#Chandler Manning

[entomoleja]

what's on your mind little dude?

[bloodycotton]

Broken Hearts Killer

This is something for Chandler Manning, way darker than i thought but what else could it happen when i was watching "My bloody valentine"? And i hope you spend a happy valentines day <3

So here is something where reader is the one obsessed with Chandler and would do anything for him.

TW: not smut as i still dont know how to write that jdjd but there are some as graphic violence, gore, stalking, obession, and shit like that

You took a shaky breath and banged on the table, causing the glasses to sway and spill on the carefully arranged table, staining the pretty white tablecloth with red wine. 

“He wouldn't say that!” you shouted, fixing your pretty eyes on the frightened man across the table, tied to a chair, weak from the blow to the head delivered by the woman in the pink dress. 

The man tried to speak, but the words were slurred, weak, and his voice was confused, his voice sounded far away as if he was straining to formulate the words, most likely with a concussion. “Please... I don't know what you're talking about. Let me go.”

The pain in his head was excruciating, a constant throbbing that reverberated in his skull like a drum. Every movement, no matter how small, made him nauseous, and the light in the room seemed too bright, almost blinding.

The man who physically resembled Detective Manning whimpered and cried, his heart pounding furiously in his ribs, a prisoner of fear and despair, he knew deep down inside that she would kill him for not being him. 

“Your eyes aren't the same colour either.” You were upset by the small detail that the man in front of you had green eyes and not Detective Chandler Manning's lovely chocolate colour. The bound man let out a muffled whimper, as if asking with difficulty what he was referring to. The sounds tripled, the clicking of your heels, the dripping of wine on the tablecloth, even the sound of his own breathing were deafening. His head throbbed with every noise, as if someone was hammering his brain from the inside.

You straightened up, walking slowly around the table, your heels clicking on the floor with a hypnotic rhythm. He tried to move his hands, but the restraints cut off his circulation, and every attempt to free himself only made his headache worse, and the rubbing of the ropes against his skin had already left red, painful marks.

“Chandler Manning has the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. Brown, warm, like melted chocolate. But you…” You stopped in front of him, leaning in again. “Your eyes are green. Cold. False.”

The man tried to speak, but the words choked in his throat. His eyes, those green eyes you disliked so much, filled with tears.

You sighed, as if disappointed, standing behind him with his hands on your shoulders. “You don't understand, do you? He's perfect. And you... you're just a cheap imitation.”

With a fleeting movement of his hands, you grabbed a handful of his black hair and the man began to drown in his blood, his eyes unfocused as the carmine red stained that white shirt from the slash in his throat and her delicately coloured dress. The smell of iron flooded the room, mingling with the sweet scent of wine spilled on the tablecloth. 

With a sigh, you dropped the man's torso to the table, with a wet, grotesque sound of his body slamming all over it, wiping your hands where blood hadn't splattered on the broad back of the man's shirt.

“It's not you” You watched the television where the detective of your dreams was giving a press conference about the ‘Broken Hearts Killer’. What a nice name they had given you. But the main thing, was that he was talking directly to you. 

“Chandler…” A dreamy sigh escaped your lips, moving closer to the screen. His words echoed in your mind, each syllable a confirmation that he understood you like no one else, that he knew what you did for him. 

“We are close to catching the ‘Broken Hearts Killer’” Detective Chandler Manning said as he stared into the camera, his brown eyes and bushy eyebrows furrowed just the way you liked it.

You smiled, a shiver of excitement ran down your spine, he was talking to you, he was looking for you. 

When the detective was no longer on screen, you looked down at the table, at the man's limp body on the table, blood still dripping slowly onto the formerly white tablecloth. With a sigh, you walked over to the kitchen and picked up a sharp knife, your mind already working on the next step.

“You can't stay here,” she muttered, as if the body could hear her. “You have to disappear.”

After a few hours when you had already got rid of the man, you washed your hands removing all traces of blood, then you sat down at the kitchen table and started working on your next move. 

