Dark Currents (Intoxicating Fear Fanfic)

Dark Currents (Intoxicating Fear Fanfic)

III: Between the Lines

@chaotic-orphan

TW: stalking, drugging, implied noncon, intimate whumper, intimidating whumper, disoriented whumpee.

Kit stared up at the cracked ceiling, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Ambrose’s presence was a weight that pinned him to the bed, but it wasn’t just physical. There was something else, something darker that twisted between them, something that made Kit’s skin crawl and his pulse race.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched thin, taut like a wire pulled to its breaking point. Outside, the city was waking up, the distant sounds of traffic and early morning bustle filtering through the window. But inside the apartment, time felt frozen, suspended in the crackling tension between them.

Ambrose’s grip on Kit’s wrists loosened, but he didn’t move away. He stayed there, hovering over Kit, his eyes still locked on his with a fierce, burning intensity. Kit’s mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of the night before. The bar, the drink, the way Ambrose had watched him from across the room like a hawk circling its prey. And then… the blackouts. The missing hours.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" Kit finally managed to choke out, his voice hoarse.

Ambrose’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "I didn’t do anything you didn’t want, Kit."

Kit’s stomach twisted at the implication, but there was no time to dwell on it. The fog in his mind was beginning to lift, and with it came a flood of memories—disjointed flashes of the previous night. The dimly lit bar, the feeling of eyes on him, the cold touch of Ambrose’s hand on his arm as he’d leaned in, too close, whispering something that Kit couldn’t quite remember.

Kit’s jaw clenched. He pulled against Ambrose’s grip, and this time, Ambrose let go, sitting back slightly, though his knees still bracketed Kit’s hips, keeping him in place.

"I want answers," Kit demanded, his voice stronger now. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

Ambrose’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. "I already told you. This is about survival. Do you think all of this is some kind of game?"

Kit shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Survival? What are you even talking about? You show up out of nowhere, drug me, drag me back here, and now you're talking about survival like I'm supposed to understand what the fuck is going on?"

Ambrose’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing over his face before he looked away, his jaw tight. For the first time, Kit saw a crack in the armour—a flicker of something deeper, something vulnerable. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same cold, unrelenting intensity.

"You don’t know what’s coming," Ambrose said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "But you will."

Kit’s frustration turned to anger. He pushed himself up, forcing Ambrose to shift back slightly to avoid being knocked off balance. The movement was sudden, a surge of adrenaline cutting through the lingering fog in Kit’s veins.

"Enough with the cryptic bullshit, Ambrose!" Kit snapped, his voice rising. "I’m done playing whatever game this is. You want to talk about survival? Fine. Start explaining. Now."

For a long moment, Ambrose didn’t respond. His eyes flicked to the window, then back to Kit, as if weighing his next words carefully. The silence stretched on, the tension between them thick and suffocating.

Finally, Ambrose exhaled a slow, measured breath. "There are forces at work you don’t understand. Dark forces. And you… you’re in the middle of it, whether you like it or not."

Kit blinked, his anger momentarily faltering. "Dark forces?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Ambrose’s expression hardened. "Deadly serious."

Kit shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "This is insane. You expect me to believe—"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," Ambrose interrupted, his voice sharp. "But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s true. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The strange things happening around you? The sense that something’s been watching you, following you?"

Kit opened his mouth to argue, to deny it—but the words died in his throat. Because the truth was… he had felt it. For weeks now, there had been an odd sense of unease gnawing at him, a feeling that something was just out of sight, lurking in the shadows. The lights in his apartment flickering for no reason, the strange cold spots that made his breath fog in the middle of summer, the nightmares that left him drenched in sweat, heart racing.

And then there was the strange encounter in the alleyway a few nights ago—the way the shadows had seemed to move, to shift and twist as if they had a life of their own. He’d written it off as a trick of the light, a figment of his imagination. But now…?

Kit swallowed hard. "What… what are you saying?"

Ambrose’s eyes bore into his, the weight of his words heavy with truth. "I’m saying that the world isn’t what you think it is. There are things out there—things that want you, things that will stop at nothing to get to you. And if you don’t start taking this seriously, you’re going to end up dead. Or worse."

Kit’s breath hitched in his throat. Dead? Or worse? The room felt suddenly too small, the walls closing in around him. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands—everything kept slipping through his fingers.

"I don’t understand," Kit whispered, his voice barely audible. "Why me? What do they want from me?"

Ambrose’s expression softened, just for a moment. "It’s not just you. It’s us. We’re connected, Kit. More than you realise. That’s why I’ve been watching you. That’s why I’ve been trying to protect you."

Kit’s heart skipped a beat. "Protect me? You drugged me and dragged me back here against my will!"

Ambrose’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I didn’t have a choice. They were closing in on you. If I hadn’t intervened…"

He trailed off, but the unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

Kit felt a chill crawl down his spine. "Who are they?"

Ambrose hesitated, then shook his head. "It’s better if you don’t know. Not yet."

Kit’s frustration flared again. "I deserve to know what’s happening to me!"

Ambrose’s eyes flashed with anger, but it wasn’t directed at Kit—it was something deeper, something simmering just beneath the surface. "You’ll know soon enough," he said, his voice tight. "But first… you need to trust me."

Kit let out a bitter laugh. "Trust you? After everything you’ve done?"

Ambrose’s gaze softened again, and for the first time, Kit saw something like regret in his eyes. "I know I’ve made mistakes. But I’m trying to keep you alive. You don’t have to like me. You don’t even have to forgive me. But if you want to survive this, you’re going to need me."

Kit stared at him, his mind racing, torn between disbelief and the growing sense that maybe—just maybe—Ambrose was telling the truth. The strange occurrences, the feeling of being watched, the sense that something was closing in on him… it all lined up, even if Kit didn’t want to admit it.

But trusting Ambrose? That felt like a step too far.

"I don’t know if I can trust you," Kit said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "But I’m not going to let you call the shots anymore. If we’re going to do this, we do it on my terms."

Ambrose studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Fair enough."

Kit exhaled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. "So… what happens now?"

Ambrose shuffled off the bed, finally giving Kit space to breathe. He crossed the room to the window, looking out at the city below. "Now," he said, his voice low, "we get ready. Because they’ll be coming for you soon."

Kit’s stomach twisted with unease. "Who?"

Ambrose turned, his eyes dark and serious. "The shadows."

Dark Currents (Intoxicating Fear Fanfic)

IV: Run Soon

@chaotic-orphan

Kit’s mind was a whirlwind of confusion, dread knotting in his stomach. Ambrose’s cryptic words echoed in his skull—shadows. What kind of shadows could possibly hurt someone? His pulse hammered, each beat a countdown that screamed at him to move. To escape.

