands. Better than most.

“It worked for a while,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “When I first started, it was like… I don’t know. Power, I guess. Like I was finally doing something. Striking back. But then, the more I got into it, the more I realised it didn’t change anything. They’re still gone. I’m still…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Whatever.”

Elliot shifts in his chair, his fingers twitching against his knee. “You think it’s pointless?”

She looks up at him, her gaze sharper than before. “I don’t know. Maybe. But then, what else is there? Therapy?” She snorts, the sound bitter and raw. “Tried that. Didn’t exactly stick.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Me neither,” he admits quietly.

She studies him for a long moment, her head tilting slightly. “So, what then? You just… live with it? The nightmares, the weight of it all?”

His jaw tightens. “Sometimes it’s not about fixing it,” he says. “Sometimes it’s just about… keeping the world from getting worse.”

The words land heavier than she expects, and for a moment, the weight of them settles in the space between them. She leans back, letting out a slow breath.

“That’s why we do this, right?” she says, her voice quieter now. “The E Corp thing. All of it. Because if we can take them down, maybe… maybe it won’t fix us, but it’ll stop someone else from going through the same thing.”

Elliot doesn’t answer right away. He looks at her, really looks at her, and there’s something in his expression she can’t quite read. “You really believe that?” he asks finally.

She shrugs, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I don’t know. I have to, though. Otherwise… what’s the point?”

He nods, just once, and something shifts in the air between them. A kind of understanding. They’re both broken, both carrying the weight of their own shattered lives, but maybe, just maybe, there’s something in this shared purpose that keeps them moving forward.

Lydia shifts her weight on the bed, the floor creaking faintly beneath her feet. She draws her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees as though trying to make herself smaller, trying to contain whatever storm is raging inside. Her gaze flickers toward Elliot, who’s still perched on the edge of his chair, his hood low, his face partially shadowed.

“You can crash here,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, but there’s something in it— an uncharacteristic warmth.

She looks at him, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but the words never come. Instead, she nods, her shoulders sagging in a way that speaks more of exhaustion than relief.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No… no, that’s alright. I got it.”

Elliot stands, moving toward the bed. He pulls an old blanket from the foot of it, shaking it out before draping it over her. She flinches slightly at the gesture, not out of fear but surprise. He lingers for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the blanket, before stepping back to his desk.

Heat creeps up her neck.

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t try to reassure her or push her to talk more. He just sits back down, his attention turning to the soft glow of his monitor. The faint clicking of keys fills the room, a rhythmic, almost soothing sound that seems to ground her.

Lydia lies back on the bed, her head sinking into the pillow. Her fingers clutch the edge of the blanket, and she closes her eyes, though the darkness behind her eyelids still feels heavy. Still, she’s not alone this time.

—

The subway car rocks gently as it speeds along the tracks, the overhead lights flickering every so often. Lydia leans against the window, her fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of her sleeve. Beside her, Elliot sits with his hood pulled low, his gaze fixed on the worn floor. Neither has spoken much since boarding, but the silence between them feels less awkward and more like a shared understanding.

“Ever seen Jaws?” Lydia asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the hum of the train. She doesn’t look at him as she speaks, her eyes still fixed on the blur of darkness outside.

His brow furrows slightly. “The shark movie?”

“Yeah.” She shifts in her seat, pulling one leg up to rest against the edge of the bench.

Elliot glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “A long time ago,” he says, wryly.

“I’ve been thinking about it lately. You know that scene where they’re in the boat, comparing scars?”

He stares at her, clearly unsure where this is going. “What about it?”

“Well, it’s kind of hilarious, right?” She turns to him now, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Like, these three guys are out there trying not to get eaten, and they’re just… showing off their trauma like it’s some kind of competition.”

Elliot’s brow lifts slightly. “And you’re saying that’s… funny?”

She huffs a quiet laugh, her fingers still tugging at her sleeve. “Okay, not funny funny. More like… I don’t know. Relatable. Like, it’s so human, you know? You’re stuck on this sinking boat, death is literally circling you, and instead of dealing with it, you’re like, ‘Hey, look at this cool scar I got in a bar fight.’”

Elliot doesn’t respond right away, his gaze dropping back to the floor. The train jerks slightly, and he adjusts his hood. “Guess it’s easier than talking about the shark,” he says quietly.

Lydia’s smirk falters, her expression softening. “Exactly,” she says after a moment. “You talk about the scars because talking about the shark makes it real. Like, if you acknowledge it, then it’s not just out there anymore. It’s… in here.” She taps her temple lightly, her voice trailing off.

Elliot shifts, leaning back slightly against the seat. “You think that’s what we’re doing?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral. “Comparing scars instead of talking about the shark?”

She tilts her head, considering this. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just… easier to deal with the scars when someone else is there to see them.”

He stares at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the train’s hum is the only sound between them.

“You think they made it?” she asks suddenly, her tone lighter now, almost playful.

“Who?”

“The guys in Jaws. After everything. You think they stayed friends or whatever?”

Elliot lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Don’t two of them die?”

“Okay, but hypothetically.” She nudges his shoulder lightly, trying to draw him out. “Say they all make it. Do you think they stay in touch, or do they just… drift apart?”

He hesitates, his gaze flicking back to the floor. “I think people like that don’t stay in touch,” he says finally, his voice low. “They survive together, but that’s it. Once it’s over, they go back to pretending the shark never existed.”

Lydia watches him closely, her smirk fading. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “That sounds about right.”

The train begins to slow as it approaches their stop, the automated voice crackling overhead. Lydia leans back against her seat, exhaling softly.

“Guess that’s why they’re better than us,” she says, her tone light but her eyes serious.

Elliot glances at her again, his brow furrowing. “How?”

“They killed the shark.” She flashes him a quick, crooked smile before standing as the train comes to a stop. “We’re still stuck on the boat.”

Elliot stays seated for a beat longer, something in her words that lingers, something he can’t quite shake, his hood casting shadows over his face as he watches her. Lydia doesn’t just walk to the door— she drifts, her steps light and unhurried, as if the ground beneath her feet barely exists. There’s a sway to her movement, something almost otherworldly, like a figure stepping through a haze of memory rather than the stark fluorescent-lit reality of the train carriage. Pixie-like when she spins around the carriage pole.

Her head tilts slightly as she looks back at him, a faint, knowing smile flickering on her lips. It’s not smug, not even teasing, but something softer, gentler— a ghost of shared understanding. In the starkness of the moment, she seems untouchable, like she exists a little outside of the world, a little out of time.

“Coming?” she asks, her voice cutting through the low hum of the train as it settles into the station.

The sound of her words pulls him back to himself. He straightens and rises slowly, his hands still shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. He keeps his gaze fixed on her as he follows, like he’s trying to hold onto the tether of her presence, something to keep him from sinking too deep into the murk of his own thoughts.

As they ascend the stairs, the cold morning air hitting their faces, Lydia speaks again, her voice softer now. “You know… I think comparing scars isn’t so bad,” she says. “Better than pretending they’re not there.”

Elliot doesn’t reply, but as they reach the street, she feels the faintest brush of his shoulder against hers. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, closing the small distance between them until they step through the station doors side by side.

But it’s enough. For now, it’s enough.