You pulled out a Valentine's Day card decorated with hearts, roses and one of those silly phrases, where inside you wrote a riddle, neat and elegant handwriting. 

At the end, you stamped a kiss on the paper with wine red lipstick, the same shade you had used that night. Then, you took the man's heart, wrapped it in silver paper and placed it in a box of chocolates, it was pink with a black ribbon, you stepped back and looked at your creation, the box of chocolates with the heart inside, the pretty ribbon and the card in it. 

The next day, you took the package to a post office, who sent it to Chandler's office address, making sure there was no trace of your identity.

“I hope you enjoy it, Chandler, my love,” you murmured as you left the office, a smile playing on your lips. 

Chandler was in his office when he received the package, wary, as it was rare for him to receive anything on any holiday. Carefully, he looked at the card that was stuck in the bow of the mysteriously heavy box of chocolates.

“What the fuck is this?” he grunted, lifting the box gingerly. It was heavier than he expected, and something inside it was moving slightly.

“Red as passion, beats without end,

I’ve stolen them all, but you can’t comprehend.

One by one, I keep them with care,

Guess what they are? I’ll give you a pair.”

Chandler frowned, feeling a shiver run down his spine, suspicious. The kiss on the paper, printed in wine-red lipstick, struck him as disturbingly personal, but curiously attractive, it had been a long time since anyone had sent him anything like it.

And no one could compare. 

When he opened the supposed box of chocolates and saw the silver paper wrapping an object, his hands trembled and his teeth clenched.

“FUCK!” Chandler screamed, the metallic, old, metallic smell of blood hit his nose, with jerky, exalted movements he rose from his seat causing the chair to hit the floor of his office hard. The pretty box fell to the floor along with its grotesque contents with a wet sound. 

Chandler took a deep breath, trying to control his anger, but it was impossible. He slammed his fist on the desk, making the objects jump. “This is a fucking joke!” 

Chandler reached for the heart, his fists clenched and his breath hitching. “Who the fuck does he think he is?” he muttered, his voice full of rage, horror and disgust, it was obvious who had sent him, after all, he was the only person crazy enough to do something like this ‘The Broken Hearts Killer.’

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. “I need the whole team here right now!” he shouted, hanging up before the person on the other end could answer.

Chandler's team gathered in his office, examining the package and the human heart. Forensics confirmed that the heart belonged to a recent victim, a man who had been reported missing two days earlier.

“This isn't just a crime,” Chandler said, staring at the card. “It's a message. And I'm going to make sure it's the last one.”

The riddle haunted him. He read it over and over, trying to decipher its meaning. “What do you mean by ‘One by one, I keep them with care’?” He muttered, running a finger over the words and the kiss stamped on the card. 

Chandler always knew the killer was meticulous, in previous murders he would extract the heart from his victims and place a red rose in the chest cavity as a tribute to the love and lives he had taken, that was his signature. 

And no one knew what he did with the hearts, until now, but where were the others?

Chandler Manning entered the morgue with a firm step, but with an uneasy feeling he couldn't shake. The smell of disinfectant and death hit him immediately, but he was used to it. What he wasn't used to was the idea that someone was playing with him like this.

The forensic examiner, a middle-aged Asian man, led him to the table where the body of the latest victim lay. “Here it is,” said the forensic examiner, lifting the surgical drape that covered the corpse.

Chandler looked at the body, and immediately felt a shiver run down his spine. The man on the table was strikingly similar to him, the same build, the same type of hair, even the shape of the face was similar. But there were subtle differences: the eyes were green instead of brown, the nose a little wider, the jaw a little more defined. 

“What the hell...?” muttered Chandler, leaning over to examine the body more closely.

The coroner watched him with curiosity and concern in his eyes. “You noticed, didn't you?” The man on the metal table was almost a carbon copy of the detective. 