Ambrose wasn’t a man who could sit still for long, and Kit knew that. He wasn’t the type to wait patiently by the window forever. Sure enough, Ambrose moved, his presence filling every inch of Kit’s small apartment. He paced across the worn floorboards with slow, deliberate steps, his eyes flicking over the cluttered bookshelves, the chipped counter, the blank ceiling. There was an energy about him—sharp, restless, like a blade barely restrained.

Kit’s apartment was a mess of familiarity, but now it felt foreign. The air was thick, heavy with the remnants of Ambrose’s words, and his perfume. The walls seemed to close in around Kit. The once comforting clutter—the stack of books by the couch, the faded photograph of Kit and the other heroes pinned on the fridge—felt like they were part of someone else’s life. His heart raced, every breath shallow, as if the apartment itself was pressing in on him, waiting for something to happen.

Ambrose paused by the kitchen, his fingers brushing over the surface of the counter. He picked up a chipped coffee cup from the sink, turning it idly in his hands. "You’re afraid," Ambrose said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence like a whip. His gaze flicked to Kit, sharp and knowing. "I can feel it."

Kit’s throat tightened, his pulse spiking. "Who wouldn’t be afraid?" he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You show up spouting crap about shadows and—"

"They’re not just shadows, Kit." Ambrose’s voice was low. He set the cup down, the soft clink of porcelain against the counter making Kit flinch. "They’re something else, I don’t know what, but they’re bad and they’re coming."

Kit stood abruptly, his legs shaky beneath him, the bed creaking loudly as he shifted his weight. He couldn’t stay here, not with Ambrose prowling around his apartment like a predator waiting to strike. He needed air. He needed to think.

Ambrose’s eyes followed him, tracking every movement, but Kit ignored the burning sensation of being watched. He moved toward the kitchen, gripping the edge of the counter as if it could ground him. His gaze shot to the door—his door. The escape route. If he could just make it out…

"You can’t outrun them, Kit." Ambrose’s voice followed him, soft and warning.

Kit’s pulse quickened. His eyes darted to the door again. Ambrose was still in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink from the bottle of whiskey Kit kept for rare occasions. The liquid sloshed into the glass, the sound somehow louder than it should have been in the quiet apartment. Ambrose was distracted, at least for the moment.

Now.

Kit moved silently, slipping toward the door. He’d lived here for years—he knew which floorboards creaked and which didn’t. His fingers curled around the doorknob, turning it slowly, carefully. The soft click of the latch felt like a gunshot in the tense silence. He froze, waiting, expecting Ambrose to react—to grab him, to stop him. But nothing.

His breath caught in his throat as he eased the door open, slipping into the hallway. The door closed behind him with a quiet snick, and Kit exhaled shakily, his heart hammering against his ribs. The dim light overhead flickered, casting long, distorted shadows on the cracked walls. The air out here was cooler, but it did nothing to ease the panic clawing at Kit’s chest.

He moved swiftly but cautiously, his footsteps nearly silent against the worn floor. The stairwell loomed ahead, spiralling down into darkness. Kit’s breath hitched. The shadows down there seemed different—thicker, like they were waiting for him. Watching.

Kit shook his head, trying to push the thought away. Focus. Just get out.

He gripped the cool metal railing, his skin prickling with unease as he descended the first step. The shadows at the bottom of the stairs seemed to shift—just a flicker, a ripple in the dark. Kit froze, his breath catching in his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, a cold sweat breaking out along his spine.

At the bottom of the stairs, something moved.

It was subtle, barely more than a shift in the darkness, but it was there. A shape. Tall. Broad. Wrong. The shadows around it seemed to writhe, curling and twisting like smoke in water, unnatural and grotesque. Kit’s blood ran cold. His legs locked in place, every instinct in his body screaming at him to run, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen, paralysed by the sheer wrongness of what stood below.

The figure didn’t move, but Kit could feel it watching him. Its gaze was like ice, a cold, unblinking force that bored into his very soul. The shadows rippled again, and a tendril of darkness reached for him, curling like a finger beckoning him closer.

Kit’s breath came in short, panicked bursts, his heart pounding in his ears. Run. His mind screamed at him, but his legs refused to obey. He was rooted to the spot, the cold tendrils of fear creeping up his spine, suffocating him.

Then, a hand gripped his arm, yanking him back with such force that he nearly lost his footing.

"What the fuck, Kit."

Ambrose’s breath hitched, a small indicator that only confirmed his fears, vibrating through Kit's bones. Ambrose's grip was bruising, his fingers digging into Kit’s arm as he dragged him back up the stairs. Kit stumbled, his mind reeling from what he’d just seen—what he’d almost walked into. The thing. The shadows. They were real. They were here.

Ambrose didn’t say another word as he shoved Kit back into the apartment, slamming the door behind them with a force that rattled the frame. Kit collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His skin was clammy, his entire body trembling uncontrollably.

"You really thought you could just walk out of here?" Ambrose’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and bitter. He stood by the door, his eyes burning with anger—and something else. Fear, Kit realised, by the way his jaw tightened. "You think you can outrun them?"

Kit’s mind was a mess, his thoughts fragmented, disjointed. "I-I didn’t know," he stammered, his voice hoarse. "I didn’t—"

"You didn’t listen." Ambrose’s voice was cold, his words slicing through Kit’s panic like a blade. "I told you. I warned you. But you didn’t listen."

Kit’s hands shook as he tried to steady his breathing. "What… what the hell was that thing?" His voice was barely a whisper, terror clinging to every syllable.

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "That," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "was one of them. One of the things that’s been hunting you."

Kit’s stomach twisted, nausea rising in his throat. "But… what? Why? Why me?" His voice cracked, desperation bleeding into his words.

Ambrose didn’t answer immediately. He crossed the room, pacing near the window, his movements tense and agitated. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained, as though the words pained him. "Because you’re not just some random guy, Kit. You’re connected to this, to them."

Kit shook his head, everything surging to the surface at once. "Connected? What the fuck are you talking about, Ambrose? I’m just—"

"No," Ambrose cut him off, his voice sharp. "You’re not just anything. You’ve never been ‘just’ anything." His eyes locked onto Kit’s, and the corners of Ambrose’s mouth twitched. "You’ve got something they want."

Kit’s skin crawled. "I’ve—?" He blinked, his breath catching in his throat. "What do you mean, ‘something they want’?"

Ambrose’s eyes darkened. "Power." The word hung in the air like a curse. "Your alter ego, Kit.” He exhaled. “Frankly, it’s been suppressed for far too long. You need to give it another break"

Kit’s breath hitched, the weight of Ambrose’s words crashing down on him like a tidal wave. His voice was small when he finally spoke.

"…What? No.” He took a breath. “Absolutely not. I can’t do this, Ambrose. I don’t know what’s going on. I—" Kit’s eyes pricked without warning.

Ambrose’s gaze softened, just for a moment, but it was enough for Kit to see something lurking behind the man’s cold exterior. "You need to let it go." Voice low, resigned. "We’ll prepare."

