Day 2: “Damn Your Eyes”

Day 5: “Come on Closer”

@theblacklistrareshipsweek

Day 2: “Damn Your Eyes”

Ilya: Katarina! Stop! Katarina, stop! Katarina: You said we’d figure a way out of this, and I have. You tracked me down here. We fought. I went over the edge. You’ll be a hero. You’ll get your life back. Ilya: Katarina, please, I have a way to get your life back, a way for me to get my life back, a way to escape the Cabal, the KGB, the Americans, and no one has to die. The world doesn’t know what happened to Raymond Reddington, Katarina. It is a mystery, right? So, we give them the answer. Katarina: What does that mean? [ Ilya comes up behind her and grabs her around the waist ] Ilya: Will you let me explain? Let me explain. Katarina: No. Ilya: Please, let me explain.

Day three: Hands All Over

A/N: Ever since seeing a guitar in Ressler’s apartment I have always been convinced that Donald is a blues-guitarist. I’ve never been able to see him differently. Enjoy!

_______

Red keeps a recording of Donald’s guitar playing in his desk.

It’s a silly keepsake, one he has been tempted to trash a few times over. But he can never quite bring himself to do so. How he came about such a keepsake is not exactly a thrilling story, but he does remember it clearly.

Once a long time ago, Red came into the habit of bugging the home of the FBI Agent who was currently assigned to catching him. It was a guilty pleasure. That delicious satisfaction when he could drop events, names and dates of their lives like hand grenades to shake their foundations.

They always took a moment to recover. Sputtering and stuttering to get themselves going again, by which point Red was long gone. He missed those days.

But then Ressler came along. The same routine was followed, a bug slipped into his home where he wouldn’t see it. Activated only when there was activity, or movement nearby and everything was recorded. And Red had picked up excellent facts, good little titbits, to spit out when Donald was in front of him.

But it never shook or rattled him like the others. Donald, sturdy like marble, simply took it on the nose, as if he’d half-way expected Red to know these things.

Needless to say, it sucked the fun right out of it.

He wanted to cut off the bug. Leave it dead and quiet in Donald’s apartment, what’s the point if Red couldn’t have any fun? When next the bug crackled to life over the speak and the recording clicked alive, he had stood to turn it off. No point in listening to the boring life of an Agent when he had better things to do.

“I’m not very good…” you’re at least a decent pain in the ass, Donald.

“Just play already!” He paused, his hand hovering over the volume.

“Alright, alright!” a long breath of silence, then the raspy voice of a guitar started playing over the speaker. At first it was tender, almost timid, as if he was apologizing for playing. But the notes were sweet, a blues tone with a warm resonance. There was no singing, just the soft ship-cha, rhythm carrying through the song. He could so easily imagine Donald’s hands, so quick to punch, shoot or kill, tenderly gripping the neck of his guitar. His other picking the strings with a tenderness he would never see in person. He was surprised to find he wanted to.

The song grew in strength and voice, and when it finally trickled to a stop, Red found himself sitting next to the speaker completely enraptured.

“That was amazing!” Audrey squealed.

“Thanks, it –“ Red cut off the volume, and immediately stopped the recording. He removed the tiny cassette, still more reliable than USB sticks in his opinion, and shoved it in his pocket. Later, when Dembe came home he would ask him to remove the speaker, they had no more use for it.

Years later he still has the cassette, tucked away in the corner of whatever desk he currently owns. He doesn’t listen to it often, but every now and then he slips it into the cassette player, sits back and listens to the raspy notes a blues song. Perfectly imagining Donald’s hands around the neck of his guitar.

Out of turn, or when one of the admins overuses Photoshop xD

Gay vibes aka Homosexual tendencies

Day 7: “Crazy in Love”. Gay!Keenler aka Tom Keen/Donald Ressler

Day 8. Admin got loose.

Bonus day: Free Theme (Worth more than that)

A/N I couldn’t think up something for Crazy Love, so I just jumped ahead to the free theme and went with ‘worth’ XD I’m not getting full marks! But I hope you all enjoy! ______ Today is a bad day. He feels drained and sick, he should go home, but all he can think about is asking Red if it would be alright to hold him for a while.