Chandler didn't answer right away. His mind was working at full speed, connecting the dots. “Do you have pictures of the other victims?” he finally asked.

The doctor nodded and handed him a folder with the photographs and files of the previous victims. Chandler went through them one by one, and with each image, his unease grew. All the victims resembled him, but with slight differences: different coloured eyes, lighter or darker hair, slightly altered facial features.

“This is not a coincidence,” Chandler said, closing the folder tightly. “The killer is choosing these people because they look like me.”

The forensic scientist arched an eyebrow. “You think it's personal?”

Chandler did not respond immediately. His mind was busy processing the information. “It's not just personal,” he finally said. “It's obsessive.”

(...)

You had been watching him for a long time, always from afar, hidden in plain sight, like just another person in town, studying his habits, routines, his every move. You knew it wasn't yet time for him to discover you, but you couldn't resist the consuming desire to see him, to feel him close, to sense his presence, even for a few minutes. 

So that night you dressed carefully, choosing something low-cut, pretty and undeniably you. “Just a glimpse,” you muttered to yourself, adjusting your hair in front of the mirror. “I just need to see him up close.”

You knew Chandler was going to be in a bar, whenever he was stressed he always went for a drink at the same place, and that's where you were going to be, after all the stress you put him through today, it was obvious.

You saw him enter the bar out of the corner of your eye, he looked tired and stressed, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and you had to take a sip of beer to cool down, his mere presence made you feel things. 

The place was half full, with the low murmur of conversations and the sound of glasses clinking in the background. Chandler headed straight to the bar and sat down on one of the empty stools, next to a beautiful woman.

Holding back the urge to look at him and smile like a fool when you felt his warm and imposing presence next to you, you took another sip, trying to ignore him, but knowing that every fibre of your body was watching his every move, your heart pounded, but keeping calm you pretended to be lost in thought. 

He ordered a whisky on the rocks, and you couldn't help but watch him from the corner of your eye. Every movement of his was mesmerising: the way he ran a hand through his hair, the tired sigh that escaped his lips, the way his fingers circled the glass. It was perfect, so perfect it was almost painful to watch.

You couldn't resist, “Rough day?” You smiled sweetly at him. 

Chandler looked at you, a little surprised by the interruption, but he didn't seem upset. “Yeah, you could say that,” he replied, taking another sip of his whiskey, the sound of the ice in the small glass and how his throat moved as he swallowed was a little distracting.

You smiled, playing with the rim of your bottle. “I've had one of those days myself. Sometimes a drink is the only thing that helps.”

Chandler nodded, looking down at his glass. “I guess you're right.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, but you didn't want the conversation to end so soon, determined to keep it going. “What do you do that stresses you out so much?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Chandler looked at her again, this time with a little more interest. “I'm a detective,” he replied, without giving too many details.

Your heart skipped a beat at those words. “Detective,” you murmured, as if testing her title on your lips. “That sounds interesting. Any big cases at the moment?”

He hesitated for a moment, as if considering how much to share. “Yeah, something like that,” he finally said. “A complicated case.”

You nodded, as if you understood. “Well, I hope you solve it soon, Detective. It must be hard to deal with that all the time.”

Chandler smiled slightly, appreciative of the comment. “Thanks.” He was somewhat dry in response, but, he was hypnotic, his voice rough from the alcohol, and his manner dark and imposing. 

After a while, you returned home, where you were finally able to drop the mask of normality you had been wearing all night. The cool night air hit your face as you walked, but you couldn't stop thinking about him. Of Chandler.

Every step you took echoed in your mind, as if you were replaying over and over again the moments you had shared with him in the bar. His deep voice, his brown eyes that had looked at you with that mixture of weariness and curiosity, the way his fingers had encircled the glass of whiskey. It was all so perfect, so him.

“Detective,” you murmured again, tasting the word on your lips as you opened the door to your house. It sounded so good, so powerful. It was as if that title was part of his essence, something that made him even more irresistible.