Kit swallowed hard, the shadows still flickering in the corners of his vision, the memory of that thing at the bottom of the stairs seared into his mind. "No. What do you mean? Prepare? Prepare for what? What’s happening, Ambrose? Why do I even have to—"

Ambrose’s eyes darkened, his voice heavy. "No time, Kit. We’ll have to run soon."

“Wha—”

ok so this is my first time trying so I genuinely hope this works!!

But I really, most sincerely wish that I get rich and famous (for a good reason ofc!!) so that I can give back to my hard-working family and provide for them, and I also want to donate to charities and help people so bad! no one is left needy on my watch I say ❤️❤️

reblog and make a wish! this was removed from tumbrl due to “violating one or more of Tumblr’s Community Guidelines”, but since my wish came true the first time, I’m putting it back. :)

Intoxicating Fear (XXV)

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing (part II)

Read part one // masterpost // continued from here

I’m not happy with the last part, but I am too tired to edit it so voila,

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Where are we going?” Ambrose grumbled, the cling of glass on stone crunching under their shoes as they walked, Nathan a step in front of Ambrose as it was before. Always leading Ambrose, Ambrose always following. It made him feel a little sick, like nothing had changed between them, like no time had passed in the last five years since Ambrose established himself for himself. How he didn’t answer to anyone anymore.

And yet here he was, following, again.

Because Kit’s life is in danger, the rational voice told him. You’re not following because you want to.

But one look at the swirling silver eyes and Ambrose was magnetised, trapped under Nathan’s spell again. He knew it, Nate knew it. He wasn’t a hero trying to save Kit, he was just Oskar, Nathan’s shadow. Nathan turned his head to smile at Ambrose, exposing his boyish dimples despite being older than Ambrose.

“You’ll see, won’t you? It’s about the journey, Oskar, not the destination.”

Ambrose swallowed, clenching his jaw and forcing himself to stare ahead as Nathan led them through the tight building packed streets that loomed like giants on either side of Fagan’s lot. most of them were abandoned, or closed for business indefinitely. Some sad, stale “Everything must go” signs lingered in some of the windows that weren’t smashed or bordered up.

It tugged a bit at Ambrose’s cold, dead heart. Fagan’s lot was where Max and Ambrose had shopped because it was cheap, extremely cheap. He remembered Lucy’s grocers, and how Max used to drool as he walked by the fresh fruit and vegetables, and long for them when he was unwrapping microwave pizza for the fifth day in a row because their oven was broken and they couldn’t afford to fix it.

“I want watermelon, Oskar,” he whined.

Ambrose smiled at him, hiding the bill from their landlord for noise complaints, something Ambrose would deal with later. “Payday is in four days. We’re almost there,” he said.

That Friday, when Max got his paycheque, Ambrose came home after his commute to see Max standing proudly in the kitchen. He grabbed the edge of a tea towel and yanked it away with a flourish like a magician, revealing the biggest watermelon Ambrose had ever seen. Max grinned widely, flashing his teeth like a beaming toddler.

“I got the big one.”

“I can see that.” Ambrose said with a nod. Max brandished a serrated knife, licking his lips as he leaned close and took a giant sniff of the watermelon.

“Uggghh, smell that Oskar? That’s the smell of money right there.” Ambrose laughed as Max started to cut into it. The sweet, sticky smell pungent in their small apartment, but Max looked so stupidly happy that Ambrose couldn’t help grin himself. “How much do you want?”

“A slice?”

“You can’t have just a slice,” Max bemoaned, the knife sliding through the watermelon wetly. Ambrose walked around the counter and placed his briefcase on the table, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his top two buttons.

“Okay, two slices,” he said, watching as the pink flesh of the fruit fell like sheer fillet mignon, the red juice running like blood over Max’s fingers. Max cut two large circles and cut them in half, putting two on Ambrose’s plate and two on his own. “Bon appétit.”

Max moaned into the first bite, slapping his free hand on the table in passion. “Augh! That’s so good! So worth the wait. Fuck me!”

Max sniffed, and Ambrose met his eyes over the watermelon. “Are you crying?”

“No,” Max said too quickly, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. “Some juice just got in my eye.”

Now, as they walked past Lucy’s grocers, the bright yellows and reds of the plastic baskets of fruit were smashed out front, a metal shutter down with graffiti adorning it instead of fresh fruit. Ambrose ignored it as he walked by, lest Nathan notice — because he always noticed — what it meant to him.

“How do you know, Jude?” Ambrose tried instead.

Nathan raised his brows as if he was about to say something dirty, or let out a startled laugh of disbelief. Ambrose swallowed.

“Why? Jealous, Osk?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Nathan plumped out his bottom lip, the rosey pink getting lighter the more he protruded it into a pout. “You can still call me Nate, if you want.”

“I don’t want to call you anything,” Ambrose ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to be this close to you.”

The words had only left Ambrose’s lips before Nathan’s hands were on him slamming him into the opposite wall of the narrow street, deft hand wrapped around the base of his throat. Nathan smiled down at Ambrose who didn’t have to fight to keep the blush off his face, remaining the cool, pale statue that Kit so often likened him too in his head.

“How about this close?” Nathan said, his voice the shape of an angel’s wings; soft, light, majestic, but behind it held great power to exact divine retribution on devils, demons and humans who strayed too close.

“This makes it worse,” Ambrose said, happy that his voice remained even, though his index finger twitched at his sides. Mercury swirling eyes regarded him with a twisted mischief, the corners tugging up into smiles themselves.

Nathan looked at Ambrose the same way a lion would a gazelle, but Ambrose wasn’t the same man he was when him and Nathan were together. He wasn’t poor little Oskar anymore, who shared secrets with Nathan in the early hours of the morning, secrets they swore to take the grave, secrets like Ambrose’s parents that Nathan revealed to Max just to fuck with him.

Nathan’s fingers trailed up, pinching Ambrose’s chin between his thumb and index finger and tilting his head a little higher so he could feel Nathan’s warm breath on his lips, the smell of cigarette smoke and ash fanning his face.

“And how about now?” He asked his voice a tempting whisper, half-lidded silver eyes positively feasting at Ambrose’s stoic expression, looking for the tell, the give. Ambrose had buried them years ago. “Come on, Osk, you can’t tell me you don’t feel this. You and me, we’re meant to be together. You know it, I know it. We can be like we were.”

Nathan tilted his own head so their noses wouldn’t touch as he leaned in closer until his lips brushed Ambrose’s when he spoke. “Don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss us? Don’t you miss me?”

Ambrose’s heart raced in his chest. When Nathan looked at him like that, Ambrose feared that he could read his mind instead of the other way around. Not that Ambrose could ever read Nathan’s stupid mind with his stupid gift and his enchanting eyes. But there was an eerie stillness to it, an intensity that Ambrose couldn’t deny and never felt with someone else. Despite his many attempts of dating after Nate, there was no comparison to the silver eyed devil and that terrified him.