He barely understands how it happened.

How Red, criminal, murderer and possible mad-man, snared Donald into his jagged-claw-hands, plucking him over the edge of sanity to stumble straight into that consuming darkness and by extension, into his bed.

It’s not entirely surprising on his part. He’s always had a strange attraction for the man – something he’d tried to hide under veils of snark and sarcasm. But to have Red act on it so… passionately, so intensely has always surprised him.

He still works for the FBI, chasing criminals down like a rabid dog, breaking them down in the confines of the interrogation room, or slamming the doors shut on their cages. But at night, when pale moonlight guides his way, he glides unsteadily into Red’s new luxury apartment, cabin or hotel room, and straight into his arms. They are always frantic. Hands grabbing and gripping on clothes and skin, mouths desperate and wild. Sometimes he believes if he lets go for even a breath, it will suddenly slip away and he’ll never be able to catch it again.

But he has reason to feel like this. Because he knows it can – and it will. Red has no reason to keep him around, no reason to truly care.

Donald is the definition of a convenient fuck.

He sometimes feels like a stray cat Red has decided to give food to when he knocks on the door. There is no reason for Red to keep giving him anything beyond basic affection. Yet he finds himself hungering for it, to the point that his stomach aches at the thought that one-day he will knock and Red will be gone.

So, he treads carefully, hoping to keep the inevitable at bay for as long as possible. He just has to stick to the rules.

He is only allowed to visit during certain hours of the day (8-12 pm at night) – certain days in the week (Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday). He is never allowed to touch Red on his back, and he is never allowed to stay the night. That last one stings, leaving him gaping and bleeding when he prods at the wound too long. Donald likes to hold people. Enjoys the feel of their skin against his, their breath over his face, their warmth seeping into his own. But once they are finished, Red stands, kisses him on the cheek and gives him the privacy to get dressed and leave.

He wishes he was worth more than that.

Today is a bad day. Three agents dead and all because he made the wrong call. Cooper has told him to go home, Liz gave up hours ago trying to coax him out for a drink and all Donald can think about is to visit Red, and hold him until this feeling of absolute agony leaves him.

He’s not supposed to. It’s Friday, Red is busy, he can go tomorrow.

But his feet decide for him, his hands in cahoots with his legs. They guide the car without much consent to the street he longs to be. And before he knows it, he is standing outside Red’s door, hand hovering over the dark wood.

You can’t risk angering him, he knows this, knows it in his bones. Their ‘relationship’ is made up solely of convenience and contract, if he breaks it Red can shut him out. He will stop giving the cat its food. And Donald will starve.

His hand lowers. How the hell has he gotten into the mess? When had he become so desperate for the kindness of a criminal?

When you fell in love with him.

The realization is not surprising or rightfully new, but the clarity of it sends a spring of tears into his eyes, making his breath shudder. Idiot. You’re a fucking idiot.

He turns and storms down to his car. Jumping in he drives back home at some speed. He got himself into this, he’ll get himself out. It won’t be hard, he’s done it before, and he’s seen himself through tougher times than this.

At home he rips open the door only to slam it, drops the keys in the bowl, rips off his jacket and pulls out the phone Red gave him at the start of this thing. He won’t be needing it anymore –

“Ah! Donald!”

He freezes, in the kitchen on his way to the trash. Red is standing in the living room, jacket removed, smiling with a glass of brandy in hand. Donald has no words; speech having fled into ether. Red takes a languid sip and walks closer, “I heard what happened today,” taking a final sip he places the glass on the counter and reaches up, “I thought you might want some company?” to touch his shoulders, to touch his face, and finally to kiss him softly.

Donald feels the air rush out of him in a pained gasp, and before he can think, he’s buried into Red’s shoulder, biting back loud sobs. He half-way expects Red to push him away, to hold him for a moment and then pick up his brandy again, but he doesn’t. He holds on, whispering soothing words into his ear, which seem to pierce straight into his soul.

Donald holds on, breathes him in, and lets the agony his worries seep out of him - at least for today.

Day 8. Admin finds his stash

Day 6: “Nectar Like Lips”. Donald Ressler/Henry Prescott.

Now, kiss xD