As you walked in, you shed your coat and sat down on the sofa, staring into the void as your mind wandered back to that moment in the bar. “Rough day?” you had asked, and he had answered you. He had spoken to you. To you.

You smiled, feeling a shiver of excitement run down your spine. 

You stood up and walked over to the mirror, looking at your reflection. “It's you,” you said to your image, as if you were talking to Chandler. “It's always been you.”

You sat at your desk, where you had pictures of Chandler scattered all over it. Some were newspaper clippings, some were screenshots of his press conferences, and a few you had taken yourself from afar. They all showed his face, his brown eyes, his serious expression.

(...)

Some time later when the broken-hearted killer had given no sign of life, but Detective Chandler hadn't stopped working on the disturbing case, day and night in his office and in the morgue, looking at files over and over again, the card with the kiss and the riddle he had no idea what it meant. 

His office was in chaos: piles of messy folders, photos of the victims strewn everywhere, and the box of chocolates stained with the blood of the human heart still in an evidence bag, a constant reminder that the killer was toying with him.

Chandler sat at his desk, his eyes bloodshot, a cup of cold coffee in his hand. His tie was undone, his shirt wrinkled, and his face showed the ravages of several sleepless nights.

“What the hell do you mean?” he muttered, staring at the riddle on the card. “One by one, I keep them with care...? The hearts?”

Suddenly, the door to his office opened without warning, and a woman walked in. She was a middle-aged FBI criminalist with shoulder-length, flowing brown hair and a look that denoted years of criminal profiling experience.

“Detective Manning,” the woman said, closing the door behind her, “We need to talk.”

Chandler looked up, irritated by the interruption. “Who the hell are you?” he growled, his voice rough and laden with frustration.

The woman did not seem intimidated. "I'm Agent Christina Rossi, FBI. I've been reviewing the ‘Broken Hearts Killer’ case, and there are a few things we need to discuss."

Chandler leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “Great. Another expert coming to tell me how to do my job.”

Christina ignored the comment and sat down across from him, placing a thick folder on the desk. “I've been analyzing the killer's patterns, and there's something that doesn't fit the typical profiles I've seen before.”

Chandler frowned, looking at her skeptically. “And what's that?”

Christina opened the folder and pulled out several photos of the victims, along with forensic reports and maps of the crime scenes. “All the victims are men who look like you, Chandler. It's not a coincidence. The killer is choosing these people specifically because they look like you.”

Chandler leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the photos. “I know that. But why, what's in it for him?”

Christina stared at him, as if measuring her words. “Chandler, I think the killer is in love with you.”

Chandler was silent for a moment, processing the information. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh. “In love with me? What the hell does that mean?”

Christina sighed and began to explain. “It's a kind of obsession. The killer doesn't just admire you, they idealize you. He's eliminating people who look like you because they don't meet their standard of perfection. To the killer, you're the ideal, and no one else can compare.”

Chandler rose from his chair, walking to the window with his hands on his hips. “This is... disturbing.”

Chandler nodded. “I know. But it makes sense. The victims are almost replicas of you, but with slight differences: different coloured eyes, slightly altered facial features. The killer is looking for perfection, and you are that perfection for him... or her.”

Chandler turned to her, his expression full of disbelief. “Her?”

Christina nodded again. “It's possible. Although most serial killers are men, this kind of romantic obsession and meticulousness in the crimes suggests a female profile. Also, the fact that the killer sent you that package with the heart and the riddle is a distorted declaration of love.”

“She's in love with you”

[trinity-galan]

alright, I'm doin it

[obeydontstray]

Molina-verse character playlists (edited, forgot two playlists!)

[my0favorite0art]

CurbItKirby Masterlist A.2

Masterlist A.1

Masterlist B (OCs w Molina face-claim)

A masterlist of @curbitkirby's Alfred Molina character fics. The masterlist had to be split into parts due to tumblr's link limit. The lists are sorted alphabetically by character, if you can't find what you're looking for check the other lists!