He could do it, he realised, his pulse throbbing in his neck against his throat. He could lean up and kiss Nathan and they could go back to how they were. Nathan was waiting, waiting for Ambrose to make the move, to accept him again. To submit and return to being Nathan’s favourite thing. Ambrose had no doubt Nathan loved him, in his own twisted way, but it wasn’t about Nathan and his love. It was about Ambrose, and he hated the person he was when he was with Nathan.

The shell he became.

Ambrose leaned on his toes, hand sliding up Nathan’s side to his neck. Cigarette breath hitched against Ambrose’s face and he smirked. He slammed his palm up against Nathan’s chin and shoved him back with an easy strength.

Nathan stumbled back, silver eyes flashing with malice and pain as his hand went to cup his lip.

“Ow! You made me bite my tongue,” he whined.

Ambrose smiled, sliding a hand into his jacket pocket when he saw a flash of red stain Nathan’s white teeth.

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Maybe you shouldn’t invade people’s personal space, then,” Ambrose said coolly, black eyes on Nathan’s.

Nathan huffed out a breath through his nose, straightening, his brows lowering over his eyes casting shadows on his quicksilver gaze, darkening them to the colour of gunmetal. Dangerous, powerful, scathing.

He let out a soft hmph of disapproval. “Maybe you have changed, Osk.”

“Maybe,” Ambrose said without missing a beat. Then they were walking again, Nathan still leading, though now with a wired tension in his shoulders, something stiff that wound and unwound and Ambrose wanted so desperately to peak inside his brain and see what he was feeling. To know what to expect.

Then they turned down a side street off the main path of Fagan’s lot and Ambrose stopped walking despite himself. Nathan stopped too, a few steps ahead of him and glanced back over his shoulder, a smirk in his eyes and a knowing smile on his lips.

“Something wrong?”

Ambrose remembered Max telling him that Benny was having trouble yesterday, that he should check on him before he leaves. Benny who lived in the apartment across from them in Old Town. A fast friend because of his jolly, wholesome exuberance, always making them smile and bringing over beers on Summer nights for them to go to the roof and hang out.

Benny’s tailors was on the street.

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed. “Where are we going?”

“To see an old friend,” Nathan replied.

“Why?” Ambrose asked, his hands tightening into fists in his pockets.

Nathan let out a breath of a laugh, turning his body towards Ambrose and walked towards him, into his personal space again which forced Ambrose to tilt his head up a little to keep his heavy gaze.

Nathan placed a warm hand on Ambrose’s cheek. On reflex Ambrose’s hand twitched up to smack him away, but Nathan’s words stopped him. “Ah, ah, ah, Oskar. Behave. I still have your hero friend locked away safely with Jude, so you’re going to do as I say.”

“And if I don’t?” Ambrose snapped.

Nathan’s eyes tracked Ambrose’s, observing his steeled expression and annoyance. Nathan ran a thumb over Ambrose’s bottom lip, chilling his blood as he stiffened despite himself.

“I have to check in every ten minutes with Jude or he gets to do whatever he likes to the heroes,” Nathan said.

Ambrose frowned. Heroes? As in more than Kit? Does he know who Kit is?

“See, that’s the Oskar I want. The sweet, pliant thing, the one whose heart raced when I got this close.”

“When did you last check in?” Ambrose demanded.

Nathan hmphed again, silver eyes swirling with glee. “At Max’s, while I waited for you two to kiss and make up.”

“Oh bullshit, you wanted us to fight.”

Nathan’s lips broke into a grin, a flash of teeth. “Okay, yeah. Maybe I did, but the fact remains. That was maybe, what, two-three minutes ago? So do you want to waste time being a brat, or, are you going to come with me and do everything I say to save your friend?”

Ambrose felt a tug in his chest. He wasn’t affected by Nathan anymore. He wasn’t. The only reason he was going through this fucking charade is because of Kit, who a few months ago, meant nothing to him. Why was he doing this? Why was he risking his neck for this kid? His sanity?

Ambrose’s shoulders dropped. Nathan stepped away, eyes gleaming as he turned and walked to the tailors at the end of the street. The shop’s trim was wooden, painted a royal blue, striking from far away, something to catch your eye and it did. Red lettering protruded from the black crown sign above the door, that read: Bespoke Elegance.

Nathan leaned against the wooden detail next to the door, grinning at Ambrose, he inclined his head for Ambrose to go first. Ambrose glared at him but wordlessly obeyed.

For Kit, he told himself. For Max. This would be fine. Everything would be fine.

The bells had only tingled open when a shot rang out and Ambrose’s eyes went wide as a nub of metal stopped so close to his left eye that it watered from the pressure. Behind the bullet at the counter stood Lyra; as lethal as she was pretty. The shell fell to the ground with a clatter and she lowered the pistols, relief washing over her taut features.

“Oskar,” Lyra said, the lilt of her voice musical.

“Well I’ll be fucked,” Lyra said, shifting her weight on her legs but not dropping either pistol from her hands, keeping them trained on Ambrose’s body. “Ghosts still walk the Earth.”

“Maybe I’m an angel, come to rescue you.”

“Or a demon in disguise as one,” Lyra replied easily, tilting her head to the side, exposing her long, lean neck that led into her beautiful collar bones and shoulders.

Lyra Sinclair was the only woman Ambrose would ever consider marrying. She knew she was too good for him, and would probably shoot him if he ever tried to ask. Her hair was in a different style every time he saw her, which regrettably was too little. She was as close to a Goddess that Ambrose had ever come, with olive skin and warm features. Though she had a foul mouth, cursing like a sailor, and still hadn’t lost her posh English accent despite herself.

“What are you doing here, Oskar?” She asked, raising a perfect brow. As if on cue the door behind Ambrose opened, and Lyra trained one pistol one the crack in the door. Her eyes narrowed like cat’s, dangerous, lethal. “Who are you with?”

Ambrose raised his hands, trying to calm her. “Lyra, I can explain.”

“No need, Osk, darling, just tell her to drop the guns.”

Ambrose stiffened, silently hoping that Lyra would just shoot Nathan through the doors, but she trained both pistols back to Ambrose, and now his hands went up in surrender, trying to show her he meant no harm.

“If you open your mouth, Oskar I swear to fuck I will kill you where you stand.”

“Lyra, please,” Ambrose said, risking a step forward. “I don’t want to compel you.”

“Why’re you with him?!” She demanded. “How do you even know each other? Do you know what he is?!”

The worry pulled her features across her face, stretching them wide, exposing the whites of her eyes and wrinkle lines on her forehead.

“Tick, tock, Osk. I’m not texting Jude until I’m inside.”

Ambrose stared pleadingly at Lyra, but her hazel eyes didn’t leave his, her chest rising and falling with a gasp. “You know Jude?” She demanded incredulously, her grip tightening on the weapons. “Are you working with them?”

“No!” Ambrose cried, stepping forward again. “Lyra, please, he has my friend and he’s going to let Jude do whatever the fuck he wants with him if he doesn’t text him in the next five minutes.”

Desperate black eyes met fiery hazel across the shop floor. “Please,” Ambrose said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t get her answer. A toilet flushed somewhere in the back, the sound of rushing water and a door was thrown open behind the red velvet curtain that was pushed outside, metal hooks squeaking and then a wide grin. Ambrose swallowed thickly.

A hulk of a man finely dressed in a chequered navy suit and burgundy silk shirt stepped out from behind the curtain, bending to get through the door before standing to his full height of a giant, taller than Ambrose, hell, taller than Nathan who was 6’4.

The fine suit did its best to hide the muscled torso beneath, but when Benny spread his arms, his stubble lined jaw spread open into a grin.

“Well, well, well, Oskar Fucking Ambrose. You giant cunt. Where’ve you been?”

“C’mere,” Benny gruffed, his footsteps like buckshots in the store. Benny was double the width of Ambrose, and a good head taller which made Ambrose mortally terrified of the man, especially because Benny was simultaneously the biggest, and sweetest, man he had ever met. And a hugger.

Ambrose groaned when he felt his bones crack under Benny’s tight hug, the giant man lifting Ambrose from his feet as if he were a child.

“God. It has been too long, old friend.” Benny said with a hearty laugh and a meaty fisted thump to Ambrose’s back. “We love to see you, brother.”

Benny said, his Ukranian accent choking in the middle of brother, making it sound like broo-der. Benny’s real name was Irakliy, but he told Ambrose when he arrived in the country that your stupid people couldn’t pronounce it, eh? They heard ‘ee’ sound and call me Freddie, I mishear and call me Benny. Name stick in brain like a Kesha song.

“Not today you don’t,” Lyra ground out, a muscle in her jaw ticking.

Benny frowned at her then at Ambrose. Ambrose feared the result of the exchange he was about to have, but he couldn’t not say anything.

Then Nathan chimed in: “three minutes, Oskar.”

Benny’s expression dropped. Ambrose could feel the adrenaline spike in his body as Benny glanced at the door, then at Ambrose, then back at the door. When he looked back at Ambrose again, blue eyes darkened and despite Ambrose’s protests Benny grabbed him by the throat and pile-drove him backwards into one of the viewing mirrors for fittings, the glass cracking against Ambrose’s back.

The wind was stolen from him with a silent gasp, both his hands finding Benny’s and trying to pry his fingers off his throat unsuccessfully. Benny growled in the back of his throat, leaning down so he could get in Ambrose’s slowly blueing face.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t snap your neck like a twig.”

Benny, he tried in his mind, his brain screaming as pounding headache formed from the pressure in his skull, his brain screaming for oxygen, please. Let me exp—

Ambrose didn’t think, he was panicking as his vision darkened at the edges and without meaning to boomed out a command:

Benny, LET GO!

Benny’s fingers sprung open like a coiled spring being released and Ambrose hit the ground, his cheek hitting off the edge of the fitting platform as Benny cried out.

Ambrose gasped, pushing himself up instinctively and reached to Lyra’s mind, tying the wires in her brain together and unplugging her powers before he fell again.

“Two minutes, Oskar!” Nathan sang and Ambrose groaned. He muttered, don’t move, aloud and waited until both Benny and Lyra went stiff before calling Nathan in.

Nathan stepped through the door, poking his head around first and glancing at Lyra before his face broke out into a smile and he stepped inside fully.

“Morning,” he drawled with a happy sigh as Ambrose managed to prop himself up against the wall. He reached behind his head at the bump that was forming and his fingers came away sticky and wet. Fuck. He blinked, the world dizzy in front of him.

FUCK! He didn’t want to have to do that. Fucking Nathan knew exactly what he was doing making himself known before Ambrose had a chance to explain. Ambrose glared at his stupid, gorgeous ex who pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and held it up, waving it at Ambrose’s face.

“Just in time, babe.” Then he typed away on it, positively eating up the attention in the room. Ambrose tipped his head back, chin to the ceiling up at Benny. His eyes zeroed in on the red and purple bruises on Benny’s swollen hand, and realised sickly that his compulsion did that.

“Benny… your hand…”

“Save it, Amber-ose.” Benny spat. The dip between Benny’s thumb and middle finger had split from the force of Ambrose’s compulsion, steadily dripping blood onto the varnished wooden floor.

“I’m not with him,” Ambrose protested, pushing himself up a little and trying to get to his feet, but the world spun and he fell again, sliding down until his arse hit the ground. “He has… he’s—”

“He said this arsehole has his friend captive,” Lyra said, hazel eyes cutting from Nathan’s face to Ambrose’s. Angry, but believing. She believed him, though he doubted he would be spared a bullet if he let her move. “Said that creep Jude is watching him and if he doesn’t do what he says, he’ll let Jude kill him.”

Benny’s blue eyes turned down, drooping at the sides. “I’m sorry, brother,” Benny said. “You are in as much as the rest of us.”

“Now that we’re all caught up to speed,” Nathan said, clapping his hands together. The sound was like a bullet through Ambrose’s brain. “How about we get down to business?”

“What is your business?” Ambrose demanded, practically spitting his words. All he could think about was Max telling him that Benny was in some trouble, that Max was worried about him. Is Nathan the problem?

Christ, he couldn’t think straight, his brain blurry. Fucking Jude and this hangover and Max’s punches, now Benny’s blows, he was shocked he wasn’t unconscious yet, probably concussed. Maybe, definitely concussed.

Benny frowned, eyes on Ambrose, still frozen. “You don’t know?”

Ambrose frowned, the motion too difficult to convey so he flattened his face, holding his head and stifling a moan. If Ambrose thought of it, he could dip into Benny’s mind and read the message he was storing, roaring, trying to let Ambrose hear, but Ambrose was too focused on staying awake.

“Benny,” Nathan said, his tone dipping low in warning. “Naughty, naughty. Don’t you remember what I can do to you?”

Ambrose shut his eyes tight, planting his hand on the ground and pushing himself up. He had to grip the podium for the fittings and push himself all the way, stumbling back into the mirror when he got to his feet.

Black eyes unfocused, glazed over and swimming with colour, but he tried to focus on Nathan.

“What’re you saying, Nathan? Why are we here?”

Nathan smiled again Ambrose. Its effect was like an avalanche of cold, mountains of snow threatening to bury Ambrose under the weight of it, sending tremors of terror down his spine.

His mind screaming at him to notice something he was missing. To see what was right in front of him. His blood rushed in his ears as he took a step forward, silently releasing Benny in his mind: you can move freely. The effect was too much for Ambrose to bear, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as if someone had just switched off his power.