Note: up to date as of May 28, 2024

Konstantin “Kostya” Dmitrievich Levin

Sexworker!Reader bathing soft 

Former!Sexworker!Reader rough sex thigh riding choking biting kink 

angst p.1 

angst p.2 

jealousy light angst drabble 

Dom!Reader human furniture collars angst 

Former!Sexworker!Reader honeymoon sex 

Dom!Reader crossdressing object insertion 

slut shaming jealousy angst 

Virgin!Kostya Dom!Reader orgasm denial begging 

Reader gives Kitty to Kostya dubcon bondage

femdom dom-drop drabble

femdom mistress!reader

Rose!Kostya x Jack!Reader Titanic AU p.1

Chandler Manning

chandler dubcon drabble

Ricardo Morales

sub/dom workplace sex

jealous workplace sex

Reader convincing Ricardo to take a break 

lingerie kink sex anal play  

Undercover!Morales and Biker!Reader 

I don't think this is proper police procedure

Ricardo gives you a stamp of approval

Ricardo punishes reader drabble

Otto Octavius/Doc Ock

breeding kink

hate fucking

Otto brings Reader apology flowers 

Super!Reader choking dirty-talk 

Super!Reader groping dirty-talk angst 

Reader titfucking Otto drabble 

gentle Otto comforts Reader not ready for sex 

Otto eating out Reader overstimulation 

Otto fucking Reader overstimulation 

Comte De Reynaud

hate sex slut shaming face slapping 

slut shaming face riding choking kink face slapping angst 

Housewife!Reader loving sex 

Comte hungry for pussy 

Boss!Comte eats Reader out workplace sex 

knife kink argument 

Pregnant!Housewife!Reader angst falling out 

Comte lusting Reader drabble

Jekyll-Hyde!Comte dubcon sadism

Comte Caroline angst

Edy Rodriguez

edging belt leather kink 

santa kink object insertion 

Thief!Edy dubcon drabble 

Thief!Edy dubcon somnophilia

That's not the real santa Tiny!Reader Thief!Edy

Hank Spallone

Janitor!Hank x Teacher!Reader p.1

Janitor!Hank x Teacher!Reader p.2

Janitor!Hank x Teacher!Reader p.3

Janitor!Hank x Teacher!Reader p.4

Hugh Weldon

Dom!Reader face slapping crossdressing masturbation

non-discussed somnophilia wake-up blowjob 

breeding kink 

Dom!Reader pegging 

Dom!Reader puppy play edging 

exhibitionism watching a meteor shower fluff 

Paul Weller

tender sex throat fucking size kink 

College!reader light angst

[iobsessoverfictionalmen]

Dark Chandler Manning x Reader x Eliot Deacon

Is this a self indulgent blurb? Yes. Am I ashamed? Not in the slightest. I blame @writingkitten for my obsession with dark Molina characters especially dark! Chandler Manning. Go check out her superb work!

Warnings: betrayal, Avengers spoilers, and mention of past kidnappings.

“I don’t have to look at her file,” Sharon Carter said coldly as she shouldered past the two men and stared at the many monitors on the desk. Her eyes raked across the screens searching for any hint of your form in the forest, “(Name) was one of the best agents that SHIELD ever had as I was constantly reminded.”

A heavy scowl appeared on Detective Chandler Manning’s face, “The bitterness in your tone is hard to miss.”

Sharon snorted derisively, still not taking her eyes off the screens, “After Thanos, governments across the world were lining up to offer the remaining Avengers anything they could possibly want. I guess it was too much effort to ask for my name to be cleared so I could return home. Steve certainly wasn’t going to do that for me.”

“Your reason for betraying her was personal when she had nothing to do with your circumstances?” The other man, Eliot Deacon, the mortician questioned.