Benny stood taller, and he turned to Ambrose, catching him before his head smacked off the wood, but it didn’t matter. The darkness swallowed Ambrose, Nathan’s voice speaking in the background as he submitted to unconsciousness.

*~*~*~*~*

Ambrose woke in a car, sprawled out in the backseat. He groaned as the light assaulted his senses. Fuck. His head was pounding, and he let out a soft groan.

“Oh, you’re awake sleepyhead?” Ambrose’s eyes shot open, his heart seizing in his chest. Nathan. He forgot. Why were they in a car? What happened to Benny? “You should try and get back to sleep, Osk. We’ll be there soon.”

“Where?” Ambrose ground out, the words rattling his skull and agitating his head.

Nathan’s swirling eyes met Ambrose’s in the rearview. “To Kit. That’s where you wanted to go, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s where we’re heading.”

“What did you do to Benny?”

Nathan chuckled. It was as if he had shot a bolt of metal through Ambrose’s spinal cord, freezing him as the metal scraped off bone. “You didn’t hear?”

“I was kind of unconscious for it,” Ambrose said tightly. Nathan’s eyes were back on the road, but it didn’t make him feel any less observed. Any less seen. The same nagging thing pulled at his mind like a child trying to get their parents attention.

Nathan chuckled again, this time lighter. “I suppose you were. But he was thinking very loud, Oskar. I’m surprised you didn’t hear.”

“Hear what?” Ambrose asked, pushing himself to sit up in the backseat, the world tilting around him. He felt like he was going to throw up. Nathan met his gaze in the rearview again and only then did Nathan’s words register in his mind. Ambrose must have froze or stiffened or showed his emotion on his face. “What do you mean his thoughts were loud?”

Nathan’s laugh was musical, pulling at Ambrose’s heart strings. “Come on Osk, you’re smarter than this.”

“Well I may have a concussion or two so cut me some slack,” Ambrose snapped. His breathing hitched, becoming erratic suddenly as his brain burst through the bars of the cell in his skull.

Nathan remained stubbornly silent, forcing Ambrose’s memory to try and colour in the gaps. Come on, Oskar, follow the context clues. He was— in Max’s bar he was fixing up Jude’s tab from the night before, the night with Jude, and Max said Jude knew Supervillain, and worked with him. Partners. Nathan’s grin at Ambrose’s mention of Jude, “why? Jealous, Osk?”

Jealous.

Was he jealous?

No. That’s not the important part. Come on!

Not just Kit, the other heroes. Kit was patrolling last night, looking for Supervillain and now Nathan and Jude had him, and…

“Ah,” Nathan said, revelling in Ambrose’s cold realisation. “There you go, Oskar. You got there eventually.”

“You…” Ambrose said, his voice losing breath and the words tapering off. “You… you can’t be Supervillain. You… you don’t even have powers!”

Nathan smirked in reply but didn’t answer. It irked something inside Ambrose, making him lean forward. “Right?! You don’t have powers, except resistance to—”

Ambrose grabbed his pulsing temple, cutting himself off. Nathan only has defensive abilities. He wasn’t powered, he couldn’t be, he had never— Ambrose had never seen. Natural immunity. That’s it. Not, not— how could he hear Benny’s thoughts? Mentor’s Telekinesis? He couldn’t—

“Explain,” Ambrose said, his voice a growl.

Nathan hummed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “What do you want me to explain?”

“How can you— people can’t have more than one power.”

“I don’t,” Nathan said with a shrug.

“Then what?! How! How can you use Mentor’s— you- you’re fucking lying to me!”

Nathan’s gaze doused the simmering rage in Ambrose. “Am I?”

And Ambrose knew he wasn’t.

He knew it, but he didn’t want to know it.

“You… you— you can’t be Supervillain,” Ambrose whispered. Hoping that if he repeated it enough it would make it true. He felt the overwhelming urge to cry and scream and rage and claw Nathan’s eyes out, but he just shook in the backseat, every part of his body trembling as if he was just dunked into an ice bath.

“And yet, I am, sweetheart. God, you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to tell you, Oskar. But I knew, I knew I had to wait and be patient, and now that we’re together again I will explain everything when we get home.”

“Why did you take Kit?”

“To get to you, dummy,” Nathan replied with a lopsided smile. A smile full of love and Ambrose wanted to get sick. “And I got you, didn’t I? Go back to sleep, love. I’ll wake you when we get home.”

Ambrose didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to do anything, while simultaneously wanting to open the backdoor and jump out, or pull the steering wheel and throw up. He wanted to fight, but sleep was already pulling heavy down on his eyelids, and he curled back up beside the door, and closed his eyes.

*~*~*~*~*

The door squeaked open, light crawling along the stairs with a jolt and vanished just as quick as someone started skipping down the stairs. “Oh, Kit~”

Kit straightened as much as he could in the cuffs, stealing his expression to a stoic indifference.

Jude appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his green eyes gleaming with malice and a twisted delight. “I had a little deal with Supervillain. He said, if he didn’t text me every ten minutes then I was allowed to have fun with you! It’s been fifteen minutes, Kit. You know what that means?”

Tides and Sawyer woke at the sound, Sawyer freezing, his arms wound tightly around Tides who was trembling in his hold.

Jude’s eyes lazily flickered to the pair. “Aw, aren’t you two just sweethearts? Tell you what, if you be good I won’t even lock you up again!”

“You said you’re going to hurt Kit,” Sawyer told him. “Why would we just sit tight?”

Jude walked over to him and crouched down in front of the pair, tilting his head to the side as he regarded Sawyer. “I don’t know if they lied to you about how bad your face was, or you just don’t care, but if you don’t want me to force you to return the favour to your girlfriend there, I’d suggest you shut the fuck up and be a good little hostage, hmm?”

“You—”

“Sawyer,” Kit said, his voice hollow, yet still managing to cut through Sawyer’s. “Don’t. Just do what he says. I’ll be… I’ll be fine.”

“Kit—”

“You heard the boy, he’ll be fine!” Jude said with a wave, bouncing to his feet and walking around Kit to uncuff him from the wall. It was going to be nice, Kit realised, not having his hands glued above his head for a while. They fell like they were made of cement once Jude opened the cuffs and Kit groaned as he felt pins and needles thrum beneath the skin.

Pins and needles and something else.

Something… electric. Kit hid it, hoping that Jude couldn’t read minds like Ambrose could but when Jude started to pull Kit to his feet, Kit was almost certain that he couldn’t. Which meant that Kit had the leverage, but he would have to use it quickly if he wanted to keep it.

As Jude dragged Kit over to the chair, Kit felt the well of electricity surge within him, grabbing onto Jude’s arm as if he was about to fall. Jude was none the wiser, the stupid grin still on his face. Kit took a deep breath, and let the valve to his powers open from his brain to the tips of his toes and around his body.

Supervillain had used Omen’s commands to restrict their powers.

Too bad that didn’t work on Kit anymore.

Kit dug his fingers into Jude’s shoulders with one hand, the other at his side. He clicked his fingers and red lightning sparked like a glove from his free hand to the one holding Jude in the blink of an eye. Jude was too slow to react, his eyes blown wide before he was thrown across the room along with Kit from the sheer force of the red lightning.

Jude’s spine hit the wall and he collapsed, twitching on the ground from the impact as the lightning scorched his body.

Oh… that felt good, the voice in Kit’s head said as he straightened, suddenly rejuvenated after releasing the pent up energy on someone without worrying if they’d live or die. It was like stretching for the first tike after being trapped in a tight, constricted pose for a while, his body nourishing itself as the lightning ran up and down his body, lashing out every once in a while.

Kit ran a hand through his hair, exhilarated, a wide smile cutting into his cheeks as he walked towards Jude, ready to finish the job checking to see if he was still alive.

“Kit?” Kit stopped, glancing over his shoulder to see Tides and Sawyer gawking at him with wide eyes. Sawyer’s arm tight around Tides. Kit tilted his head, hungry eyes stalking the tenderness.

Sawyer kept his eyes on Kit’s, not flinching away. “Leave him, we need to get out of here, okay?”

Kit frowned. “But—” he began, his voice crackling like a walkie-talkie.

“I need your help,” Sawyer said, cutting Kit off again. Kit glanced back at Jude’s body, glaring at the shallow rise and fall of his back. “Kit.”

Kit shook his head and sighed, the electricity slowly leaving his body. “Fine. Let’s go.”

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie e @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @blood-enthusiast @tippytappytyping @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump @acer-whumpstuff @fa1rie @jesterrinobutter @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @@dutifullykrispyland @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @ehobep

Dark Currents (Intoxicating Fear Fanfic)

III: Between the Lines

@chaotic-orphan

TW: stalking, drugging, implied noncon, intimate whumper, intimidating whumper, disoriented whumpee.

Kit stared up at the cracked ceiling, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Ambrose’s presence was a weight that pinned him to the bed, but it wasn’t just physical. There was something else, something darker that twisted between them, something that made Kit’s skin crawl and his pulse race.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched thin, taut like a wire pulled to its breaking point. Outside, the city was waking up, the distant sounds of traffic and early morning bustle filtering through the window. But inside the apartment, time felt frozen, suspended in the crackling tension between them.

Ambrose’s grip on Kit’s wrists loosened, but he didn’t move away. He stayed there, hovering over Kit, his eyes still locked on his with a fierce, burning intensity. Kit’s mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of the night before. The bar, the drink, the way Ambrose had watched him from across the room like a hawk circling its prey. And then… the blackouts. The missing hours.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" Kit finally managed to choke out, his voice hoarse.

Ambrose’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "I didn’t do anything you didn’t want, Kit."

Kit’s stomach twisted at the implication, but there was no time to dwell on it. The fog in his mind was beginning to lift, and with it came a flood of memories—disjointed flashes of the previous night. The dimly lit bar, the feeling of eyes on him, the cold touch of Ambrose’s hand on his arm as he’d leaned in, too close, whispering something that Kit couldn’t quite remember.

Kit’s jaw clenched. He pulled against Ambrose’s grip, and this time, Ambrose let go, sitting back slightly, though his knees still bracketed Kit’s hips, keeping him in place.

"I want answers," Kit demanded, his voice stronger now. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

Ambrose’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. "I already told you. This is about survival. Do you think all of this is some kind of game?"

Kit shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Survival? What are you even talking about? You show up out of nowhere, drug me, drag me back here, and now you're talking about survival like I'm supposed to understand what the fuck is going on?"

Ambrose’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing over his face before he looked away, his jaw tight. For the first time, Kit saw a crack in the armour—a flicker of something deeper, something vulnerable. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same cold, unrelenting intensity.

"You don’t know what’s coming," Ambrose said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. "But you will."

Kit’s frustration turned to anger. He pushed himself up, forcing Ambrose to shift back slightly to avoid being knocked off balance. The movement was sudden, a surge of adrenaline cutting through the lingering fog in Kit’s veins.

"Enough with the cryptic bullshit, Ambrose!" Kit snapped, his voice rising. "I’m done playing whatever game this is. You want to talk about survival? Fine. Start explaining. Now."

For a long moment, Ambrose didn’t respond. His eyes flicked to the window, then back to Kit, as if weighing his next words carefully. The silence stretched on, the tension between them thick and suffocating.

Finally, Ambrose exhaled a slow, measured breath. "There are forces at work you don’t understand. Dark forces. And you… you’re in the middle of it, whether you like it or not."

Kit blinked, his anger momentarily faltering. "Dark forces?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Ambrose’s expression hardened. "Deadly serious."

Kit shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "This is insane. You expect me to believe—"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," Ambrose interrupted, his voice sharp. "But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s true. You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The strange things happening around you? The sense that something’s been watching you, following you?"

Kit opened his mouth to argue, to deny it—but the words died in his throat. Because the truth was… he had felt it. For weeks now, there had been an odd sense of unease gnawing at him, a feeling that something was just out of sight, lurking in the shadows. The lights in his apartment flickering for no reason, the strange cold spots that made his breath fog in the middle of summer, the nightmares that left him drenched in sweat, heart racing.

And then there was the strange encounter in the alleyway a few nights ago—the way the shadows had seemed to move, to shift and twist as if they had a life of their own. He’d written it off as a trick of the light, a figment of his imagination. But now…?

Kit swallowed hard. "What… what are you saying?"

Ambrose’s eyes bore into his, the weight of his words heavy with truth. "I’m saying that the world isn’t what you think it is. There are things out there—things that want you, things that will stop at nothing to get to you. And if you don’t start taking this seriously, you’re going to end up dead. Or worse."

Kit’s breath hitched in his throat. Dead? Or worse? The room felt suddenly too small, the walls closing in around him. He shook his head, trying to make sense of it all, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands—everything kept slipping through his fingers.

"I don’t understand," Kit whispered, his voice barely audible. "Why me? What do they want from me?"

Ambrose’s expression softened, just for a moment. "It’s not just you. It’s us. We’re connected, Kit. More than you realise. That’s why I’ve been watching you. That’s why I’ve been trying to protect you."

Kit’s heart skipped a beat. "Protect me? You drugged me and dragged me back here against my will!"

Ambrose’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I didn’t have a choice. They were closing in on you. If I hadn’t intervened…"

He trailed off, but the unspoken words hung heavy in the air.

Kit felt a chill crawl down his spine. "Who are they?"

Ambrose hesitated, then shook his head. "It’s better if you don’t know. Not yet."

Kit’s frustration flared again. "I deserve to know what’s happening to me!"