“She could have had my name cleared but she chose not to,” Sharon shrugged. Her eyes caught the tiniest flicker of movement on the screens. Before she could open her mouth to point the movement out, Eliot spoke again.

“You’re wrong.” The mortician stated, “She did fight to have your name cleared when you were in hiding.”

That got Sharon’s attention, “She did?”

“We interfered with the process.”

Sharon’s eyes widened and with dread bubbling in her stomach she slowly turned to face the two men, “Why?”

“Because she went into hiding after she tried to clear your name and it was proving difficult to locate her.”

Sharon took a step backward and the backs of her thighs hit the desk. Her breaths became ragged as she realised she was trapped.

“You used me to draw her out.” Sharon accused with a trembling voice.

“(Name) escaped both of us in the past and we find ourselves enjoying the chase.”

[goodoldcharley]

> "I don't think anyone told Alfred that this is a pretty heavy drama" <

short clip from the dvd extras

[illiana-mystery]

Total Goofball 🤣

[papimolina]

Wet Daddy

[entomoleja]

got a soft spot for dark characters I guess 😶

[bloodycotton]

Day six, fuck this shit, halfway i didn't know what i was doing

prompts by: @raven-cincaide-words

(English is NOT my first language)

Day 6.- Newcomer

Chandler Manning x fem!reader

The unit's new forensic doctor arrived when the Jack the Ripper copycat case was just opening, with the killer's first victims. 

You were young and impatient, overly curious about all things dangerous and life-threatening, which irritated Manning, the detective in charge of the case, and he constantly needed your point of view - if you weren't so smart and had such an unusual point of view he wouldn't even cross your path. 

Chandler thought you had experience in absolutely nothing, which irritated him even more. 

You walked into Manning's office, with your white coat over your clothes, to deliver some documents that the detective had asked for in a very rude manner, when you walked into the office, he could see a complete mess, the desk was more paper than wood at that point, and the detective was behind piles of documents with his hands on his head, his black hair messy and his shirt unbuttoned, he was completely destroyed, going through the reports of the first victims. 

“Have you ever swept a broom through here?” You said to him, looking at the mess, throwing the last victim's report into the pile of papers in front of him. 

Manning looked up, his expression somewhere between frustration and disbelief, his bushy eyebrows furrowed in irritation, but he picked up and opened the new report. 

“And you think that's what matters right now?” he retorted, his voice tired but angry. “Oops, yeah, because that's my number one priority with a jack the ripper impersonator out there.”

You rolled your eyes, Manning was so annoying.

“Maybe a little tidying up might help you see what you're not noticing” You rebutted him with a hint of mockery in your voice, seeing that he was literally bogged down in piles of documents that led nowhere. 

Chandler ran a hand through his hair, already almost losing control, exasperated by you and your bullshit.

“I don't have time for your ‘observations’, Doctor,” He almost growled from the desk. 

You folded your arms, looking at the documents on his desk, picking up a couple of papers, looking at their contents and starting to read, only for Chandler to take them out of your hands, the man was stressed, irritated, he hadn't slept a wink, this killer was pulling his leg, you only came to infuriate him more. 

“You think playing forensic doctor gives you the right to go through my documents?” The frustration in his voice was evident, and his gaze burned, it burned you. 

You, undeterred, raised an eyebrow. “And you think sitting here in a daze is going to help you catch a killer? This is a team game. You need to listen to other voices, not just your own.”

“I don't care, I need silence, time and concentration, and with you here that's what I have the least of” Increasingly irritated and feeling like an animal cornered at the desk, so he stood up from the chair, revealing how tall and big he was, towering before you. 

But you took a step forward, determined not to give an inch of ground. 

“Not with that attitude, if you read with a minimum of attention the document I handed you, you would know that a pattern is emerging” You were not intimidated by him for a single second, “He's methodological, calculating, he's a man, that's why he's easier to identify, he has a steady method”.

Manning frowned, feeling increasingly cornered. “And what do you know about the behaviour of serial killers?” his voice had a condescending tone, but deep down he felt you had a valid point, although did he really want observations from the new addition to the team without any experience?

“I know enough,” you replied, your tone firm. “I've studied cases like this, and while I don't have the street experience you do, I've seen similar patterns in the reports. We need to focus on the characteristics of the victims, how the killer chooses them. That could give us a crucial clue.”

“So what do you suggest, then?” Manning folded his arms, trying to maintain his authoritative stance, though a thread of curiosity was beginning to seep into his voice. “A profile? We can't waste time with speculation.”

“It's not speculation, it's observations” she insisted. 

Okay, the new one had a point. 

[plush4bunny]

aaand we're off to the first Chinese zodiac in @chrism02's 2nd chapter for Chandler Manning. Stay tuned for the next one 😁😉

[sevythebeanqueen666]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Lodger (2009) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Chandler Manning/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Chandler Manning, Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: mention of suicide, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Eventual Smut Summary:

In a moment of anger, Detective Chandler Manning loses one of the few things in his life that made him happy and loved. In a moment of drunken clarity, he vows to win her back, stopping at nothing to get what he wants.

[obeydontstray]

ACAB

 (especially Chandler Manning. I can fix him)

[trinity-galan]

It's a tie now

These two are neck and neck again. Armand, anything to say??

Armand: Well, I was in the lead for a while, but, looks like Randy caught up to me. Let's just hope the best one wins!

Randall??

Randall: Well, we were neck and neck for a while then Armand jumped ahead, but now we're both neck and neck again. I agree with Armand. Let the best one win

Chandler?

Chandler: Well, I was hoping I'd win, but, right now I'm losing my fucking ass to these two. No hard feelings, of course. I just hope there's enough time for Writing Kitten to see this. But, let the best man win.

Ricardo?

Ricardo: Well, I already know who Writing Kitten is voting for. Have you seen the photos she's posted of me and the content! (Smiles) She loves me! But, unfortunately, I'm losing, but that's okay! There's always a winner and a loser! Armand, Randall, good luck!

Armand: Thank you, Ricardo

Randall: Thanks, Ricky

Well, there you have it. Let the best one win!!

[iobsessoverfictionalmen]

Dark Paths Into The Unknown (2)

AN: This chapter is a continuation of this fic here. Likes, reblogs and comments are very much welcomed and appreciated!

Warnings: mentions of drugging, spitting, kidnapping, hitting and stealing.

The rocking motion of the van would have been soothing if Sharon could move.   Whatever the mortician had injected her with was powerful and her limbs refused to obey her panicked commands.  She also felt more sleepy than usual as a result of the unknown drug. 

Being constantly on the run interfered with Sharon’s sleep schedule to the point that if asked about it, she’d reply “What sleep schedule?”   The last thing she felt before she drifted into an unwilling sleep was a spark of admiration that you had managed to evade both these men for as long as you did.

Sharon’s eyelids fluttered open as she felt herself being lifted.  Her vision was fuzzy and it took her precious moments to realise that she had been placed into a wheelchair.  The metal felt cool under her heated palms and the air around her was cooler as the sun slowly slunk towards the horizon.

There was one small upside to the situation Sharon found herself in.  The drug had worn off and neither the mortician nor the detective had injected her again; whether that was intentional on their part and they had something more sinister planned or because it had genuinely slipped their minds Sharon didn’t know.  She was more inclined to believe the former as the two men who had kidnapped her didn’t seem like the type to forget something that important.

“They had to have made a mistake.  Even if it was a small one otherwise (Name) wouldn’t’ve been able to escape them.”

Low murmurs caught Sharon’s attention and she strained to hear what they were talking about but the conversation cut off abruptly as Eliot turned to face her and realised that she was conscious.

He knelt down opposite her and Sharon wished that her arms were just a tiny bit longer so that she could smack the insufferably calm and controlled expression off his face.