Ambrose’s eyes flashed with anger, but it wasn’t directed at Kit—it was something deeper, something simmering just beneath the surface. "You’ll know soon enough," he said, his voice tight. "But first… you need to trust me."

Kit let out a bitter laugh. "Trust you? After everything you’ve done?"

Ambrose’s gaze softened again, and for the first time, Kit saw something like regret in his eyes. "I know I’ve made mistakes. But I’m trying to keep you alive. You don’t have to like me. You don’t even have to forgive me. But if you want to survive this, you’re going to need me."

Kit stared at him, his mind racing, torn between disbelief and the growing sense that maybe—just maybe—Ambrose was telling the truth. The strange occurrences, the feeling of being watched, the sense that something was closing in on him… it all lined up, even if Kit didn’t want to admit it.

But trusting Ambrose? That felt like a step too far.

"I don’t know if I can trust you," Kit said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "But I’m not going to let you call the shots anymore. If we’re going to do this, we do it on my terms."

Ambrose studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "Fair enough."

Kit exhaled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. "So… what happens now?"

Ambrose shuffled off the bed, finally giving Kit space to breathe. He crossed the room to the window, looking out at the city below. "Now," he said, his voice low, "we get ready. Because they’ll be coming for you soon."

Kit’s stomach twisted with unease. "Who?"

Ambrose turned, his eyes dark and serious. "The shadows."

Continued here

Dark Currents (Intoxicating Fear Fanfic)

II: The Edge of the Knife

@chaotic-orphan

TW: stalking, drugging, intimate whumper, intimidating whumper, disoriented whumpee.

A thin, pale light filtered through the grimy window of Kit’s apartment, casting long shadows across the room. Dust motes hung in the air, untouched by the frail dawn that did little to banish the clinging darkness. The night had been a war of attrition, and now, with the arrival of morning, Kit felt no more victorious than when it had started. His body was heavy, his limbs tingling with the remnants of whatever Ambrose had slipped into his drink, and his mind was a haze of confusion and anger.

In the corner of the small, cluttered apartment, Ambrose stood motionless, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on Kit with an intensity that made Kit’s skin prickle with unease. There was something about Ambrose that always felt too much—like he took up too much space, like the very air around him warped under the weight of his presence. It had been that way since the moment they’d met, but now, standing on the edge of something neither of them fully understood, it felt suffocating.

Kit pushed himself up from the bed, his heart pounding in his chest. The silence between them was thick, electric, like the air before a storm. He needed answers—needed to know what Ambrose truly wanted, why he was here, and what had driven him to this point. But most of all, Kit needed to understand the strange, twisted connection that seemed to keep pulling them together, no matter how many times he tried to walk away.

Ambrose’s face was shadowed, but his eyes glinted in the low light, dark and unreadable. He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on the worn wooden floor, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. Kit’s pulse quickened, his muscles tensing as Ambrose closed the distance between them, the air between them tight with tension.

"I’m not playing games," Ambrose said, his voice low and gravelly, each word heavy with meaning. "This is about survival."

Kit swallowed hard, his throat dry, his eyes narrowing as he forced himself to meet Ambrose’s gaze. "Survival?" he scoffed, his voice hoarse, barely masking the fear that coiled deep in his gut. "Is that what you call this?"

Ambrose’s lips twitched into a smirk, but there was no humour behind it—only something dark, something primal. "You have no idea what’s coming," he said, his voice a quiet threat. "I’ve sacrificed everything for this. For you."

Kit’s heart stuttered in his chest, his breath catching as Ambrose’s words hung in the air between them. The weight of the night pressed down on him, suffocating, the twisted bond between them thrumming like a live wire. He wanted to push Ambrose away, to demand answers, but his body felt sluggish, weighed down by the lingering effects of whatever had been in his drink. His mind raced, but his limbs were slow to follow, like moving through water.

"You don’t get it, do you?" Ambrose’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and dangerous. He stepped closer, his presence looming, filling the small space with a suffocating intensity. "This isn’t about what you want."

Kit’s breath hitched as Ambrose’s hand shot out, gripping his shoulder with a force that was both possessive and commanding. Kit’s body tensed instinctively, his muscles locking as Ambrose shoved him backward. His legs hit the edge of the bed, and he collapsed onto it with a grunt, the suddenness of the action stealing the air from his lungs.

The mattress creaked beneath him, the springs groaning in protest as Ambrose followed, his movements fluid and predatory. He climbed onto the bed with a grace that belied the danger simmering just beneath the surface, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Kit’s hips.

Kit’s pulse spiked, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as Ambrose’s hands found his wrists, pinning them to the bed with a strength that made Kit’s heart race. The heat of Ambrose’s body pressed down on him, their faces inches apart, and Kit could feel the weight of his gaze, intense and unyielding.

"You don’t understand how far I’m willing to go," Ambrose murmured, his voice low and rough, vibrating with a dangerous edge. His eyes bore into Kit’s, filled with something raw and unrelenting—something that made Kit’s stomach twist with a mix of fear and something darker, something he was too afraid to name.

Kit’s mind screamed at him to fight back, to push Ambrose away, but his body felt frozen, trapped under the weight of Ambrose’s gaze and the suffocating tension that crackled between them. Panic curled in his gut, but he forced it down, glaring up at Ambrose with as much defiance as he could muster.

"Let me go," Kit hissed through gritted teeth, his voice tight with frustration and fear. "You can’t just—"

"I can," Ambrose interrupted, his grip tightening on Kit’s wrists. His tone was a quiet, dangerous promise. "And I will."

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with the weight of unspoken words and the suffocating tension that hung between them. Kit’s chest heaved with shallow breaths, his mind spinning as he tried to make sense of the situation, of the weight behind Ambrose’s words, of the twisted bond that seemed to pull them together despite everything.

"I don’t want your sacrifices," Kit spat, his voice hoarse, barely holding onto the thread of his defiance. "I don’t need them."

Ambrose’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl. His fingers flexed around Kit’s wrists, his grip firm and unrelenting. "You don’t know what you need. Not yet."

With a sudden, violent motion, Ambrose leaned down, his breath hot against Kit’s ear. "But you will."

Kit’s heart raced, the sound of it pounding in his ears. Ambrose’s words sent a shiver down his spine, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if it was fear or something darker, something he was too afraid to admit. His mind screamed at him to fight, to break free, but his body felt sluggish, the weight of Ambrose’s presence pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

Ambrose pulled back just enough to meet Kit’s gaze again, his eyes burning with a fierce, unrelenting intensity. "Fight me all you want," he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word a dark promise. "But I’m not letting you go."

Kit’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his mind spinning, the weight of Ambrose’s words settling over him like a leaden cloak. He wanted to scream, to demand answers, to push Ambrose away—but something in Ambrose’s gaze held him captive, something he wasn’t sure he could escape from, no matter how much he tried.

And deep down, despite the fear that churned in his gut, a small part of him wondered if Ambrose was right.

Continued here