“The relaxant wore off exactly when I thought it would.  How are your limbs feeling?”  He inquired mildly.  “I would expect that they would be tenser than they’ve been for a while.”

“I was right,” Sharon thought fighting the horror that bubbled up in her chest, “They did it intentionally.  They might want the thrill of the chase but only with her.   In a weird way, that’s probably them acknowledging that she is worth their efforts and attention.”

Sharon’s great aunt had always stressed the value and importance of possessing restraint.  Right now, Sharon wished she hadn’t heard that particular speech thousands of times.  The impulse to spit at Eliot’s face was nearly overwhelming.  “I am Sharon Carter and I have standards.” She reminded herself repeatedly until the impulse subsided.

The night air swept over her again but this time, Sharon’s nose caught the scent of stale chips, bleach, rust, gas and artificial air fresher.  Twisting her neck, Sharon was able to identify the van she’d been transported from the forest in.  Now the van was parked in front of a gas station.  “Well, that explains the smell at least.”

Eliot and Chandler strode confidently into the small store, leaving Sharon by herself with her palms resting on the arms of the wheelchair.  Sharon heaved a sigh when she heard the door open and close automatically behind the two powerful men and then she tossed her head back so that it was resting close to the handles of the wheelchair.

“It’s hopeless.  No one knows I’m here which means that there’s no hope of being rescued.  By SHIELD or Sword or anybody else that I once counted as an ally.  And they’re so calm, confident, and charming that no one will quest-”

At precisely that moment, the lights of the store behind her dimmed before shutting off completely and Sharon heard the door lock click into place automatically.  A small jolt of relief shot through Sharon until she realised that while she had been temporarily separated from the two men, she had no way of escaping their clutches permanently; once the power came back on she would be at their mercy once again.  A small voice in the back of her mind added that her imprisonment might even be worse because the two men would believe that she had something to do with the power outage.  They’d be wrong but it wouldn’t matter.  Even if they found out the truth, Sharon doubted that it’d change anything.

A squeal of tires and a cloud of dust, dirt and gravel pulled Sharon from her tumultuous thoughts.  She stared in wonder at the car that had appeared.  Sharon had just enough time to grab the smallest glimpse of the driver before the car span around in a circle and the passenger door swung open.  “Get in!” You screamed so that Sharon would be able to hear you since she couldn’t see you because of the dust cloud separating the two of you.

Sharon could hear the door rattling and she didn’t dare look behind her because she feared that she’d see Eliot and Chandler were close to forcing the door open.  Ignoring the way her limbs shook in protest, Sharon propelled herself one of the wheelchair.  She ran as if the very best of HYDRA’s agents were on her tail.  You slowed down until the car stopped completely.  The upside to that was that Sharon had a clear path to the car.   The downside to this was that you and the car were now completely visible.

Her legs were on the verge of collapsing and her lungs were screaming for air when she drew level with the passenger door.  To her horror, she heard the door of the gas station slide open and she knew that Eliot and Chandler were gaining on her with every passing second.  They were taller and in better physical condition than she was.  Mustering her remaining strength, Sharon tensed her legs and dove into the passenger seat.

You spun the steering wheel, creating another cloud of dust, dirt and gravel which forced the detective and the mortician to freeze in their tracks.  There was another advantage to the high-speed movement.  The passenger door, which had still been open, swung shut with a tremendous bang.

The engine groaned as you pressed your foot down on the accelerator however, it shot forwards obligingly and Sharon’s fingers grappled for the seat belt.  “When did you graduate to grand theft auto?” Was the only thing she managed to stammer out after she had buckled herself in.

“Let’s see.” You mused thoughtfully with more than a touch of sarcasm, “Carry the one, minus the four, add the six.  Since, mind your business.” Sharon felt she deserved much more than that if she were being frank with herself.  Her exhaustion caught up with her and this time, she surrendered willingly to sleep’s comforting and welcoming embrace.